Neebish 2017: The Sault Ste. Marie Chippewa Tribe

Waiting for the 10 AM ferry to get off Neebish island, Grandma and my mom sit in the front seat, reviewing the lists of what they plan to accomplish between the 10AM and 4 PM ferries. “I need to get gas, deposit a check, buy winter pajamas at Kohls, pick up a few groceries at Myers and go to the laundromat,” mom offers.  What strikes me is her banking plan.  I realize that she probably doesn’t have a banking app on her phone, know how to deposit a check electronically, or how to transfer money between accounts without using a laptop.   My grandmother is captured by the word laundromat.  It offends her sense of thrift and she has never been to one.  “Why are you doing that?” My grandma asked critically.  She thinks we can use our god-given resources to wash our clothes at home and dry them on the line.  My mom counters, “If we wash the clothes on the island, they won’t dry, the forecast says rain through the Fourth of July.”

“The Lord will dry them.”  Grandma finishes the conversation.

Our first stop is the post office.  I grab a few butter scotch for the kiddos from the community basket and bring them to the kids in the car.  My mom comments immediately in an annoyed voice.  “Amy, please don’t give your kids any more candy in my car.  There hands will get sticky.  I don’t want to find chewed up candy under my seats.  Just think of the dentist bill!” handing my kids wet wash clothes she carries in her pocket for occasions like this—not minding if her jeans get wet. I change the subject and my mom goes back to preparing her bills for mail.  Becky, the island mail lady exclaims, “Mrs. Behling is back.”  This seems like code to me for something else, maybe her surprise that she is still alive. 

Becky looks at me and says, “When your grandma comes each year, I know that summer has started.  I call her homestead Behling’s point.”

We get in the car and drive into Sault Ste. Marie.  Despite my grandmother’s failing memory, my mom asks grandma for directions.  My grandma lived in Sault Ste. Marie, the city closest to Neebish island, for nearly ten years.  My mom plans to drive me by the house she grew up in, the hospital she was born in, and the fountain that she and her brother used to steal pennies out of.  As we drive towards the Sault my mom says, “I admire people who take care of their yards.  That is why I live in an apartment.”  Now that I am a homeowner with a 10x10 foot plot of grass in front of DC row house, I get what she means.”  They exchange stories about the rest of Grandpa Ben’s siblings—which one has died, which one is still alive, which one is in a home in Florida with complete memory loss, and which one is nearby, but has a wife who isn’t anxious to see us.

Santi picks out all the rickety homes and falling down barns along the two lane highway.  We are mostly looking at chipped paint, tall grass, and tractors.  Every home has an American flag.  My grandma starts to cough and my mom asks, “You gonna live?”  Grandma responds through the coughs, “I am trying to.”

We make the rounds of this small town in Northern Michigan, the water front shops are full of nautical knick knacks and moccasins.  My grandma mentions that when she first started coming to the island in 1929, the Indians sill lived there.  My mom has claimed heritage in the Sault tribe of the Chippewa Indians and has her tribal card with her.  Each summer she visits the reservation and renews her eyeglasses prescription.  Zadie sees the moccasins and tomahawks in the stores and doesn’t begin to understand what it means to have started our country with an epic slaughter of native people.  As we pull into Frank’s Diner for lunch on main street, Karin points out the last remaining wall of Fort Brady built during the war of 1812 when the British were fighting the Americans for the rapids of Saint Mary’s territory.  My mother’s childhood home was in the Fort Brady subdivision, formerly known as Father Marquette’s mission—the famous French Priest who converted the Indians. Thinking about that what our European ancestors did to the First Nations makes me ashamed.  I drown my temporary sadness at the all you can eat buffet at Frank’s with the locals.