Soldier Sister, Fly Home by Nancy Bo Flood

Author:Nancy Bo Flood
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Charlesbridge
Published: 2016-08-23T04:00:00+00:00

chapter thirteen

hoghan, hogan

The hogan sat tucked underneath an alcove on the canyon’s south side. The rocky overhang provided shade during the hottest part of the day. The southern exposure provided warmth during the evenings. Opposite the hogan, across the wide, shallow wash and beyond another fifty yards or so, the north wall of the canyon rose straight up nearly a thousand feet.

Snug and simple, the hogan was beautiful. Grandma’s father had built the eight-sided log structure years ago. Shimá had grown up in this canyon with her parents and seven siblings.

I followed my grandmother to the hogan’s single low door. She paused, and then pushed aside the heavy blankets hung over the opening. Inside the hogan the air was cool and smelled of earth, wood, and smoke from woodstove fires. At first I couldn’t see a thing. After a few moments, I could make out a couple of chairs, a rickety table, and a kerosene cookstove. Blankets wrapped in plastic hung from overhead beams. Wooden shelving went from floor to ceiling on each side. One shelf was stacked with tin plates and cups, pots and pans, iron skillets, and a dented coffeepot—the outside black, a plug of wood stuck in the lid where a knob had once been. Other shelves held assortments of canned goods and storage tins, each clearly labeled—sugar, salt, flour, and coffee. There was a row of plastic gallon jugs marked “Water,” and outside, next to the doorway, red cans for gasoline. There was even a shelf of books. Darn, I wished I’d thought to bring a stack of comics. In the middle of the hogan was a squat iron stove for cooking and heating. Its black metal chimney snaked up to the smoke hole in the center of the roof.

“First we build a fire. We warm up our hoghan and make her happy.” Grandma handed me an empty orange crate. “Fill it only half full. The firewood is behind the outhouse.”

I stepped back outside. Grandma was still talking. But to whom? Me? I turned around. She was chatting in Navajo, and I realized she was talking to the hogan as if it were an old friend.

There were a lot of things I didn’t know about my grandmother. A lot of things I didn’t even know I didn’t know.

I loaded the crate and carried it back. Shimá had opened up two narrow cots.

“Here, take these blankets outside. Throw them over the tree branches to air out while we still have sunlight.” She also handed me a water jug. “We’ll boil up coffee.” Her eyes twinkled. “No espresso, but good strong stuff. Cowboy coffee for real Indians.” She shook her head, laughing to herself. “Fill the jug from the spring upstream from the corrals. The best one is near the foot of the tallest cottonwood.”

The spring was right where Grandma had described. The water was cold and clear. I washed my face, then cupped my hands and drank. I could hear Blue nickering from the corral. He was not happy.

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