An Unusual Playground Hanging out with the dead

It sounds cool to say I was raised on the Muckleshoot Indian Reservation. It conjures images of me as a little girl, seated upon a painted pony, sporting an eagle feather in my red hair, and wearing leather mocassins with elaborate beadwork.

It’s true.

I was raised on the Muckleshoot Reservation in the area of Auburn, Washington, 15 miles northeast of Tacoma and 35 miles southeast of Seattle.

Sad to say, I did not have a painted pony.

I did dress up like Pocahontas for Halloween once, with a random bird feather and a pair of leather mocassins scored from Seattle Goodwill.

Still, there are advantages to being raised on the reservation. The coolest by far is the old cemetery four blocks from our home. Although small and overgrown with grass and maidenhair ferns, it carried its brand of charm.

If you were stuck entertaining younger, visiting cousins, or a little brother, a trip to the cemetery was better than any park or playground.

Bored, my lovelies?

Bwahahaha!

The memories shared from the chills and thrills before they realized it was just me jumping out from behind a tombstone?

Priceless.

It was worth the apologies I had to cough up after they tattled to their parents.

Most of the time spent in the cemetery, I was alone. You’re probably picturing Wednesday from the Adam’s Family with red hair. It’s okay. You are not alone in thinking I’m strange. Whenever the self-built camps in the woods behind our house turned drab, I could be found at the cemetery.

Back then I knew the names on the graves of all thirteen babies in the Starr family (name changed). I’d sit cross-legged on the grassy ground, pondering each grave marked by a makeshift wood cross with an abandoned name scrawled across it.

With no real understanding or belief in heaven, I worried they might be lonely. No one ever showed up to mourn them, at least not while I was there. So I talked to them, calling each by name. Asking why their lives were mere moments long. I would often weep for their families.

Today I believe it was a form of prayer, without my realizing it.

As I moved into my teens, the cemetery became the place of firsts. Like first cigarette, beer, and kiss. It was the place I fell in love, again and again. It was the setting for tears and secrets, some shared with friends, but most told only to my adopted dead babies.

I should mention I wasn’t allowed to hang out in the cemetery. Not by my parents or the Muckleshoot Tribe. Obedience was never a strong suit for me. Back then it didn’t seem like anyone cared, it was just one of those rules made by someone who enjoyed making stuff up for people to ignore.

One day I was serving as the unofficial cemetery tour guide for a group of new kids that had moved into the neighborhood. As I was introducing them to the babies, an old, beat-up flat-bed truck came barreling down the dirt road. About a dozen Native American men rode in the back of the truck bed, most standing, holding onto the wooden slats. They appeared quite drunk and when my tourists scattered like roaches caught in the light, they laughed and pointed.

I’m uncertain why I remained standing, watching them toss empty glass pint bottles that crashed on the boulders. It was one of those moments when you know it would be smart to be afraid, yet you’re not. I like to think I stood my ground, not out of disrespect, but as a gesture of respect for their sacred land. I remember looking into their eyes as they passed, wanting them to send me a welcoming nod. In my chosen memory, they did.

My visits to the cemetery, lessened as I caressed life as a teen. John, my current boy interest who picked me up for school in his GTO, thought my grave fixation was weird.

Having an early work release from high school allowed me to earn just enough money for a studio apartment downtown. With school, a job, and time to do crazy kid stuff, the cemetery’s draw waned.

One day I fell in love with the idea of being madly in love, falling for a man who was no longer a boy. Looking back, I think the “man” part is the only thing he had going on. When he told me he wanted to break up, I thought I might die. Tending drama, I decided to buy a bus ticket to New York City. In my defense, it was the “That Girl,” era with Marlo Thomas tossing her hat in the air and having a grand time.

My mother begged me not to go, increasing the melodrama, thus making the idea more alluring. I’m still impressed she was able to talk me into moving to Yakima to live with my Grandfather, who was not doing well since Grandma passed away. My adventure shifted from wearing a hat on the streets of Broadway to drinking buttermilk with Grandpa in what was then considered a retirement town.

I did make a life in Yakima, where I live today. Trips home, occasionally included a trip to the cemetery, mostly to show my husband and children my version of a playground. While the woods behind our house were now a Piggily Wiggly store, the cemetery lay still, as always.

Life moved on.

A marriage dissolved.

Our children grew into incredible young adults.

I remarried.

In 1995, the Muckleshoot Indian Tribe opened a casino located across the street from my parent’s house. Little did they know, it would draw my dad to its flame. Once given a win, Dad was like a cat that kept returning even when the scraps were not there, hoping for just one more feast.

My lovely mom passed away in 2002.

Soon after, Dad was in financial devastation. Desperate, he tried to sell the house to the Muckleshoot Tribe after rumors led him to believe he could make a killing.

The tribe refused his offer.

The family home went into foreclosure in 2010.

That same year, my little brother and Dad passed away.

It was as if grief arrived when Mom died and stayed, taking on different forms of loss. Joy paid visits during this chunk of time as well. The biggest joy was a gift sweeter than anything I’ve ever tasted —

Months before Mom entered the hospital, never to leave, God upped his pursuit of my soul.

Why?

He knew a locomotive of grief was headed down the rails in my life. He knew I would need to lean on Him. He did not want me to be alone or feel forsaken. God gave me a gift of faith sufficient for the abundant grief.

A year after the wave of loss, I visited my hometown. The fence around my childhood home had finally fallen over. Mom’s Tropicana roses were replaced with death. The house had stopped being a home the day Mom left it, but now it threatened to collapse along with the fence.

When Mom died, I stood by her body, acutely aware she was no longer there. Now the house that held our childhood dreams joined her in death.

Next door, neighbors whom I did not know were having a yard sale. Curious, I walked over, pretending to be interested in the household goods.

When a woman approached, I asked, “Do you know if anyone lives in the house next door?”

Shaking her head no, she responded.

“I don’t know what happened to the nice man who lived there.”

I could have told her.

Instead, I purchased a spatula and walked away. I wanted to rest in the moment of Dad being a nice man. To remember, that he housed as much, or more good, than bad.

After a long sob in the car, I drove the four blocks to the Muckleshoot Cemetary. To my surprise, it was surrounded by a wrought iron fence with two stone pillars on either side of the entrance gate. The tall reeds were now freshly mown grass, and not a single grave was unmarked or taken over with weeds.

There were charming walkways with pristine flower beds and the size had nearly tripled. People were meandering and visiting the graves of their lost loved ones. There seemed to be fresh bouquets resting everywhere and there were birds, I don’t remember ever seeing, lined up on the fence, singing a cheerful melody.

Standing outside the fence, I remembered my first kiss and all the times I freaked out my little cousins. Then I apologized for the times I used the sacred ground for smoking cigarettes and drinking stolen whiskey.

Being disoriented by the mass changes, I failed to find the Starr baby graves. I did my best to remember their names, reciting a prayer and a sincere goodbye to each one.

I left at peace, grateful, and happy they had been given a new home with a pretty gate, flowers, and visitors to pray and talk to them.