The Ancient Places We Call Home.

A sunset across the street - two miles from Punta Rassa.

Last week I caught part of an interview on local TV. A woman was talking about Lake Okeechobee - how she feels the spirits of the place and the lake must be honored and protected.

I admired her courage. Most of the time, we're afraid to talk about these things.

The first place I lived among the spirits was in Algonac, Michigan. My old victorian cottage was on the river, on a great international waterway - the St. Clair River broke into North and South Channels and smaller inlets.

There was native land across from me - and native land beneath. I felt welcome and wanted.

There was an old bar/restaurant 9 houses down from mine - also on the river. I think it was built in the 30s - maybe earlier.

I used to love going there because my grandfather hung out there before I was born. He fished with the natives on Walpole, went duck hunting with friends and probably got peeks at the earliest Chris Crafts that came out of the local factory.  I could imagine him swapping tall tales at that very bar.

Henry's was a wonderful old place that had never been remodeled - only added onto. The walls seemed to speak.

The new owner renamed it, but she left it as it was. One night she told me she thought Henry (long since deceased) was still hanging out. It was nearly midnight and she asked if I wanted to see what she was talking about; I did. Despite the fact that some of her employees were afraid of the place after dark.

She took me back through the kitchen. The stainless of the stoves gleamed, but the floor was uneven with age.

In a dark hallway she opened the door of a big storage closet and asked if I felt anything. I didn't.  She dared me to go inside; I did and she turned off the light. Alone in the darkness with paper towels and tomato paste - I started feeling stupid.

We walked out into the back portion of a dining area - she only opened that when she had big crowds. That hadn't happened in a while. I walked towards the big glass windows closest to the river. There was some natural light from the moon over the river.

Still nothing. She walked back towards an interior wall and said "try this way."

As I approached I could feel electricity tingle up my fingertips, into my fingers, up my arms and shoulders to the top of my scalp - which positively crawled. I received a visual impression of a native warrior, feet towards the river. I received the emotional impression of a warrior priest.  This was a sacred space.

It was like he was still very much alive; he was a potent psychic force. My scalp crawls just describing it.

I told my friend "it's not Henry you're feeling." Then I told her what I saw. 

Later other customers told her the old-timers talked about "hearing horses" and "seeing an Indian."


I started sneaking off to light a candle when I was there on quiet nights.

I told a knowledgeable native man from Walpole's cultural center about the experience and he said I'd had a vision many full blooded natives spent a lifetime in sweat lodges trying to achieve. He asked if I had native blood and I said my family thinks we do.

He said I needed to find out who from, which tribe. He wanted me to abandon Buddhism to explore native spirituality, but I saw no reason why I couldn't do both.  Truth is truth.

That space in the back room of that darkened restaurant was sacred. My home had a connection to the spirits. I expected I would be taken out the day I died.

But it didn't happen that way. I lost my home along with everything else due to Lyme Disease. I remember gathering the last of my things and kissing my doorway goodbye; I cried all the way to my boyfriend's house.

Fast forward five years.

Somehow I wound up in this quirky little area of Florida. This condo fairly leaped out at me from the ads. It's the only one I clicked with, the only one I saw.

Oddly enough, I have that same sense of peace and protection I had in Algonac. I always wondered about that. I am one mile from the Caloosahatchee River, three miles from Bunche Beach and five miles from Fort Myers Beach. Of course these were all native land at one time - but I had no idea to what degree.

The Sanibel Causeway meets the mainland in a place known as Punta Rassa. It's walking distance.
I'm broke, I have something like six watchable channels left. Last night I happened on a local history program and learned how important this area was to the natives and those who came after.

The Calusa Indians used this area as a central location for tribe members who lived on Estero and those who lived up the Caloosahatchee River.

Pirates docked at Punta Rassa. Cubans came in the winter to fish for Mullet for lent. Crackers came with cattle for Cuba; they were paid in Spanish dubloons and celebrated payday ... here.

Union troops - including two colored divisions - set up camp here. There was even a fort, which was totally washed away in the Hurricane of 1840 (?).  Historical fiction author Bob Macomber is an expert on local Civil War history. He says back then the people gathered at Punta Rassa couldn't understand each other. Soldiers included ex-slaves from the south, some from Georgia, white troops from New York - and Crackers.

I don't think they ever had any battles here. An acquaintance lives on the Caloosahatchee on the site of another fort; he said there were little skirmishes, but nothing serious.

Some ancient places have a horrible vibe. I did not do well in Sedona (I believe the new agers are pissing off the spirits) and I could not wait to leave the Coloseum in Rome; you can still feel the violence.

But here ... this land feels good. It was nice to catch the program and know why.  Once again, I live in an area that was home to ancient native peoples.

(I believe it was WGCU Program 122 on Punta Rassa; I'm going to buy it when I get a chance:-)

Boomer Bastards; I Got You Babe

I was a shy kid, sheltered by my mother and grandmother and cut off from the mainstream by my mother’s chosen religion – Jehovah’s Witnesses.

Once in High School some kid told one of my girlfriends I was a bastard; she promptly volunteered to kick his ass. Well, she didn’t say “ass”, she said “butt”. Nobody swore around me, I was pretty darned pious.

In the 60s being a bastard was a HUGE deal. I couldn’t figure out why someone would say something so hurtful. Of course, back then I didn’t KNOW what he’d said was true.

My mom divorced when I was 7 and I never saw my dad again. He was an Italian jazz musician. A good man. I wondered why he stopped seeing me. When I looked him up 18 years later, I found out why.

He was “expresso” - black hair, green eyes and olive skin. His second wife was as blonde and white as my mother – pale as cream. The children of my father’s second family were varying shades of mocha latte. They invited us to dinner and I said it was strange that we didn’t match.

Later that night he called and told my husband the truth. He and my mother married when I was 2 and he had adopted me. I was devastated. My entire life to that point had been a lie. Not knowing who my father was, somehow I didn’t know who I was. I could have picked up the phone and called my mother or grandmother, but they’d gone to so much trouble to hide the truth, I wasn’t willing to burst their bubble. I would continue the charade.

OK, so my dad wasn’t my dad. I became more spiritual, figuring if I didn’t have a father in the flesh, I had the mother of all fathers in spirit.

My life progressed just fine. I was more sensitive to others because who knew what they were going through. Even my career was going well. My company was sending me to Europe and I’d need a passport. I couldn’t wait to tell my mother, I expected her to be proud.

And by the way, I would need a copy of my birth certificate.

She invited me to lunch at a favorite place and I could tell she was worried sick. She said “I have something to tell you.” I said “about what?” She said “about you.” And I said “don’t worry, I already know.”

She was afraid the birth certificate would give her away. It was so painful for her, I only asked a few questions. Who was my father? What did he look like? What nationality? I assumed Jewish because most of my friends were. She said “No! His family would have lit the ovens!” She told me he was a German named Karl (Carl?) Smith. After getting her pregnant, he had married her best friend.

I left it at that and never asked for more. I walked away thinking “OK, at least I know what nationality I am on that side. German.”

I found Karl’s number and talked to him on the phone, but he pretended not to know me. I know he did because his voice shook. To be denied by my real father, to know he never cared to see me, was a crushing emotional blow.

“OK, my biological father never wants to meet me. I’ll get past it.”

And I did.

In the years that followed my mother went into therapy and came out the other side firm in the belief that having a child out of wedlock had wrecked her life. She was glib about it, as if I weren’t involved. This is me waving my hand saying “hey, that’s me you’re blaming. And I was just an embryo.”

This is me wanting to put a bag of flaming poo on her therapist’s doorstep. Except that knowing my mom, that is probably the conclusion she reached after the therapist tried to convince her otherwise.

It didn’t stop there. Her story changed as years advanced. She started saying she was raped. I imagine that’s good cover for anyone with a checkered past. I took it with a grain of salt. I preferred to think of her as a teenager with passions rather than a victim.

Today mom is excited that I’m working on the book on the family tree. She dedicated 20 years of her life to family genealogy and damned if she didn’t hit pay dirt. Since then she has been obsessed with pedigree. D.A.R. and all that.

Yesterday we were talking about some of what I’d learned about William the Conqueror – a.k.a. William the Bastard. She piped up “I’ve started thinking about your father. I wonder if ‘Smith’ is English. You might have another English connection.”

I said “well, you told me he was German.” She said “I don’t know.” I asked her to describe him. She said he was 6’ tall with a rosy complexion - an exciting guy with a nice car. In fact he raced cars. His family lived in a nice area - 6 Mile and Gratiot in Detroit was once fairly elegant.

To my dismay, Mom was in the mood to talk. She said he was going with her best friend Dottie – “a ditzy tramp with big boobs.” I wondered why my mother chose a best friend like that. Don’t birds of a feather ….

Then she said “I got you the night he drove me home from Thanksgiving dinner.” (I got you?) She concluded “and he raped me in the driveway.”

BONK. I don’t remember what she said after that. I was stunned, picturing my Grandmother’s tree lined gravel driveway and the little white house in the distance. I guess it’s an ok place to be conceived. And it was probably a nice car, after all.

OK, I’ll get over this too. I’ll learn to tell people I am English, Finnish and ???

The rape thing? I don't know if I'll get over it. I know saying that makes her feel better, blameless, but it makes me feel guilty for being born.  

I remember my Grandmother getting a little more open as she got older. My mom is about 75 right now. Heaven help me if this is the start of what’s to come. Fortunately, I know from my research on the family tree that – if shaken – at least one history-changing bastard will fall out.

I like to think we boomers will be the last generation to give a shit about this crap. Our kids and their kids will only get some sense for it from old-time movies like “To Each His Own”.

They won’t have to live it.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/To_Each_His_Own_(film)