Preparing to Gather Firewood
Before I begin writing, I lay down tobacco as a respectful offering to the spirit family accompanying me. I honor those whose names I pray, and the stories entwined in my blood and breath. I seek clear thinking, humility, and care. This chapter opens in this spirit, emphasizing that thought is inextricably linked to the essence of spirit and that actual knowledge arises from deep connections.
The storywork (Archibald, 2008) titled “Preparing to Gather Firewood,” which introduces this chapter, highlights the significance of lived experiences marked by both warmth and challenges, such as addiction and the disruption of kinship bonds. The Storywork illustrates how Indigenous experiences are deeply interwoven with themes of resilience, accountability, and significant connections to both land and culture. This perspective embodies the essence of Indigenous Storywork, which places significant value on storytelling as a means to express intricate emotions and convey Indigenous knowing.
The text highlights the essential role of narratives grounded in lived experience in shaping addiction research. It emphasizes the need for an Indigenous perspective that addresses family dynamics, trauma, and healing within Indigenous communities. By employing such methodologies, we can promote holistic, respectful dialogues that enhance understanding and management of addiction.
Preparing to Gather Firewood
Winter always held a certain rhythm, a seasonal task intertwined with my childhood home. It was something we did each year, a pattern as familiar as the land itself. On this particular day, the sky spread out like a thick, low-hanging blanket of gray clouds, an overcast that made the world feel both heavy and quiet. A light mist of snowflakes drifted through the air, and despite the season, there was an unusual warmth to it, not cold, not biting, just a comforting presence. I was always told that this kind of sky meant snow was coming soon, signaling that it was time to start preparing the firewood.
I loved days like this. The ground was already dusted in a thin layer of snow, and if you looked closely, really closely, at the way the flakes landed, you would see endless patterns with tiny, intricate designs, each one different, and each one holding a story. I used to think they looked like fragments of another world; pieces of some faraway galaxy scattered at my feet. Even now, I catch myself staring, letting my imagination wander through the shapes, carried back to those moments when the land, the sky, and the quiet knowing of the seasons taught me how to see.
In the late 1970s, we relied on firewood to keep warm during the long winters. I remember one particular morning when I woke up to the smell of coffee and the soft sounds of 70s country music playing on the local AM station, KNEU Basin Country. Charlie Rich's song "Hey, Have You Seen the Most Beautiful Girl in the World," was playing gently in the background, and I could hear my father singing along. Even now, I can still hear his voice—sometimes in the kitchen and sometimes behind the wheel of his old pickup, with a cigarette resting between his fingers.
The morning was a mix of sounds and smells: Charlie Rich’s voice, the faint crackle of the radio, the rich aroma of coffee mingled with cigarette smoke. My father smoked one to two packs of cigarettes a day. However, beneath that heavy haze lingered the faint, grounding scent of cedar from my mother’s early morning prayers. This daily ritual filled our home with a sense of spiritual protection, even amidst the chaos.
Firewood cutting day meant all hands were on deck. My mother woke us early, making sure we were out of bed and ready to prepare the equipment: extra chainsaws, gas cans, axes, and hatchets for the smaller branches. We layered up against the cold, but gloves were always hard to find, so we pulled mismatched socks from the laundry room to cover our hands. It was amusing when it was just the two of us, but I recall feeling embarrassed when other people were present. My job that morning was to help pack our lunch: water, a thermos of coffee, leftover tortillas with bacon, and a couple of eggs made into sandwiches. I felt good, laughing with my sister as I finished packing. However, even as I tried to hold on to that warmth of family, of laughter, of feeling capable, there was a part of me bracing for what might come next.
The night before still echoed in my mind: my father’s drunken yelling, my mother’s muffled sobs, my little sister crying, my older sister begging him to stop, and my baby brother wailing in the middle of it all. I had learned from a young age to stay ready. If things escalated, I was the runner, the one who had to bolt through the snow to my grandmother’s house and tell her to call the Tribal Police. I knew where my shoes were by the door, and if I had to, I would jump out the window. My little sister would whisper, “Are you ready?” Moreover, I would always answer, “Yes, I am ready.” That was my real job: staying prepared for anything that might come up. Yes, I am ready, sister.
