Summer Stories: ‘Smleech, Smleech, Smleech’

By Tiffany Midge

Whenever you are reminded of the falls you think of salmon – baked, grilled, or your favorite, roasted on cedar planks over coals in the open air. During afternoon foods lab you ruminated out loud with a classmate about your dream of opening an Indigenous cuisine restaurant, and wouldn’t it be perfect if it overlooked the falls, like that famous restaurant in Minneapolis – named after the Dakota word for falls, place of falling, swirling water – that restaurant with wild game on the menu described as “a disco ball in the forest” by the New Yorker; you guess because the food is so colorful and fancy? Stayin’ alive?

You brainstormed potential names for the future eatery overlooking Spokane Falls: Salmon Salmon Salmon – say it three times, like Beetlejuice, and it miraculously appears. And wouldn’t Silence of the Clams be a great Northwest seafood restaurant name? And this reminded you of that winter you and Mike drove to the Southwest and ate mutton stew in a little place in Tuba City, which was definitely not called Silence of the Lambs, but maybe should have been. That was a good trip. You bought a turquoise ring from a roadside vendor with a sign that read “Nice Indians!”

“What is Spokane Falls in … Native American?” Etta asked, the last part she practically whispered because she heard that “Native American” was an offensive term. Or maybe it was “Indian” that was offensive. Etta was one of several non-Natives enrolled in the Indigenous foods lab and was careful not to offend.

“Sqahetkw, meaning the ‘place of fast-moving water’ in Salish,” you said, quoting an article you read online.

“You could call your restaurant that, um, maybe,” Etta said.

“Or maybe Smleech, Smleech, Smleech, for salmon,” you said.

~

At the end of the lab session you packed a container of bison butternut lasagna leftovers for your aunt May, who lived in an assisted living facility and who seemed to enjoy the nicely prepared foods that you brought her – they were a welcome change from the facility’s overcooked, flavorless menu. “May! Hello, I’m here,” you called out.

The truth was, the meals you brought to May three times a week, seemed to sharply improve her memory and brain function, ease her arthritis, and add vim and vigor to her overall temperament. You hesitated to question or test your theory out of fear that whatever was causing it might go away. So, you decided to step very lightly and approach it as if it was a skittish phenomenon. An easily startled magic.

You found your aunt crouched over her table in front of the window, reading a letter with a magnifying glass; dozens of photographs and letters spread out over the table. Auntie May was the family’s self-designated archivist, a role that appeared to anchor her to the present and at the same time grounding her memory with the past, and she had unintentionally or intentionally recruited you as her beneficiary, though you hadn’t realized it yet. There were others besides just you – a sister in Portland, cousins spread out across the Western states and reservations, but only you and May lived within driving distance of each other. Your mother and father were gone, your other aunts also gone – although, the round oak table containing all of the mutual relatives might suggest otherwise – decidedly not exactly gone.

“Ah, my niece! There you are, what did you bring me?”

“We made lasagna with ground bison and butternut squash. It’s pretty tasty. No cheese, of course, but trust me, you won’t even miss it,” you said. You were almost this close to actually believing it.

“No one around here is missing cheese,” May said. “Growing up, those government blocks of cheese sat in the back of the fridge until they became penicillin.”

“Speaking of big cheese, how is Mr. Hopkins? Is he still smitten with you?” Mr. Hopkins, another resident, had been making googly eyes at May for months. She was kind to him and tolerated his flirtations, but she was not interested.

“He calls me ‘Princess’ sometimes. As in ‘Indian Princess.’ Or else, ‘Prairie Flower.’ It’s silly,” May said.

May held up a photograph from the pile spread out on the round table. “Did I ever show you this?” She pointed to a photo of a round-faced woman with painted, full lips. She was laughing, a life of the party type. “That’s your great grandmother, Magnolia Iron Necklace.”

You noted that two weeks ago your aunt wasn’t able to recall who the photograph was of when you asked. But after she’d eaten seconds and then thirds of the elk liver and wild onions that you prepared in class, May was recounting whole family histories. May’s surprising recall seemed to taper off over the weekend, but then after you brought her manoomin – wild rice – with wojapi – berry compote – paired alongside duck, May was speaking in Dakota! And then the stories in Dakota wound down, and come the following week, with roasted timpisila – turnips – and free-range turkey, sunflower cookies and cedar-maple tea, May was singing millennia-old songs devoted to the changing seasons. But today, May was revisiting relatives.

“Magnolia Iron Necklace took the train from Bismark to attend nursing training at Sacred Heart,” May said, referring to another photo, a postcard of a cigar-store Indian, dated 1947. “She writes here that she took a walk to the falls to stretch her legs and pay her respects. She writes that Grandpa and Uncle Fred would drive all the way to Spokane to visit the Falls when Indians from all around came to camp and fish, sometimes 80-pound Chinook, thousands of salmon, dried and smoked right on the banks.”

And then May became suddenly pensive – “Magnolia writes here that those salmon disappeared just like our bison. That’s sad. Don’t you think that’s sad?”

“Yes, it is,” you said. “Though, it’s fun to imagine Grandma Magnolia walking around downtown Spokane, buying postcards of cigar store Indians, of all things!”

“She writes that this cigar store Indian in the postcard reminded her of Uncle Fred around the ears,” May said, her mood lifted.

~

You walk along Riverside and think of Indians racing their horses. You wander through the park and stand looking out over the falls. You observe the Salmon Chief sculpture that commemorates the Native Peoples whose economies, social and spiritual life depended on these waters. People traveled here to meet their life mates. A disco ball in the forest, the New Yorker said. You think the 12-foot sculpture isn’t tall enough. In South Dakota there is a 50-foot sculpture of a Lakota woman named Dignity. You imagine the Dignity sculpture and the Salmon Chief coming together and dancing. Their frameworks and supports, metal and steel fixtures and scaffolds combining, clanking together. Perhaps more than representation, you imagine they contain a community of energy from the times before Spokane became a city. Imprints and traces of those spirits from a world when more than memory mattered.