Mama told me that my cradleboard sang of Light Foot, an orphan with a wandering spirit who was adopted into the clan of his foster mother, "flesh of our flesh, bone of our bone," as the Mohawk say. It sang of orenda, the unknown power that guides the people on their journey through life. It sang of Stockbridge, where many Mohawk families were invited to live alongside the white families in their English houses—until they were asked to give up the four Sacred Ceremonies and bend their knees to the white God in the mission church.
Many covered their fires and returned to their villages. But the family of Light Foot stayed on.
Near the top of the Tree of Life carved on my cradleboard, a naked branch stood out that bore only a single flower.
"Anne Keeping Faith," Mama smiled at me. "The first descendant of Light Foot to have an English name, because her papa was taught in the mission school. She was the only child her mama had."
Then came the war against the English king, when all the men of Stockbridge, white and Indian alike, went off to fight for freedom. As a child, I didn't understand what it meant, to fight for freedom, although I've had a great deal of experience in the matter since then.
By the time it was all over, Anne was carrying her own child. But her husband was far away on his first whaling voyage and Anne was too big to travel when all the other Stockbridge Indians were removed to the reserved land in the north. Evidently, there was not quite enough freedom to go around.
I met my Grandmother Anne once. She was as tall and straight as an old tree, and her face was just as brown and cracked, but tiny creases danced around her eyes and mouth when she smiled, and her cavernous laugh set the window panes rattling. She called me "Little Flower," and showed me how to husk corn. She said I was the future of the Hotinonshonni.
"Anne was taken in by her white neighbors, and elderly couple who offered to share their home if she would help work their farm after the baby came," Mama explained to me. "When the other Mohawk were sent away, Anne's mother gave her the cradleboard so she might continue the family history, and never forget who she was."
Above Anne's branch on the Tree of Life was another, longer branch, sprouting a seed pod. That was Mama's brother, Sam Light Foot, who inherited his ancestor's wandering spirit along with his name, and followed the Great Road out of Stockbridge for the sea. Beside his pod was carved another small flower for a new baby girl, as delicately wrought as the first blossom in spring. Molly.
"That was you, Mama!" I crowed.
"Yes, my Little Flower," Mama smiled. "That was me."
Above Mama's flower grew one more small branch. It bore another flower, more awkward than the others, but no less lovingly carved.
"I labored a night and a day to bring you into the world," Mama told me. "And your papa never left my side in all that time. When you were sleeping safe in my arms, he got out his knife and carved a flower for you."
My fingertips feel it still, the rough edges of my flower, a new song in the story of my ancestors. My place on the Tree of Life.
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