chrysalis

12.2005 - A Ghost of Christmas Past

A Ghost of Christmas Past.

Dear reader, I would like, if I may, to relate a story to you. 
It's a story you may not believe, and to be sure, if it had not 
happened to me, I would not believe it myself. I am not a man who 
is usually given to flights of fancy, or other whimsical 
excursions of the mind. So, please consider the tale that I tell 
now to be the truth, as far as I can measure it. 

Having completed my work for the night, I closed my books, turned 
off the lights, and left out the back door. It was unseasonably 
warm this year, and as I opened my umbrella, instead of snow, I 
was treated to the steady, lazy rain that defines an Oregon 
winter. I walked north along the sidewalk, the shill seeping in 
through the seams in my jacket, in a familiar but nonetheless 
unwelcome way. It was Christmas Eve, and I was in no hurry to 
return to my empty flat above the tavern on the corner of Liberty 
and High streets. 

I found myself on a bridge, on Winter Street, looking down at Mill 
Creek. I stared at those quickly moving waters flowing beneathe 
me, and thought of Hamlet's Ophelia, and how she must have felt, 
shortly before tossing herself into the river, her eyeballs wild, 
with a crazed desire to end her life.  For a moment, I leaned over 
the edge of the railing and considered how easy it would be to 
resign myself to the same fate. But as I said, I am a serious man, 
and after only a moment of dark desire flitting through my mind, I 
pulled back from the railing, and composed myself, preparing to 
continue my walk home. 

Just then, I head a noise to my left. It sounded like men, 
shouting and laughing, yelling "Hoia hai" over and over again, in 
a melodious way. I turned, and found myself face to face, eyeball 
to quivering eyeball with a very large white owl. I let out a 
stifled scream, and stumbled backwards, dropping my umbrella. I 
felt my feet slip from beneathe me, and my midriff hit hard, as I 
crashed into the bridge's stone railing. I tried to stop the 
inevitable. With arms flailing, I felt my weight shift the wrong 
direction and my stomache knotted up as I fell backwards, grasping 
at the slippery rail, plunging into the swift, cold waters of Mill 
Creek.

I remember the owl staring down at me as I fell, "Hoia hai" 
echoing in my ears and a blinding flash of light as my head hit a 
rock and my body thudded against the muddy bank. When I awoke, I 
was frozen solid and could barely lift my arm to wipe the mud from 
my eyes. A light snow had begun to fall, and to my surprise, I 
could no longer see the bridge I had fallen from. I climbed the 
slippery bank, and found myself in a forest, no houses or streets 
in sight. I looked at the direction that the water in the creek 
was flowing, and I know it was flowing towards the river. So I 
followed the cream downstream, knowing it would bring me to the 
centre of town. 

As I walked, I again heard the sounds of mean laughing and 
roaring, speaking in a strange and foreign language. I came to a 
clearing in the woods, and through the sparse Yew trees, I saw a 
structure of some sort. The building looked suspiciously like a 
gigantic ice cream cone, turned upside down, and smashed into the 
ground, with smoke gently rising from the tip of the cone. I 
recognized the building from high school history class as a Native 
American building called a "wickiup", though I'd never seen a real 
one before. I approached the building and the voices became 
louder. Just as I was coming from the rear of the building, I saw 
a man walking up a small path through the woods with a lantern in 
his hand. He marched directly to the front of the building and 
yelled, "Quinaby! Quinaby, damn you, come out here right now!" A 
small aging man, with lock black hair and bright shining eyes, 
dressed in a hat and waistcoat, poked his head out of the door and 
said, "Hey, hey, Bill Waldo. Quinaby glad to see you. Why you here 
on such a cold night?"

"Mr. Quinaby, you are too loud! My family and I are trying to 
sleep. You and your no-good tribe of gambling drunks are making 
such a racket, it'll wake the dead! Now quiet down, or I'll get 
the police!"

The little man straightened up and said, "Bill Waldo, this is a 
special night for celebration. Quinaby always noisy on this night. 
Go home. Go to sleep. It is too cold for arguing. "

Bill's lantern flickered in the wind, and he said, "I don't have 
to let you stay on my land Quinaby. In fact, I think it's time you 
leave."

Quinaby stood tall and proud, like a statue. If was a scene fit 
for the brush of a great painter, and the lines that followed 
should be recorded in history books everywhere.

Quinaby said, "Bill Waldo, you say Quinaby can no more have his 
camp! When white men came, they were few, Indians were many. Now 
white men many, Indians few. When white men came, Indians owned 
all the land. Now white men claim all the land, and Indians must 
herd into one place, and hide back in the mountains. When the 
white men came, Indians could kill them all. Some wanted to kill 
them, but Quinaby became white man's friend. He told the white men 
what Indians planned. He told Dan Waldo, and Bill Waldo. They were 
glad. Quinaby had their thanks. 

"Now Quinaby comes. He wants only what he has had, only what has 
been his right. Quinaby wants only his camp on a little piece of 
land no one else has a use for. 

"Bill Waldo, you say Quinaby may not have it any more!" Waldo 
could not resist. He turned without a word, and started down the 
path to his home. Quinaby went back inside and the gambling went 
on, and the chant, "Hoia hai, Hoia hai..." went ringing across the 
area.

I was a little nervous, but desperate, as I crept around the side 
of the building, and stuck my head in the door. Four Indians 
turned in unison, instantly quiet, palming the small sticks in 
their hands. 

"Mr. Quinaby, can you help me?", I said quickly, hoping to engage 
in conversation before my chest sprouted an arrow. Quinaby's thin 
laughter wheezed out and ended in a serious bout of coughing. He 
looked at me and said, "I like it when men say Mr. Quinaby. What 
do you want white man in the snow?"

"I am lost. Can you please help me find my way back to the city?"

Quinaby peered at me through wrinkled eyes for a moment. Finally 
he said, "You look very sick. Quinaby does not want you to die at 
his camp. Other white men will blame me. Come inside. Sit by the 
fire. "

I walked inside slowly, and the steady hard eyes of the men around 
the fire held me firmly in their gaze. They moved a little and 
made a space for me to sit down. Quinaby walked to the back of the 
room, and returned shortly with a plate of meat and some bread. 

"Eat this. Today is a special day. Today we have much food."

I thanked him and took the plate. I did not realize how hungry I 
had become until the warm and rich aroma of the meat tickled my 
nostrils. As I began to eat, Quinaby quietly muttered something in 
a strange language and the other men soot dup, made a sign of 
respect, and left the building. 

Quinaby sat staring at me while I ate. After a few minutes, he 
said, "Your clothes are very strange. I do not know you. What is 
your name, and where are you from?"

"My name is John," I replied, .and I live in Salem."

Quinaby nodded once and said, "Ok, John. Finish your food, and we 
will go to Salem."

After I cleared my plate, Quinaby walked over with two hand woven 
blankets in his hand, gave me one, and said, "Wear this!", then 
wrapped his blanket around himself. I did the same, and as he 
walked towards the door he said, "Follow me."

We headed down the thin path through the Yew trees, while a light 
flurry of snow fell all around us, our feet crunching as we 
walked. 

I am not a very social person usually, but the silence was making 
me a little nervous, so I asked, "What tribe are you from, Mr. 
Quinaby?"

Quinaby chuckled to himself and said, .Molalla. Quinaby is the 
last chief. My mother was Chemewa, and my father was Chemeketa. We 
are all Kalapuya.. He was quiet for a moment, but then shook his 
head and said, .When Quinaby was a little boy, all the Kalapuya 
familes would meet at this time of year. Where the creek meets the 
river. We would char food, tell stories, and laugh by the fire. 
Sometimes, there would be very little food. One year, half the 
people died. Now that time is gone. White men came, and now there 
are buildings in that place. Many Indians died from sickness the 
white men bring. Now Indians very few. White men give me some 
food, so Quinaby is white man.s friend..

After some time, we came across a small house with glowing windows 
and smoke coming from the chimney. Quinaby said, .Wait here, Mr. 
John. I will go get some more food..

He walked up to the house, knocked on the door, and then 
disappeared inside. A few minutes later, he came crunching back 
through the snow with a bulging flour sack over his shoulder, and 
a huge grin on his face.

We started down the road again, and before long the road widened 
and a number of buildings lined the street on either side. 
Finally, we came to a small town. To my surprise, I recognized the 
street names. This was Salem, but not the Salem I knew. There were 
very few buildings and many trees. The roads were made of dirt, 
and there were no street lights. After a while we came to the 
intersection of Winter Street and Mill Creek, where I had fallen 
earlier that night. 

Quinaby could see my confusion and said, .Yes, it is very 
different here now. Let.s sit down and eat..

We climbed down to the muddy shore of the creek and sat down. We 
ate and ate, and talked and talked. Quinaby told me many stories. 
He told me of the special .Chikamin House., where white men can go 
to get free money. He told me of a man named Kylus who had married 
his sister, bore three children with her, and then killed her. 
Quinaby said, .I wanted to cut him into four quarters, and hang 
him on each corner of the town, but instead, I go to his house, 
and take everything he own.. He told me of rivers full of salmon 
and forests full of deer. He told me of the long march to Grand 
Ronde Reservation. 

Finally, our sack of food was empty. He stopped talking, laid back 
and fell asleep. I yawned and felt the warmth of my blanket, my 
full stomach, and I laid down and drifted away. 

I awoke with a start to a nudge in the side, and a light flashing 
in my eyes.

.You ok there, mister?.

I looked up to the familiar face of a police officer, and relized 
I was slumped against the rail of the bridge. I got up, mumbled 
that I was fine, thanks, and headed down the road.

I am still unsure whether the events I experienced were a dream, 
or something more mysterious, but now, as I sit and write this 
story, on a lonely Christmas Day, I think about Quinaby and the 
people who lived here long before. If Quinaby were alive today and 
knew someone was going to be writing about him, would he have 
tried to live a better life? What makes a chief become a beggar, 
gambling, drinking, and eating until he fell down dead by the side 
of the creek? And I wonder why, 120 years later, the only memory 
we have of this man is a train station and a street with his name 
on them. His modern descendents, living in trailer homes and 
running casinos, are not so different than he was. When a way of 
life is destroyed, there is no way to bring it back. But in a way, 
Quinaby was still living in the same way he always had. He was 
living off the land, but now there were strange fruit in the form 
of white men. He picked fruit from their plentiful trees and tried 
to avoid the poisonous parts. Bill Waldo knew the shame of what 
his people had done, because he saw it first hand. 

So now, during this season of giving, I feel strangely aware of 
everything I have, and what was necessary to obtain it. 

Thank you, Chief Quinaby, for a memorable Christmas Eve, full of 
laughter, food, good conversation, and the enjoyment of life 
despite all odds. I hope that everyone can be so lucky during this 
coming winter season.