Maxine's Story ~ Justin

Maxine's Story

Justin

Justin Little Whirlwind! I didn't know whether to be amused or in awe of the name. It had just been handed to us on a small card, and it was the name of the boy we had agreed to "foster parent". Not just an ordinary boy, but a full blood Northern Cheyenne Native American. (Just days before we had been asked if we would consider changing our request to a 'girl', since they had more girls than boys, but we both felt the same, we wanted a boy.)

It was only a few minutes until we were called into another room and introduced to our new son---a moment we had anticipated for many months. This was the 'Indian Placement Program', instigated by our church many years before in Utah, now for the first time, brought to Oregon. The objective of the program was for education, spiritual growth and to promote better understanding of another culture. I understood this was meant for the student. I was to learn it applied to all of us.

There were mixed feelings about the program both on the reservation and off. Children were taken from their homes for the school year, some as young as eight years old---others into their late teens. The success rate was dismal---only about one in fifty, though I was to learn that fact much later on.

Not that their parents didn't want them here. They did! Life on an Indian reservation offered them few choices and little hope. Life expectancy was about 39 years. Drugs and alcohol ran rampant, and in their seemingly matriarchal society, the women who held the jobs also had the responsibility of raising the children---their own and also succeeding generations. They could use our help! There was a little homily popular some years ago that went something like this;

All Indians walk single file.

At least the one I saw did.

I am no expert on Indian affairs---not then nor am I now. What understanding I have is basically of one family, or to be even more precise, one small boy. For I came to know him very well---a mother/son relationship I never would have believed possible.

The critics of the program (on both sides I suspect), claimed we were making 'apples' out of these children---'red on the outside and white on the inside' . I can only speak for Justin---and I know exactly what he would say: "They are full of beans!" And I would agree with him. He was no apple.

How had all of this come into our lives? We had a wonderful family---four children---never any extra money but always enough---a comfortable home---though not a large one. We had no serious problems---why were we tempting fate?

I was raised in a family where bigotry was a word no one ever used but in fact was practiced, if only in attitude. It was also in a time where one didn't tell a parent they were wrong! Not that it would have done any good. But I couldn't be stopped from having my own thoughts and feelings. Not that I had any experience with another race or culture. No. In our 'white' world there was never the opportunity to have a friend of another 'color' .

As my children were growing up here in Tigard in the '50's and '60's, I thought about that a lot. This was for the most part, an all white community. I used to hope for someone of another race to move into our neighborhood. I wanted my family to know that neither their Dad nor I gave a hoot what color their skin was!

When we heard about the Placement Program coming to Oregon, suddenly I could see this might be our opportunity! There were four Tigard families who agreed to take a child. The Sanders got Adam Medicine Top, age 8, the Sages, Emery Bear, age 11. The Haddon family got a little girl, Sara Don't Mix, who was a Crow.

We discovered 'bigotry' right away! The boys, who were Northern Cheyenne, would have nothing to do with Sara. Nothing! The two reservations are side by side---Lame Deer, Montana for the Cheyenne, and Crow Agency for the Crow. The Custer Battlefield National Monument is in between, and as we were to learn, the battle there hasn't exactly ended. Custer was aided by Crow scouts---and defeated by Cheyenne Braves---and as a result those two tribes will forever be enemies. They do not forget. It would be a while before I learned there was a long list of Indian Nations our Justin considered his enemy. He knew nothing about our Pacific North West tribes, but had negative history for most of the plains Indians. In fact the Sioux were the only tribe he considered friendly.

He was an immature thirteen year old, our boy. Small in size and though he was Dean's age, he was to be in Susan's sixth grade class. He came to us in the middle of August, 1971. We had a few weeks before school started and a daughter to take to BYU in Provo, Utah. Hank decided to take him on the trip. We were anxious to share our experiences with him---and to get to know him better. I had expected to 'like' or even to love him---as I did other children I knew. What I didn't understand was the bonding that happens---and the maternal feelings. Could I love another woman's child as though he were my own? It didn't happen over night. We had busy lives, so we just included him in everything we could and kept going.

He was quiet and stoic---stereotypical but true. He did have a sense of humor, we could tell that right away. He loved to laugh. He had nothing at all to say in a crowd---or even a small group. I was soon to find out he loved to talk---he wanted to talk, and he expressed himself very well. He talked about his past, his present and his future---but only to me, on a one to one basis. It hadn't taken long to figure out I was his best listener! We talked. Or rather he talked---anytime he could find me alone.

I learned about his family. He loved his Mother, Viola, who worked in the cafeteria at school. He had two younger brothers, Arvey and Duke and a cute little five year old sister, Delphine---and a father who was a 'worthless drunk'. That was his opinion and later when I got to know Viola I discovered it was her opinion also. Much later when I met the man, it was unanimous!

Then there was the extended family. At one time their tribe was reduced to about 85 people left living after the government forced a 'walk' to Montana. By 1971 every one was related, and I was soon to know his genealogy. An aunt or an uncle didn't necessarily mean his Mother's or his father's sibling, nor did his grandma have to be their birth parent---it was more about who raised who, and that could be just about anyone. Viola however, was a good mother who provided a stable home---for her own and for various other children who needed a family.

We continued to talk. I learned about his hurts and his fears---his joys and his triumphs. The abuse and injustices at the hands of the white man---or the neighboring tribe. I learned the story for every scar on his body in great detail---his successes and his failures. (actually, mostly successes!) I found out who his heroes were---namely Sonny Six Killer, who was a college quarterback, playing for the Washington Huskies. Also the Texas 'Cowboys'. He analyzed the games, pro and amateurs, and taught me to enjoy football.

I don't think 'bonding' was a part of my vocabulary in 1971. Nor would I have had an idea how it happens. Only in looking back it became clear to me what had transpired. I made tapioca pudding one day. There were lots of things I cooked that were new to Justin, so I asked. "How do you like the pudding?" He looked at me for a moment then handed me the half-filled dish and his spoon, and said, "You finish it". I looked at him. He was serious---I ate the pudding. The next day it was something else---I shared whatever he was eating for a while, including candy and an ice-cream cone we licked. Finally one day he unwrapped a stick of gum, started to chew, spit it out and handed it to me. I chewed that darned gum! It seemed to satisfy him---only a real mother would do that---. Our food sharing was over!

This program was working---he was learning there were white people he could trust---and who actually liked him. Then I made a big mistake. I tried so hard to be home when the school bus came. Not that my children cared---the fact was they liked having the whole place to themselves once in a while. The door was never locked and there was always something freshly baked waiting for them---and there were plenty of fun things to do.

The phone call came on a beautiful fall day---the grapes were ready! I eagerly awaited each season for that good fruit that provided us the drink we all loved and I 'bottled' at least a couple of hundred quarts of pure juice. It was a big project and when the harvest call came I gathered my boxes and clippers and set out. Knowing I would be late I left a big pot of soup simmering on the stove. I should have left a note! Secure in their world, neither Dean nor Susan cared. They knew I would soon be home---Justin did not. He came to an empty house---and asking Susan my whereabouts, was told she had no idea and that I may be gone for days!

I think she had decided by then that this stranger was taking too much of her mother's time---and she saw a way to get even. It was a downright lie. He was completely undone. More than a thousand miles from his own mother, he now thought he had lost his substitute. By the time I got home he had worked up quite a case for abandonment! All my explanations and apologies didn't soothe him. Every remaining morning of that school year he asked me the same question. "Where will you be when I come home?" And I answered, "right here"---or later on, "where do you think?" and he said "right here!" And I was. The trust was slowly restored.

School was going well. We had prepared our little Durham for Justin's arrival. His teacher was also his coach and he was especially pleased with this boy. We hadn't realized what a fine athlete he was! Before long his real personality began to emerge---he was competitive! This tickled Hank and me---our other children were not. While they had natural talent, they just couldn't get worked up over who won---or lost. Justin most assuredly could!

Their first sport that fall was wrestling---a new experience. Justin's size was right for his class, but his age (13) was an advantage. He found wrestling easy and fun---and had no trouble winning all his matches. The trouble came when they participated with other schools as a team. One poor little guy didn't try very hard and it cost them the victory. Justin was incensed! Such language---not our common swear words, but his own combination of adjectives that left no doubt his disgust. The team learned to try harder.

During practice one day, he was faced with an opponent who seemed pretty wary and they circled around a bit, not getting anywhere until Justin bent over and went into his 'fancy dancing', which broke the kid up, whereupon he was quickly grabbed and pinned. Justin simply did what he had to in order to win.

He gave all he had---at whatever sport. Football began and that was his passion. His ball became his constant companion---he played alone if there was no one else. A bush in the backyard received his passes and his tackles as he tore wildly around and through any obstacle in his path. In bad weather, or after dark, he could play a somewhat limited game in the house! Weaving and rushing through the people and furniture to a sofa that caught passes---and tackles---he was ready to compete anywhere and anytime, and any game.

Basketball was actually his best sport, in spite of his size. He was just so quick. His coach by then, was calling him Sonny (Six Killer)---and it was such fun to watch those games. If the scoreboard showed a 'negative', the coach would call "OK Sonny, go get the ball"---and Justin would simply steal it from whoever had it and go make a basket! Or he watched the scoreboard and took care of things without being told. He was afraid of being called a 'hot-dog', his term for a player who took too many shots---but he could not bear to lose.

The team played some 'away' games and I tried to be there, wherever they were. Then I made another error! It was a stormy night and the game was in McMinnville. He of course, went on the bus. The drive for me would have taken forever, and I wanted to be home for dinner with my family, so I decided to skip one game. Mistake!

He fussed at me for months. It didn't seem likely he would ever forgive me. The score was 'down' and he took one look, saw what he had to do, and took care of it---won the game. But with every basket, he looked to see if I had arrived yet. He needed his cheering section.

This was to become a problem for Dean and Susan. The movie 'Dances With Wolves' clearly depicts what we were experiencing---an old tribal custom. After a successful buffalo hunt (or basketball game), the Brave would go back to his people to be celebrated! The 'story' would be told over and over while the feasting and the honors were heaped upon him!

My two kids didn't care who won any game and they surely didn't want to hear all the details at dinner time. Dean's interests were in other areas---and while he did try, it was soon obvious those two weren't going to be close. They did share a love of dirt biking---and hunting. Hank took them out for quail, pheasant and deer---and probably ducks and fish, though I have no pictures to prove it.

We took many pictures---and wrote weekly letters to Viola, always including a picture. She seldom wrote, but just a few days before Thanksgiving she called and wanted him home immediately. There was a death in the family---an aunt she said. She wanted him there. We contacted the Placement services---they said if you send him back you will never see him again

Viola had told me "You send him to me and I will send him back to you", and I believed her. We had no choice in any case---we sent him. I don't remember who bought the ticket. It was either the church---or we did. As we waited for the plane he asked me to save his Thanksgiving dinner. He told me to put it on a plate and put it in the freezer, and reminded me over and over to not forget! I knew he would be back, and in five days he was ...

We had previously had one bout of homesickness. I thought all was well, even though it had been a bad day. His team had lost a football game. The Washington Huskies (Sonny Six Killer) had lost their game as did the Dallas Cowboys!

Furthermore, we had gone out to find pants (shrink Levi's like Dean wore), and found they didn't make them in his size yet---he was too short! It was a really bad day!

When I passed by his bedroom door late that evening I heard sobbing. I went in and sat by his bed and listened to his grief. Then I said, "I don't know how you do it. You have left your home and everyone you love, to come here and live with the crazy white man." He looked at me and dried his tears and said "I can do it!"

That was the one and only incident of homesickness I was to see. In fact when spring came he decided to stay---didn't want to go home, but of course he had to.

There are too many stories to tell just from that first year alone. It was all so fun. His boxing' career' should be mentioned. He liked the idea of becoming a boxer, but in truth wasn't all that good. He got nosebleeds in every match, but the club was very generous with the trophies and he had a nice collection. It was only later on I was to learn he had reported his experiences to Lame Deer as a 'Golden Glove League'---not quite!

Those boxing matches took us all over the Portland Metro area and as far away as Warm Springs. (He was really thrilled to go to someone else's reservation, and they treated him rather special---it was a great experience).

But it meant leaving our children home alone. Hank and I enjoyed those times, but Dean and Susan refused to go.

Justin and Susan were having a brother/sister relationship. He harassed her---she didn't want either him or Dean on her horse. They needed gas for their dirt bikes one day and took their can, got on Ben, and rode to the station.

She was furious!

She was willing to play the board games he loved---but wouldn't put up with his cheating! He would do anything to win! He more carefully followed the rules if I joined in.

The one game I could beat was Ping-Pong. He had no experience at all. The only way he could get better was to keep playing, and he wore me out. He wouldn't quit! Or let me---until he won---and eventually he did!

Our older two, David and Barbara adored him, and he them, but they were grown and spent little time at home.

Actually he was well liked everywhere---school, church and community. It never ceased to impress him when someone was kind. I would get the full report. "He---or she---was SO NICE!" And I would ask "Why shouldn't they be?" But he remembered how some white men had treated him in Montana---and he knew the history of his tribe verses the government. There was a little scenario we repeated over and over. When I introduced Justin to someone new, more often than not they would comment on their Indian blood! It seemed almost everyone claimed to be part Indian! He always listened respectively then as soon as we were alone would proclaim "They are full of beans!" As far as he was concerned if you didn't look like one then you weren't one!

He loved to laugh. One of his amusements was to surprise---or startle ---me. I never knew when he would be hiding---waiting for me with a war whoop of some kind. It was a relief when that phase wore out. The school year went by quickly. By spring he had a girl friend, a little cutie from out Ward. I got to hear the details of that relationship. We took him anywhere and everywhere to give him new experiences.

Just a few days before the bus was to take him home, I needed to go down town. He loved Portland, especially the waterfront, and wanted to go along. I decided to make it a special occasion by having lunch in the 'tea room' at Lipman Wolf---(a large department store similar to Meier and Frank, now long gone from Portland.) We rode the elevator to the 10th floor and had a delightful lunch where the 'genteel ambiance' and setting made such an impression on this little boy from the reservation he could hardly contain himself. Though he did use excellent manners! I promised him this would be our yearly date.

I had no doubt about his returning. It had been a good year. Three months on an Indian Reservation can be a disaster. We missed our boy and were anxious to have him back. The young man who got off the bus in August wasn't exactly the same one we had sent home. At least he returned. There were two of our four Tigard students we never saw again---Adam and Sara.

Justin seemed older and in some ways it was like starting all over again. But the adjustment period from 'his' world to ours didn't take very long and soon he had apparently forgotten Lame Deer and was happily involved in family and school. He entered Twality Jr. High and that was a huge adjustment. Big classes and lots more competition in the athletic program. The biggest problem was losing Mr. Scholar, his Durham coach!

There seemed to be lots of coaches in this new school, none of whom considered him to be anyone special. In fact before long he decided some of them didn't like him. (By the 8th grade this changed somewhat. Mr. Wilson, who was LDS, took a special interest in Justin and tried to help him. Mr. Wilson had a baby boy born that spring, named him Justin and brought him here to have pictures made. This was a time when 'Justin' wasn't a common name as it is now. 'Our' Justin was the first time we had heard the name.) The stoic side of this boy was so misleading. We learned very quickly it only meant he reserved his right to be silent---not that he wasn't observant---or had an opinion! Oh my no! He saw everything---and heard not only what was said, but also was sensitive to what was not said. He 'read' people rather well. If he sensed an 'enemy', arguing with him didn't change his mind.

When did the problems begin? It is so easy to blame others---especially his peers. Susan explained it to me. "The 'Soc's' didn't want him in their groups, and the 'druggies' were so very friendly! It was apparently true---he began to form friendships that proved disastrous later on. Skipping school and lying about it was our first indication.

I had the full support of the school authorities---one of his best friends was the Principles son! He felt as helpless as I did. There were lots of good times. We continued to schedule all the fun activities we could think of.

In November, Hank and I had an adventure without the family. The Dodge motor company was making a 'muscle' car at that time, called a Charger. Hank and the boys thought it to be the coolest car of them all, and he ordered a bright red one to be delivered to Great Falls, Montana. We flew to Great Falls, picked up the car and drove to Lame Deer to meet Justin's family.

We were on very good terms with Viola by then. She had asked me for my foot size---and sent a pair of beautiful hand beaded moccasins, along with other pieces; jewelry, watch bands, hair clips, belts, buckles, and various other handwork. All beaded.

She had a shy way of saying yes to anything I asked her---"Did you really make these moccasins---neckwear---etc.?" "Yes" ... "You sewed all these tiny beads on"? "Yes" ... I kind of wondered if she bought the slippers and then put the beads on, but I was always aware I was asking too many questions, and had to be careful. It was years later when she was comfortable with me and we actually talked, that she showed me a fairly good sized scar on her hand where she had sliced herself with a knife as she cut the leather to make those slippers. They were the first pair she had made. We took gifts to Montana. I had heard of some disastrous situations of foster parents going to meet the families on the reservation. So I was somewhat prepared.

We stood in the yard until we were invited in! And then I tried to talk less and listen more---and quietly. One of the first lessons I learned from Justin was that white man talks too much and too loudly. (After our Indian experiences I have to agree.) In any case we didn't seem to offend anyone and we felt the experience was a good one for all of us. Not Justin's father however, he stayed away and we didn't meet him. Viola was obviously impressed with Hank.

Justin was thrilled that we had met his family. I continued to write every week, but he refused. He said it was too many letters! His mother had saved every one we had written the previous year! There was another thing, and Hank and I didn't even have to discuss it. We were very careful to never comment on the conditions of that home, or on the reservations for that matter. It was another world---and that good woman would get no criticism from us.

She decided to visit us! We were excited to have Viola here. She came on the bus in the early spring and brought her little Delphine and another relative with her. We were to meet quite a few members of her family in that way, it is hard to place them in order now. There were lots of visits over the years.

We took them to as many places as we could manage. The beach was their favorite! Not only they had never seen the ocean, they had no hope of ever seeing it. They were fascinated! It was a busy week and they went home seemingly happy about everything though we didn't have much conversation that first time. The trust was slowly building. I knew for sure they liked my cooking!

We had very few letters from Viola but did receive an occasional phone call, though she had to use a pay-phone. 'Thank you' was an expression they didn't seem to use---but that was OK---we didn't expect to be thanked. We enjoyed the experiences with our new friends, and felt we were improving relations between our two cultures if only a little, it was worth it to us.

One of the 'gifts' I took---or sent---to the Little Whirlwinds was jerky, either beef or venison. I made both. It was Justin's idea---I would have supposed they knew more about making it that I did, but apparently not! They loved my jerky! And wanted the recipe and exact instructions on how I made it. I found that very amusing! But any box I sent to Montana contained some jerky.

It was a troubling year. I felt we made little progress. Justin did take less of my time, but hung out more and more with his school friends. We had strict standards in our home. No drugs or alcohol (not even coffee or tea). He knew that and accepted it---I thought. When did I first find marijuana? It was his carelessness---though later on I, having lost my naivete, knew where to look---and it became an all too familiar routine---with promises that were never kept.

We ended our second year with little hope, and after the church Placement Program representative visited the reservation and found him drunk, we knew our life with Justin was over.

Viola, however, wasn't ready to give up. She called and asked us to take him back, without church sanction. We did what we could, over the telephone, to make our position clear. There were more promises---he wanted to come back!

The third year was not good. Any successes we had were outweighed by serious problems. By spring I was finding more marijuana In many ways he was a typical teenager, trying to find his way---not sure who he was, and needing our patience and love.

We took him to Disneyland---and all the fun places in southern California. He had his own horse, 'Lamanite', though by then we learned he really had no love of horses. The traditional Cheyenne Brave was a superb horseman---he didn't care. If he couldn't make Susan miserable by riding hers, he wasn't interested.

He and Nancy had 'broken up', but he found another girlfriend and she (Tammy) became a part of our lives also.

In the beginning I would have said Justin was truthful and trustworthy. Certainly we left money all over the house---and never found anything missing. The truth for him was problematical however. If he wanted something badly enough, he could, and would, believe it himself! I learned to 'read' him---and could tell what was fact and what he wanted the facts to be.

The third year ended with little hope of ever seeing him again. We bought the ticket and he went back on the bus. By August the calls from Lame Deer came. If only we would take him back he would NEVER do those things again.

What could we do? We loved him and wanted to have him back---and gave him yet another chance. It was a disastrous year!

There wasn't anything left to try---we had done about all we knew to do. Boy Scouts---working with Hank on various projects---learning the various 'shop' skills we had available right here at home---nothing seemed to interest him as much as his friends and their lifestyle.

I picked him up late one night from a home where he had been given enough beer to be drunk. I asked him what we had done wrong---there was a short silence---and then he vehemently said, "You have done nothing wrong---I am the one who's wrong." He was willing to take responsibility---but he was unable to stop. I knew how to find his drug and stopped confronting him with it---just quietly took it and burned it. That got through to him more than anything else we did. He was agitated and furious---but since I said nothing at all, he could hardly confront me. It was a sorry game we played.

By spring we were all worn down with the tension and the frustration. Justin occasionally threatened to go back to Montana where he could do as he pleased. It was Easter Sunday weekend when things came to a head. He never came home from school on Friday---nor did he call on Saturday. We made every attempt to locate him---by then we knew who he was with but not where. It was late Saturday before we heard from him. He agreed to come back and I told him we were through. He said that was fine, he wanted to return to Montana.

He had little, or nothing to say. I stayed home on Sunday and attempted to find Viola. She still had no phone but I called the Lame Deer police department and gave them a message to deliver to her. There is no bus service to Lame Deer---the closest bus station is in Billings, about 100 miles away. I was never more determined. I had had enough. My husband however, was more willing to negotiate again---when he went of to work on Monday morning, I called Greyhound and made arrangements for a one way ticket to Billings.

David went with us. Justin was silent and angry. As we waited I heard my name over the din of the bus station. Hank was on the phone---"Have you talked to Viola?" "No" "Then you can't do this!" "I can and I will!" I was really through. I knew how long the bus would take to get to Billings and that it would be long enough for Viola to get there from Lame Deer. The police had promised me they would find her.

As he walked to the bus Justin's anger spilled out. He said "I am going to go back to the reservation where I'll be killed---and it will be your fault".

Did I respond? I honestly cannot remember. We stood and watched the bus pull out and then David brought me home. Hank was incredulous that I had done it. I felt I had no other choice. My first responsibility was to my own children---and they were being hurt by his continued presence in our home.

It was a relief at first. I should have felt guilty I suppose, for the way I dispatched him without talking to his Mother first, but I simply couldn't take another hour of his deception. I took a stand. But it took it's toll on me. I have never before nor since, experienced depression. Nor did I recognize it then---but depression it was---and it lasted for months. An example was my need to sleep. I could scarcely stay awake.

Realizing I needed some diversion and activity, I decided to paint a room or two. Setting off in mid-morning, while I was awake, I drove to Fred Meyer's for supplies, and sat in the parking lot and went to sleep before I could get out of the car. I was parked close to the doors and someone saw me slumped over the wheel and thought I was dead and knocked on the window. This happened twice---it was very embarrassing but I was helpless to control it. Also I was crying a good deal of the time. Hank was sympathetic but not able to understand what was happening any more than I was.

It was a very kind stranger who helped me out of this illness. She called me one day. We had met only once before, and I've forgotten why she needed to talk to me that day. She had intuition---and/or a really good listening ear. Sensing something wrong, she began to question me. She had a similar experience in her life, and knew exactly what we were dealing with. She was able to counsel me and made me see that what had happened was not my fault---that I had done everything I could, that Hank had, we all had! It was NOT my fault!

Suddenly I became very angry at Justin. It was his fault---we had done everything we could do---this was hurting not only me, but also the rest of my family, and it wasn't fair! The cloud of depression lifted---Our lives went back to normal again. And life was good. It was just that simple.

Eventually the letter came. The apology, the taking of all the blame, the asking for forgiveness. But not asking to come back. He was sent to an Indian school in Utah---He kept in touch through letters, saying he missed us and asking about each one individually. He seemed to be doing well. After graduation he entered into a Job-Corps program. The details were sketchy, but we were assured he was doing fine. We received an occasional phone call. It was October 1979 when he called and asked if he could come for Thanksgiving. We had a sweet conversation---he missed us and became rather emotional about it. He told me he wanted me to make lasagna---and that I still seemed like his Mother.

A couple of weeks later the call came from Viola. Had we seen Justin? We had not. He was missing. This didn't upset us particularly, we had been there before. Another two weeks went by, and she called again. He had been found---dead. His body was lying in a field---no shirt or shoes, and cause of death unknown. He was twenty one years old. She wanted to know when we would be there! I had no thought of going! I asked when the funeral was---she said we won't know until we find out when you will be here.

Hank and I had a quick conversation and he said, "we will go." It was so unreal---his death and our sudden departure for Montana. We flew and rented a car. The one hundred miles to Lame Deer gave us time to think. It was tragic but we were not surprised---we knew what life on the reservation was like. We arrived and were directed to the Catholic Church. There we found Viola, who threw herself into my arms and wept as though her heart was truly broken.

Those next two days were a nightmare. It was a 'wake', nothing we had ever witnessed before---or since. The wailing---the keening---the grief. Then there was the giving of gifts. Those who came to the church brought blankets (and some brought money), literally piles of blankets which had to be guarded. Viola never left the church.

We had not known of this practice but somehow had done the correct thing. We took a Pendleton Indian blanket for the family. Viola sent us 'home' to rest for a few hours. We had made arrangements for a motel room just off the reservation. We returned to the church for the service, on time. They, of course, were on Indian time, and stereotypical or not, it is a reality. Clocks just don't mean much to them.

Eventually they got most everyone there and had the service. The Priest had asked me the previous day if I would like to speak, and I was in no shape to even consider it. I had agreed however, to write about Justin, and had composed a fitting story, or tribute, and it was read. I should have made a copy, (though how I do not know), it was one of those times when I got onto paper exactly the right words.

The music was haunting and beautifully done. A young woman with a clear true voice and a guitar, sang a selection of hymns and other familiar songs. It was perfect. The chapel there is an interesting and proper place---built in the form of a tee-pee, made with natural wood and stained glass---lovely! Justin's father never made it. He was drunk and couldn't face the funeral of a son. But he wasn't the only one. It was mostly the women who accepted the responsibility to attend.

After the service we drove to the cemetery. There they held a short service, then lowered the casket into the grave. The young men then took shovels and filled the grave with dirt. There was no lawn in the cemetery, and no flowers other than plastic or silk ones. It is located in a harsh and barren place, where severe weather conditions are not conducive to growing flowers.

Viola explained to me that white men 'hire' strangers to bury their dead. The Indians take pride it doing this themselves. I couldn't help but notice that some of the fellows with the shovels got a little careless with their dirt throwing and it developed into a friendly game of trying to hit one another! It would seem young men are the same the world over!

We returned to the church for the feast and the 'give away'. Because Viola worked for the school, they provided most of the food, though I did see several women bring in cakes.

We were introduced to most everyone. There were a few other white people, maybe three or four. Hank went off to visit---as he loved to do---and I stayed close by Viola's side. We were the 'foster parents', and prominently mentioned in the newspaper notices, and also in the funeral service.

The women weren't very chatty---but then I didn't expect it. Viola was conversing with me easily by then and I got all the details from her.

The first food we were handed was a Styrofoam cup of clear broth with a very large chunk of beef (we hoped), at the bottom. The only utensil we had was a tiny plastic fork that broke as soon as you speared the meat. That left us to drink the broth, and eat the meat with our fingers. Hank was a very fussy customer. He wanted his food to be carefully prepared by clean hands and no coughing or licking of fingers or any other nonsense. I had a good talk with him before this feast. No matter what they served nor how they served it---he had to eat it without complaint! He knew it---and he did it---but it wasn't easy.

A young girl came and took his empty cup and offered to get a refill of the punch. When she returned the cup was too full and spilling over so she drank a little off the top! He cringed, but took the cup without a word and drank the rest. I was so proud of him!

The meal served was large trays of beef and beans and potatoes and salads and frybread---all basic and filling---plentiful and good. Viola was busy with people and didn't find the time to eat. As her friends left I noticed they took empty plates and loaded them up---really piled them high. After the 'give-away' was over and Viola had the chance, she took a plate and found there was nothing left to eat! Nothing. It had all gone home on loaded plates.

We had heard about 'give-aways' long before. The traditional Indian would give away everything he owned, even his tee-pee, to honor his dead loved one. In more recent times this has been changed to just blankets and/or money.

Those were the gifts she had been given, and that was what she gave away. Calling out the names one by one, her friends approached her and accepted their gift without an exchange of words.

I watched this and though I knew better, when my name was called and I was handed my gift, I put my arms around her in a warm hug and thanked her sincerely---white man's way. My gift was beaded handicraft, as was Hank's. (He hugged her too) We received belts, a bag, wristbands and jewelry---all made by Viola.

It was over and we were invited to the home. It was then we met Howard, Justin's dad. He was in bad shape. In his presence Viola told us what had happened over and over.

Justin would get angry at his drunken father, announce he was going back to Oregon to live with his 'good' father, and then actually start out---on foot. Eventually Viola would get in the car and drive until she found him along the highway---grab him by the ear and make him return. Howard was crying and using sign language I did not understand at the time. Later I was to learn he was saying "this is too hard to bear." My heart nearly broke. I went to him and took him in my arms and held him. He put his arms around me and wept. I told him we had NOT replaced him---that Justin did love him and he would always be his true father. He seemed somewhat placated although Viola was openly disgusted and angry.

We were to learn little about Justin's death. Viola was told he probably drowned. (There was a 'stream' nearby. I believe his face was in the water. She never received an autopsy report. We did know he had been home on vacation from the job corps, and while there he had contacted everyone who meant something special to him (including the Hansens), and had expressed his feelings in one way or another, of love. Roses to his Mother---an unusual gift from someone so far from a florist!

When he returned to his job---where he had been learning to use heavy equipment and the carpenter trades---it was to finish up and graduate. He had plans to work and be independent.

He arrived at the Kicking Horse Job Corps in Western Montana. The bus got to the nearby town early---too early---there was no one to pick him up. We never got a clear picture of what happened.

There were others from a different tribe---there was alcohol---there was trouble. There was also one witness---a girl---and she said Justin had come to her begging help, saying they were going to kill him. She claimed to be too sleepy to do anything about it. I translate that into 'too drunk'. His girlfriend here in Oregon had tried to keep in touch with him. Her Mother was dating an FBI man---and they were incensed. He offered to get information. We learned nothing.

The next time I talked to Viola she said someone came to her door showing FBI identification, and asked her if she had any connections to anyone in Oregon. She explained the relationship with our family and that seemed to satisfy him. She never heard from them again.

She was so shy and intimidated in her dealings with any white person, she could never be demanding or aggressive in seeking information. The FBI man here in Oregon said simply that there was no record! Nothing. It was like Justin didn't matter to the government. "The only good Indian was a dead Indian" business. We knew if our FBI man couldn't get information, what chance did we have?

What good---or harm---did we do? This is not the end of the story, but the rest is about other people and because this is Justin's story, this is where it will end.

We learned from the Priest at the funeral, that Justin was well liked and also was considered a good boy on the reservation. One of their best in fact. They had different standards than we did, but I understood. He was a good boy!

He broke our hearts, but I don't think our time with him has ended. The day will come when we will be together again, in a better place and in an eternal relationship.

Justin and I were sitting at the table late one night just talking. He was using a sharp knife on something or another, and suddenly he asked me if I knew what it took to be blood-brothers. I said I did.

He showed me what he would do---slash his hand---and mine---then hold hands while our blood mingled. He said, "Would you like to be my 'blood-brother?" I said "yes". He took the knife (and fortunately) started on his own hand---Then he said "This is going to HURT!" And gave up the plan. I think we are blood-brothers. I don't believe his time with us was wasted. Not a moment of it. I miss him still, and have no doubt that both he and Hank are waiting for me---and there will be laughter again, the tears will be over. I never claimed to have a drop of Indian blood---but I do have an Indian son.

And I am not full of beans.

Pages 123 - 144

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