I head out to the kitchen to see if I can get any answers about the bag of weeds. I thought my life in Minneapolis was odd. This is proving to be my own little CSI episode.
Walking out of my bedroom, I peek down the hall to see if anyone is up. I can hear the radio on in the kitchen, so I head that way. As I pass the wall of pictures, I slow down to glance at the pictures of my mother.
I can see more photos that I missed that first day. There's a black and white one of her pulling a little dog in a sled. Next to it is a basketball team picture, the Moranville Warriors.
Cool. Was my mom a jock? And why didn't I get that jean?
Thanks, Dad. Well, look who's up. Did you rest well, Apple? Grandma peeks out from the kitchen. She has her apron on, a type I've never seen before.
Back home, Judy always has the latest William Sonoma patterned apron, but Grandma's looks more like a snap front smock. It suits her. I like it. I wonder if it comes in French blue. That color tends to take notice away from my dark tan.
which seems to be getting worse up here. Apparently, they don't believe in sunscreen, and yet everyone's skin sort of looks like mine. Or I guess my skin is looking like everyone's.
Yeah, thanks. I really feel like I got a good rest, except I hesitate to bring up the dream and the pummeling of weeds. It's bad enough that I have one family that rolls their eyes at me whenever I bring up my issues. I don't need another one to jump on that bandwagon too.
Oh, Grandpa asks as he walks in from the living room. What's going on? Is the bedroom not working for you?
It was your mom's. We thought you'd like to stay in there. Maybe it's too much for now.
No, I love it. It's just that, well, Grandma comes next to me at the table, gently rubs my back. Now you just tell us what's wrong.
I could always tell when your mama was upset. Such a dear thing. Never in a million years would she tell us when something was bothering her.
But there was a look in her eyes and a sorrow woven throughout her voice. Apple, you have that same feeling about you now. Well, okay.
First, there's this. I say as I take the bag of sweet-smelling weeds from my pocket. Wait a minute. Do you think this is some type of illegal substance?
I think I've heard that marijuana has a sweet smell. Could someone have tried to plant drugs on me? And they're going to call the DEA, the Drug Enforcement Agency, for you innocent types, and have me taken out of here in handcuffs? I'm too delicate for the slammer.
I wouldn't last a day. Before I can finish my psychotic rant, my grandmother chimes in. Oh, well, it looks like you found some Turtle Mountain sage.
Doesn't that just smell wonderful? Where did you pick that? We used to have a patch out back by the swing, but lately someone's been picking it as soon as it grows. Sage?
This is sage? Oh, well, okay. But I didn't pick it.
It was thrown in my window again. Do you think it's that Carl or some serial killer? Apparently I've said something comical because my grandparents look at me, then to each other, and start to crack up.
Why, my girl, sage is considered medicine to Indian people. A gift, not a drug, Grandpa says. A gift?
These could be warnings, I say incredulously. A jar of dirt and a bag of some green weeds are somehow gifts? Remind me to never invite them to my bar mitzvah.
My girl, you do know you're not Jewish, don't you? Grandma asks, worried. Well, of course I'm not Jewish, but what type of voodoo priest offerings is this person giving me? I once read about the Aztec religion. Let's see, was it Montzuma?
Anyway, they greeted Cortez's army generals with a grand welcoming feast, and before anyone grabbed the first potato ole, Montzuma's priest sprinkled human blood over the food. Human blood, I spew. Enough, Grandpa says.
You must remember that here native people may not have money to buy fancy gifts or clothes or jewelry. They... What they have is themselves.
We give our time and our talents, which is more precious than gold because we give ourselves. We give of ourselves. We give of our body, mind, and spirit.
So we don't know what these are, gifts or threats. Just hold tight, my girl. The tenacity of his loyalty quiets my tirade.
I slink down into my seat and I'm humbled by his explanation. Up here in the Turtle Mountains, they don't seem to get worried about too much. In an audible whisper, I say, I'm so sorry.
This is not an excuse, but when I have a thought in my mind, I just spew it out. The last thing I want is to hurt you, Grandpa. You and Grandma are, well, all I have up here.
I just can't tell if someone is trying to warn me, threaten me, or what with these things I keep finding. What if it's that Carl, right outside my window? Grandma cuts me off and puts her arms around me, giving me a squeeze worthy of a sumo wrestler at dinnertime. They both leave me alone with my thoughts.
Along with the jar of dirt and bag of weeds, I mean sage, I decide to start a little collection on top of my dresser. I lie down on my bed and just stare at them. Why on earth is someone giving me these?
The sage? I can understand. It just smells good. But the jar of dirt? Come on!
Lord, everything is getting weird up here. But I'm kind of starting to fit in. At least they listen to me.
Who knew that I just needed to find the oddest people I have ever met to finally fit in? Like they say, truth is stranger than fiction. And this Indian family and reservation is strange personified.
With me, center ring. After just embarrassing myself, what's new, I decide to make some toast and I'm about to smear butter on it when Grandma looks at me, then puckers her lips. I know now that she's not having a stroke, but just pointing at something. But what? Uh, Grandma, I'm sort of new to the silent lip pointer.
Could you help me out a bit? Oh no, of course she doesn't. With a glint in her eye, she just smoochy points and grins at something on the table. There's a tub of what looks like margarine on the table.
I'm no cook, but I know when something looks good. It seems Grandma is hinting at this tub of tan guck. On the outside, it says Imperial Cinnamon Spread, and on the inside is Pure Heaven. Wow. I put some of that on my toast, and if there was a spirit of spreads, this would be it.
Thanks, Grandma. This is awesome. I think I'll get ready for the day now. Just a minute, my girl.
Feel free to look around your mama's room. I never knew why I was keeping it intact. Not changing anything over the years, but now I know. We were waiting for you. It's yours now.
She kisses me on top of my head and holds my face in her hands as she whispers, My, you're so much like her. That hair of yours just won't listen to anything your brush tries to tell it, does it? And your eyes? I can look in them and almost hear your mama's laughter.
Go on, my girl, get ready. I give her the biggest hug. How can anyone be so nice? She makes me feel as if- I'm the most important person in her life, and I've just met her this summer. Is that what my mom was like?
There's one last thing nagging the narrows of my mind. Grandma, do you ever have weird dreams? I ask. Well, let's see.
She looks up and wistfully answers. There was that dream I had when I won the showcase showdown and Bob Barker gave me a kiss on the cheek. Grandma lets out a chuckle and adds, but I don't think that's what you mean.
What's troubling you, Apple? Well, I keep having the same dream since I've been here, and it just keeps me thinking. I trail off.
Grandma nods inquisitively. Keeps you thinking about what, Apple? Now, don't be ashamed or embarrassed.
When we dream, it could be a silly nighttime escapade that means nothing. Or, excited I cut in. Or, or what?
Do you think that dreams mean something? Touching my cheeks gently, she says, remember to let others finish their thoughts. We were given two ears and only one mouth. which means we should listen twice as much as we speak. If you listen, Apple, you may just hear the answer to your heart's question.
I'm sorry, Grandma. My mouth just can't seem to sync with my brain. Please go on.
Well, Apple, I think you have a dream you're wondering about, hmm? A wave of relief washes my soul. Someone doesn't think I'm crazy.
So here's my dream. Can you tell me what it represents? So in the dream...
But before I can describe anything, she cuts me off as she holds up a hand. Oh no, I don't know anything about interpreting dreams. But I think we should go visit your Auntie Over. I know pies. I know playing bingo.
But I don't know the first thing about interpreting dreams. Your Auntie Over has a gift. She really is quite something.
So this Auntie Over, I start to ask, but I'm cut off again. No, no, not over. Auntie Over rhymes with clover. It's short for overgene.
Like, that clears anything up. This family has some odd names. A few days ago at my welcome home party, I think I even heard someone talking to someone named King.
And then there was Coco, and even a Browner. And a lot of people called Inet. Hasn't anyone around here heard of Dick and Jane? But this is coming from me. Apple.
Grandma keeps looking at me. Like, I should've- made some type of connection to Auntie Aubergine, but there's no bell ringing in my head. She looks at me and turns her head, saying, you know, Aubergine is an eggplant.
Um, Grandma, I have no idea what you're saying. Should I be worried about her? What are the signs of dementia? Is it red sky at night, sailor's delight? Wait, wrong wives'tale.
After I don't reply, my grandma sighs, and then, with outstretched hands, explains, Auntie Aubergine. is named after the French word for eggplant. Eggplants are purple.
She looks at me to make sure I'm taking this all in without sarcasm. Aubergine's father was a Frenchman who married a beautiful Turtle Mountain Chippewa girl who had eyes the color of woodland violets. I think he married her because she reminded him of home. You see, his family came from a long line of famous cultivators of lavender, the finest French lavender you've ever had the privilege to smell.
Remember we told you that the French have always mingled with our people from the days of our fur traders and trappers? No one can resist a turtle mountain girl. She winks to prove her point and wiggles her hips a bit too. Well, Aubergine's father, Francois, was so excited to be blessed with a child that when he saw the baby and looked into her purple eyes, he saw the hues of his childhood.
When it came time to name Auntie Over, her father, remembering his beloved and adored lavender, asked that her name somehow honor that purple shade. and was able to convince his wife to name her Overgene. I hesitate before asking this question.
So why didn't he just name her Violet? Grandma looks at me, thought about what I said, and let out a hearty laugh. Well, my girl, I never thought about it that way.
He could have, I guess. But he chose to name his daughter a color that was prevalent in his childhood. And since we can't grow lavender in this cold North Dakota climate, he chose the next best thing, eggplant, the garden vegetable that tinted his childhood and then his future. So I, Apple, have an ant eggplant? If someone wrote this, it couldn't have been Otter.
But I have another question. Grandma, you said Chippewa, but I thought we were Machif, which is part Ojibwe. Yeah, yes. Some say Chippewa, some Ojibwe, and some even say Anishinaab.
But it's basically all about tribal origins. Along the way, the names got twisted, white people got confused, and different names came out on treaties and such. These names just stuck, I guess. Yep, we're your garden variety oddballs.
And with an ant named Eggplant, you'd think I would be horrified. Well, you'd be wrong. My whole life I've been an oddball, always popping between two worlds, and now up here in the Turtle Mountains, I'm feeling like there's something of me up here. I'm not such a sideshow attraction stuck in the middle. Up here, I'm part of the circus.
It's good to begin to belong. But come on, Eggplant! At least I'm named after something that tastes good.