Every season, my family—two brothers, two sisters, Mom, and me—climbed into Uncle Tommy’s Ford and rode north for three hours, mostly in silence. We were heading from Milwaukee to Wisconsin Rapids for the Potawatomi Drum Dance ceremony. Sitting still in a cramped car for three hours can be torture for five kids, but if we acted up, Mom’s warning—her long arm with a fist at the end of it—would be the only thing we needed to see before we all shut the hell up. The car ride was just the beginning of sitting still. Once we got there, we would have to sit still for two more days in the dance ring.
Since I was the youngest and smallest I got to sit up front between my mom and Uncle Tommy. In those days, there were no seatbelts and no bucket seats. It was like riding along on a loveseat. If I got sleepy, I would put my head on my mom’s lap and trail off into dreamland listening to my mom and uncle talk about the old days. Sometimes Uncle Tommy would treat us to hamburgers, French fries, and malts at the local Milty Wilty in one of the many small towns we drove through. The real prize at the end of the car journey: we got to hug our grandparents.
We stayed at my maternal grandparents’ humble two-bedroom home in an all-white neighborhood. Thomas and Dora Kitchkume, who we called Misho and Goko, were two of the sweetest elders in the world. They always welcomed us with big smiles, hugs, and food. I remember the pine cabinetry in their kitchen and the smells of delicious food. Something was always cooking, and they always had special snacks for us. I especially loved Goko’s corn and hot dog soup.
My aunt Ramona, or Auntie Mona as we called her, drove in from the west. A quiet but powerful presence,
