AUTOBIOGRAPHIES OF THREE POMO WONEN
Recorded and edited by
Elizabeth Colson
Permission to print this manuscript was kindly provided by the Regents
of the University of Wisconsin, copyright holder.
0 1956; Madison, Wisconsin
Archaeological Research Facility
Department of Anthropology
University of California
Berkeley, CA. 94720
1974
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Appreciation is expressed to the University of Wisconsin Press,
publisher and copyright holder of Primary Records in Culture
and Personality to print this work. The Committee on Research,
Berkeley campus, provided the necessary funds to print this work.
CONTENTS
Page
PREFACE by Elizabeth Colson.i
CHAPTER
1.  COLLECTING THE LIFE HISTORIES by Elizabeth Colson .         .I . .   .   I
List of Characters.                                                 10
Place Names .13
Notes .14
II. THE POMO by Elizabeth Colson .15
III. LIFE HISTORY OF SOPHIE MARTINEZ .35
Notes .83
APPENDIX
Autobiography of Sophie Martinez .95
Autobiography of Elaine Martinez .98
Autobiography of Mable Brown .99
Notes .105
IV. LIFE HISTORY OF ELLEN WOOD .109
Notes . . . . . . . . . .                                        183
V. AUTOB IOGRAPHY OF JANE ADAMS.                                        195
Notes .....                              .                       208
APPENDIX
Autobiography of Ellen Wood                                    211
Autobiography of Jane Adams                                    215
VI. ANALYSIS OF THE LIFE HISTORIES by Elizabeth Colson .217
Notes                                                            234
PREFACE
These life-histories of Pomo women were prepared for publication in 1945,
four years after the final collection of data, but the final editing was never
completed. With no subsequent revision, the life-histories appeared in Volume
I, Primary Records in Culture and Personality, 1956, as a Microcard Publication.
Robert Heizer, Professor of Anthropology and Director of the Archaeological
Research Facility, University of California, Berkeley, found a reference to the
Microcard publication in his assiduous search for materials relating to the
history of Native Americans of California. He asked to see the original manu-
script. At his urging,I agreed to its appearance in the present format to make
it more available to those interested in the history of California and the
experiences of its people. Nothing has been updated. Even the bibliography
includes nothing which has appeared since 1945. If I were writing up the life
histories today, this would be a very different piece of work in many respects,
but I no longer have the detailed knowledge of Pomo experience required for any
drastic revision. Therefore I have done only minimal editing in the intro-
ductory and concluding chapters and in the notes to eliminate redundancies and
awkward phrasing. The brief initial autobiographies given by the women have
been shifted from one appendix so that each statement now appears at the end
of the speaker's own life history.
Karen Nissen has very kindly supplied me with an annotated bibliography
of autobiographical statements by other Native Americans of California which
appears at the end of this preface.
Acknowledgements for assistance in obtaining the data and preparing the
original manuscript appear in Chapter I.   I no longer have any of the field
notes used in preparing the accounts or any material that would permit me to
go back and identify persons named in the life histories. I can only again
thank the women who worked with me and provided the life-histories and Bernard
and Ethel Aginsky who originally suggested the project to me and directed the
field work over the summers of 1939, 1940, and 1941.
That the autobiographies finally appear in an easily accessible format
is owing to a number of institutions and people. The University of Wisconsin
Press, the current publisher of Primary Records in Culture and Personality,
in which the life histories originally appeared, in Vol. 1, No. 16, gave per-
mission for me to have the work printed. The Primary Records edition is
copyrighted by the Regents of the University of Wisconsin. Dr. Burton Benedict,
Dean of the Social Sciences, University of California, Berkeley encouraged
publication. The Research Committee, University of California, Berkeley, pro-
vided a grant to finance publication of the work through the Archaeological
Research Facility.  Priscilla Stross typed a portion of the manuscript and
i
proofread the whole ot it. Beverly Heinrichs completed the typing. Finally,
I must express my gratitude to Dr. Robert Heizer for his interest in the work
and his efforts to see to it that the Pomo women be permitted to speak to a
wider public than that which may have been able to examine the microcard edi-
tion in Primary Records in Culture and Personality.
Native Californians' Autobiographies
Assembled by Karen M. Nissen
Allen, Elsie
1972     The Life of Elsie Allen, Pomo Basketmaker.    In V. Brown (ed.),
Pomo Basketmaking: a supreme art for the weaver. Naturegraph
Publishers. Healdsburg, Calif. (pp. 7-15. The story of the life
of Elsie Allen, a Pomo woman born near Santa Rosa on Sept. 22, 1899.
It includes a description of the life in the Indian schools at the
turn of the century. The account is written in autobiographical
style, but the back cover states: "In this book Elsie Allen's
unusual life is told to us by her granddaughter..."t)
Asisaro, Lorenzo
1892     Personal Narrative of a Former Neophyte Born at Santa Cruz Mission
in 1819. In E. S. Harrison, History of Santa Cruz County, California.
Pacific Press Publishing Co. San Francisco. (pp. 45-48. Lorenzo
Asisaro was born Aug. 10, 1819 at Mission Santa Cruz. This is an
account of life in the missions of the Santa Cruz area between 1819
and the American takeover in 1846.)
Cesar, Julio
1878     Facts concerning California Indians, told to Thomas Savage at Tres
Pinos, San Benito Co., by Julio Cesar, native Indian of San Luis
Rey for the Bancroft Library. Recorded May 28, 1878. Trans. by
F. Mulheron, 1919. (Julio Cesar was born c. 1824 and he entered
the mission in 1840 and remained in it until 1846 when the Americans
seized control. The account also includes a section on life in
the gold fields in 1849.)
Cuero, Delfina
1970     The Autobiography of Delfina Cuero.    Told to Florence Shipek.
Malki Museum Press. Morongo Indian Reservation. Reprinted;
originally printed in 1968 by G. Dahlstrom at Castle Press, Pasa-
dena, Calif. as vol. 12 of the Baja California Travel Series.
(This is the story of Delfina Cuero, a Southern Diegueno woman
born c. 1900 at the village of Jamacha, California; this life
ii
history was recorded in the early 1960's when Delfina was living
in Baja California at the village of Jamul. This story records
the problems of acculturation encountered by the Southern Dieguenos;
after leaving the Mission at San Diego they at first tried to
continue to live in the San Diego area. Finally population
pressures forced them into the deserts to the east and eventually
into northern Baja where they could continue their modified hunter/
gatherer existence.)
Dominguez, Chona
1970     Bygone Days.   In H. Seiler, Cahuilla Texts.   Language Science
Monographs 6:148-152. Indiana University. (Recorded July, 1955.
A partial life history of Chona Dominguez, a Desert Cahuilla of
the palpuniviktem clan, born 1850 near Thermal, Calif.    She died
in 1962.)
Filomena, Isidora ("Princess Solano")
1930     My Years with Chief Solano.   Touring Topics
original in Bancroft Library. Trans. by N.
from the Spanish. The account was recorded
(It is the story of Isidora Filomena, widow
ally of Vallejo. She was born c. 1784.)
Jones, Jeff
1951
Newland, San
1934
Pahmit
1949
22:39,52.  From the
Von de Grif t Sanchez
in 1874 for Bancroft.
of Captain Solano, an
Autobiography of Jeff Jones.   In W. Goldschmidt, Nomlaki Ethno-
graphy. University of California Publicati3ns in American
Archaeology and Ethnology 42 (4):433-434. (Jeff Jones was born
near Paskenta in 1865; this account was recorded in 1936.)
Two Paiute Autobiographies. University of California Publications
in American Archaeology and Ethnology 33 (5). Berkeley. (Verbatim
autobiographical record made by J. H. Steward. Sam Newland was an
Owens Valley Paiute born at pitanapatu, now Bishop, formerly the
largest village in Owens Valley, c. 1840. This story of his life
was recorded in the period 1927/28.)
Personal Narrative. In F. F. Latta, Handbook of Yokut Indians.
Kern County Museum. Bakersfield, Calif. (pp. 217-223. Pahmit
was born c. 1830, and this autobiography was recorded in 1928.
was born of Dumna Yokuts parents at the village of Kuyu Illik; t
life story includes an account of the Yokuts tnder the control
of Major Savage and a narrative on Indian/miner relations.)
He
this
iii
Palma, Salvador (Olleyquotequiebe)
1967     Letter addressed to Bucareli dictated to and written by J. Bau-
tista de Anza, Nov. 11, 1776.   In J. N. Bowman and R. F. Heizer,
Anza and the Northwest Frontier of New Spain. Southwest Museum.
Los Angeles. Reprinted from H. E. Bolton, Anza's California
Expeditions, vol. V, 1930. University of California Press.
Berkeley. (pp. 148-155. This is the earliest sketch we have by
a native Californian of his people. This is a record of the Yuma
at the time of 1774-76 when Palma was the Yuma Captain (Cofot).
It is not really an autobiography in the strictest sense, but is
an account by Palma of the Yumas requesting that the king establish
missions in Yuma territory. It is included because it is the
earliest sketch we have of California Indian life by a native
Californian; the letter is obviously not a direct translation of
Palma's statement, but it does include a good record of Yuma
culture at this time.)
Sregon, Jim (Sra'-mau)
1945     Sregon Jim's Reminiscence.   In A. L. Kroeber, A Yurok War Remini-
scence: the use of autobiographical evidence. Southwestern Jour-
nal of Anthropology 1(3):318-332. (A partial life history of Sregon
Jim, born c. 1830-1840; the account mainly deals with his recol-
lections of feuds with other villages.)
Stewart, Jack
1934     Two Paiute Autobiographies.   University of California Publications
in American Archaeology and Ethnology 33(5). Berkeley. (Verbatim
autobiographical record made by J. H. Steward. Jack Stewart was
an Owens Valley Paiute born c. 1840 at the village of tovowahamatu,
now Big Pine. The autobiography was recorded in the period 1927/28.)
Winnemucca, Sarah
1882     The Pah-Utes.   The Californian 6(33):252-256.  Reprinted as "An
Ethnographic Sketch of the Paviotso in 1882" by R. F. Heizer,
1970, University of California Archaeological Research Facility
Publications 7:55-63.
Winnemucca, Sarah (Hopkins)
1883     Life Among the Piutes:   Their Wrongs and Claims.   Boston.  (These
two works deal with the life of Sarah Winnemucca, daughter of the
"chief" of the Northern Paiutes   Winnemucca.  Although Sarah
Winnemucca was a Nevada Northern Paiute, she was involved in the
pan-Indian movement at an early date and often lectured and visited
in California.)
iv
Yoimut
1949
Young, Lucy
1941
Yoimut's Story, The last Chunut. In F. F. Latta, Handbook of the
yokut Indians. Kern County Museum. Bakersfield, Calif. (pp. 223-
276. One of the most thorough records in existence in terms of
autobiographical material on native California lifeways. This is
the story of the last Chunut, Yoimut, a woman born at the village
of Watot Shulul near Visalia in 1854. She died in Hanford in 1933.)
Out of the Past: A True Indian Story. Told to E. V. A. Murphey.
California Historical Society Quarterly 22(4):349-364. (Lucy
Young was a Wailaki from the Alderpoint area; she was born c. 1848,
and this record was made in 1939 at the Round Valley Reservation,
Mendocino County. Although most of this account deals with the
period 1862-63 during which time the military made a number of
attempts to resettle the Indians at Fort Baker, Hoopa, and Fort
Seward, there are also sections relating to early details of her
life as well as an account of Indian slavery.)
v
CHAPTER I
COLLECTING THE LIFE HISTORIES
This paper is the presentation and analysis of the life histories of
three Pomo women:  Sophie Martinez, Ellen Wood, and Jane Adams.    While all
three life histories are fragmentary and unsatisfactory from many points of
view, they seem worthy of presentation as additions to the growing number
of personal documents from representatives of a non-european culture. In
our present state of knowledge regarding the impact of personality and
culture upon each other, material that fails to satisfy ideal standards may
still be useful.  Lengthy personal accounts from women are all too few, and
it is rare indeed to find three accounts from women who are of the same culture
and of approximately the same age. These three life histories combined to a
great degree do give insight into the life of Pomo women of a particular gen-
eration.  Moreover, they serve as a useful supplement to the more generalized
ethnographies on Pomo culture. While probably few new culture "traits" emerge
from the accounts, nevertheless the meaning of the culture for the individual
is pointed up in a manner impossible to the general ethnography. Moreover the
life histories enable the student of Pomo culture to "weight" the ethnographies
to some extent, as they provide a perspective for evaluating the relative im-
portance of the different traits and patterns. A final contribution that the
life histories may make lies in the field of acculturaticn studies. All
three women have lived in a world shattered by the impact of white settlement
and have shared a compromise culture which lies between that of their Pomo
ancestors and that of their white neighbors.
The three women were born within a decade of each other.    In 1941, Mrs.
Martinez was approximately sixty seven; Mrs. Wood, fifty nine; and Mrs. Adams,
slightly over sixty. They therefore represent approximately the same
generation. All had been reared exclusively by Pomo relatives, though
Mrs. Wood and Mrs. Adams had one white grandparent each. The dominant
influences in their lives have therefore been Bomo,though the Pomo culture
which they have known has been strongly affected by contacts with whites.
None of them had extensive schooling. Mrs. Martinez probably attended
school a few times, but never for more than a few days; Mrs. Wood attended
a day school intermittently for a period of about three years when she
was approximately nine to twelve years old; Mrs. Adams denied ever having
had any contact with a school. All speak Pomo habitually and think in
this language.
There might be some objection to the statement that the women are
representatives of one culture, since each woman comes originally from a
different Pomo group. Mrs. Martinez belonged to a Tanner Valley group;
Mrs. Wood to the Manzanita band; and Mrs. Adams to the Lucerne group. (L)
Each of these groups spoke a different Pomo dialect. However, language
aside, these Pomo groups varied principally with regard to small details of
2
culture, while the genVral patternings were similar.   Such major differences
as did exist, in ritual and social organization, had disappeared before
these women were born. The present-day culture of the Pomo settlements where
they live is very similar. Mrs. Martinez and Mrs. Wood have lived a large
portion of their lives in Oak Valley, where the Pomo of all groups come in
continuous contact with each other and where they have been treated as
strictly comparable by the whites. Mrs. Adams has lived most of her adult
life in the Vineland Valley, a few miles to the south. It is probably then
that this original difference in background is of not enough significance
to make it invalid to treat the three life histories together.
Similarities in the accounts due to a common family background can be
ruled out. None of the women are related so far as they knew or we could dis-
cover, nor have they married into the same family groups. Such generalities
then as do emerge from a study of the three lives are due rather to the
general similarity of Pomo life than to the influence of a particular family
group.
Plan of Presentation: For the benefit of the reader, I am including addi-
tional material which either bears directly on the life histories and their
interpretation or gives a necessary background in Pomo culture, both past
and present, without which the life histories lose much of their point.
The rest of the Introduction will be devoted to a description of how
the life histories were obtained and recorded, and the method used in organ-
izing the data for presentation. The second chapter will contain a condens-
ed sketch of Pomo culture, a brief history of Pomo contacts with whites, and
a sketch of present-day Pomo life. The following three chapters will each
contain one life history, presented in the following order: Sophie Martinez,
Ellen Wood, and Jane Adams. The final section will contain the analysis of
the three accounts. In an appendix after each life history will be found the
verbatim record of the brief autobiography which each woman gave when she was
first asked to relate the story of her life. These have also been incorporated
into the life histories, but since for some purposes it is essential to know
just what was regarded as important by the narrator, or at least what she was
willing to tell of her life given the time and circumstances, the verbatim
record is also included. Also included in the appendix to the chapter on
Mrs. Martinez are two very brief autobiographies given by her mother and
granddaughter given in 1939.
Gathering of the Material: The life histories were gathered during the
summers of 1939, 1940, and 1941, when I was a member of the Social Science
Field Laboratory under the direction of B. W. and E. G. Aginsky. The pro-
gram of the Field Laboratory was twofold: the training of students in
social research and the long-term study of an area in which several groups
3
of Pomo Indians were living.   As part of the training in research methods, each
student was asked to obtain a brief life history of some Pomo. While working
on this assignment in 1939, I became interested in the problems posed by work
with life histories, and the two subsequent seasons were spent largely in
gathering life history material.
The subjects for life histories were chosen more or less by pure chance
rather than through a careful survey of the possibilities among the Pomo
women of the neighborhood. The first life history of any length was obtained
from Sophie Martinez. I had worked extensively with her mother, Mable Brown,
in the summer of 1939 and toward the close of the season attempted to record
her life history. This was a very brief and most incoherent account. (2)
Through these interviews, however, I came in contact with Mrs. Martinez who
came frequently to her mother's house and sat quietly listening to my struggles
to obtain information from the older woman. I do not believe that I had ever
had any extended conversation with Mrs. Martinez before the work on her life
history was begun. The suggestion that she give the account came not from me
but from her  eleven year old granddaughter, Elaine Martinez, who probably
wished to deflect the money being paid to Mrs. Brown into her own family poc-
ket-book. I agreed, and the child persuaded her grandmother, who at first
seemed reluctant--protesting that she could remember nothing. However, once
started on the project, she seemed interested in it and was willing to con-
tinue the work. The summer of 1940 was spent largely in filling out her ac-
count, and in 1941 she was also interviewed a few times.    By this time, however,
she seemed to have lost interest in further work. She complained that her me-
mory was too bad for her to remember anything else, and she was in general
unwilling to give information.
My original field plans for 1941 called for an enlarging of the work on
this one life history to include material on Mrs. Martinez's mother, daughter,
and grandaughter in order to have a study covering four generations. When this
proved impossible, it was decided that an alternative program be attempted
and that other Pomo women of approximately the same age as Mrs. Martinez be
interviewed on their life histories in an attempt to discover which situations
appearing in the one life were general to Pomo women and which were unique to
this one life. Ellen Wood apparently sought the position of check informant.
She appeared during an interview held at Mrs. Martinez's house, proceeded
to monopolize the conversation, and indicated her willingness--indeed eager-
ness--to act as an informant by declaring herself well-versed in the old
Pomo customs and speaking freely on various topics to prove her assertion.
Her overtures were followed up with several visits to her home, and arrange-
ments were made for some of the new students in the Field Laboratory to work
with her on different problems which they were investigating. She proved co
be a willing and a good informant. When I held a few interviews with her on
more general subjects, she quickly turned these into discussions of the events
of her own life. Work on a formal life history was then begun. All interviews
with her took place during the summer of 1941.
4
Mrs. Adams' life history was first begun by Juliette Lombard, another
member of the Laboratory, in 1940. This was a brief account which Miss
Lombard later turned over to me. Miss Lombard had worked with Mrs. Adams
previously, as had other members of the Field Laboratory. My contacts with
her were purely informal until the end of the summer of 1941 when B. W. Aginsky,
the Director of the Field Laboratory, asked me to do additional work on her
life history as he felt that a woman of Mrs. Adams' type should be included
in the study.
The method used in collecting data from each woman varied slightly.
In our first interview, Mrs. Martinez was asked to give the story of her
life. She was not told what she should talk about but the suggestion was
made that she should start when she could first remember and tell as much
as she could remember about her life. This account was not interrrupted by
the recorder, save for two questions to establish the identity of persons
mentioned within it.   When she was finished, she was asked to enlarge upon
certain points which she had not covered. In some of the later interviews,
in 1940 and 1941, it was suggested that she tell about anything that had
happened in her life that she wished to relate. In others, she was question-
ed concerning specific matters.   The method used with her, and with the other
two women in general, was to allow her to speak spontaneously. When she paused
and indicated that she was finished, further questions were asked.    Common
questions dealt with the identification of persons mentioned in the account
since these were rarely named or indeed identified further than "that man"
or " that woman", for the Pomo avoid the names of both living and dead. Other
common questions were: "How did you feel about this?" "What did you say?"
"What did you do?" "Why was that?" An attempt was also made to obtain
material in chronological order by asking, "What happened next?" Usually
this question was unsuccessful, for almost inevitably the answer was either,
"Nothing", or "I don't remember." Some events were placed in their relation-
ships in time by asking, "Did this happen before" and naming some event pre-
viously mentioned. This proved relatively successful in relating events in
her adult life, but the chronology of her childhood rests insecurely on
tenuous evidence.
The later interviews with Mrs. Wood were treated in the same fashion as
those with Mrs. Martinez, but in the early interviews I experimented with a
different technique. Instead of beginning work with the request that she
tell her life story, I mentioned the names of children who were about five,
ten, and fifteen, and asked Mrs. Wood: "What did children about that age do
when you were young?" "What did they play?" "What did their parents tell
them about?" "What did they learn?" "Who in the family would they go to if
they were unhappy?" After some four or five interviews which were conducted
in this fashion, Mrs. Wood was asked to tell her life history.    When she was
finished, further questioning was done in an attempt to place events in their
5
chronological sequence and also to cover topics that would make the account
more readily comparable with that given by Mrs. Martinez.    Since, as was
hoped, Mrs. Wood responded to the questions of the early interviews in terms
of her own personal experience, this material is included in the life history.
To a certain extent, the material given in the earlier interviews seems to
have been freer than that given after she was asked directly to relate her
life story. Probably the generalized "What do people do?" protected her from
the realization that there was an interest in her life as such, and enabled
her to dissociate herself more from the account. On the other hand, it may
be that in the later interviews the novelty of acting as an informant had
begun to wear off and the difference is due to boredom rather than to a change
in technique. In any event, regardless of the type of interview, Mrs. Wood
responded more freely and less guardedly than did either of the other two
women--or for that matter more than any other Pomo woman with whom I have
worked.
Since the spontaneous, unquestioned, life history had already been ob-
tained from Mrs. Adams by another member of the Field Laboratory, no attempt
was made to begin a life history with her. I had only one long interview
with Mrs. Adams--I had planned to spend several days more with her but un-
forseen events made this impossible. I began by using the same method used
in the first interviews with Mrs. Wood. This proved unsatisfactory. Mrs.
Adams asked that specific questions be put to her. She was therefore asked
questions based on experience with the other two life histories in an attempt
to supplement her brief account of the previous summer to make this more
comparable with the others. At the end of the interview, she apologized for
her lack of response and said that all afternoon she had been suffering from
a severe migraine headache. The result is that her account is very brief
and generally unsatisfactory. It is presented here only as a supplement and
cross check against the other two life stories.
The settings of the three series of interviews are somewhat comparable.
Mrs. Adams was interviewed at the home of her daughter on the Chiptown Ran-
cheria where she was living at the time. Mrs. Martinez and Mrs. Wood were
interviewed both at their homes on the Brushville Rancheria and at the
residence of the Field Laboratory in the town of Oak City. The 1939 interviews
with Mrs. Martine took place while she was picking hops on a ranch in Oak
Valley. The content of the interviews does not seem to have been affected
by the setting--the women spoke as freely in one place as in another. The
exception to this is found in the 1939 interviews with Mrs. Martinez. In
these, emotions seem to have been expressed more freely than they were in
the later interviews and there are also descriptions which were denied in
1940 and 1941. It is possible that the mechanical stripping of the hop
blossoms from the vines which preoccupied her hands and a part of her atten-
tion left her less guarded in her thoughts and speech--while at the same
time the hop picking situation which she likes and regards rather as a
6
holiday season had reduced her customary anxieties to a point where she could
express herself with less effort. It may be, however, that it was the novelty
of the situation and the comforting thought that she was speaking to someone
she had never seen a few weeks before and whom she would never see again which
induced her relatively free response. In the following years, acting as an
informant on her own life became an old story, and it may have seemed to her
that the recorder's return was as inevitable as the reappearance of summer.
All interviews were as private as arrangements could be made. Mrs. Adams
was interviewed only in the presence of her daughter, Edith Child. I cannot
judge the affect of her presence on Mrs. Adams' response, but I strongly sus-
pect that Mrs. Adams would say exactly what she wished to say and no more and
no less no matter who was around. Mrs. Wood did not seem particularly affected
by the proximity of other people. When she was interviewed at her home, she
was usually surrounded by her small grandchildren, all of whom were less than
six years old.  Her sons, her daughter, her husband, and her daughter-in-law
were apt to be in the offing though they never made any attempt to listen to
the interviews as far as I could see. But their appearance nearby did not
seem to disturb her, or to change the nature of her account. On one occasion,
when she had begun to speak of her troublesome early years with Walter Wood,
Wood himself came to bring cushions for our chairs. Mrs. Wood disregarded
both his presence and the interruption, and continued her account with
complete placidity.  This was in complete contrast to the behavior of Mrs.
Martinez. The latter would suddenly switch to a description of basket types
or of food before I had realized that anyone was approaching. This reticence
was true even before members of her family, though on some occasions she
did not object to the presence of her young granddaughter. During the first
two summers, the presence of even this child affected content strongly. In
1941, she apparently spoke freely before the child and on one occasion asked
her to act as an interpreter.
This was the only interview at which an interpreter was used with any of
the three women, so that the disturbing presence of a third person was not
necessary. All three women spoke English well enough so that this was possible.
Mrs. Martinez was the least fluent, and if she had been willing to speak before
another person, an interpreter would have been an asset; for undoubtedly her
account suffers from her inadequate English vocabulary. Moreover, speaking
in English was probably an effort for her. Mrs. Wood and Mrs. Adams spoke
fairly fluent though ungrammatical English and controlled a sufficiently large
vocabulary so that they had no trouble in expressing themselves adequately.
In their cases, nothing would have been gained through the use of an inter-
preter.
'rhe accounts were recorded as the women spoke.  The recording was done
in shorthand, and the women were allowed to speak at their natural rates.
They seemed to have no objection to having what they told written down as
7
they spoke, and since the role of informant cannot be exactly strange to
any Pomo, it probably did not disturb them to be faced with a notebook and flying
pencil. It may indeed have eased the situation since they knew that the re-
corder's attention was partially diverted from them to the mechanics of
writing. When note taking did seem to be a barrier, or when the informant in-
dicated that a touchy spot had been hit, the notebook was usually closed and
a casual conversation carried on for some moments. At such intervals, Mrs.
Martinez was offered a cigarette, and while we smoked we wandered on to other
subjects.  The other two women did not smoke, and this method of relieving
tension could not be used, but a rest period could be declared. Then the inter-
view was resumed, and a few hasty notes made on the interim conversation
which was later recorded as nearly verbatim as possible.
What motivated the women to give the accounts is rather difficult to
say. Probably each one would say that she had done so because she wanted to
earn some money. They, like other informant, were paid twenty-five cents an
hour for interviews. Almost every informant at some point argued that this
was insufficient, that they had heard that we were paying some one else far more,
or that they had been advided by other Pomo not to work unless they were paid
more. Mrs. Martinez and Mrs. Adams were no exceptions, and Mrs. Martinez
mentioned the subject every few interviews. Each time the women accepted the
explanation that we paid everyone the same money and that while we would like
to pay more we could not afford to do so. Neither woman was as vehement in her
protests nor as persistent in them as were many of the other Pomo. As for
Mrs. Wood, I can find no record of her having ever discussed the matter.
Despite this interest in the financial aspect, informants' fees could
hardly have been the deciding factor. Mrs. Martinez probably received no
more than fifteen or sixteen dollars for the whole three summers that she
acted as informant--in the case of the other two women, the return was much
less. They received some slight additional compensation through occasional
gifts of food and candy. They were occasionally given transportation from
their homes to Oak City, and all three were invited to d4.ne at the Labora-
tory headquarters. Mrs. Martinez also received Christmas gifts and gifts
when I returned each year. Mrs. Martinez and members of her family sold
baskets and shell beads to members of the Laboratory. Mrs. Adams and her
daughter hoped to use the Laboratory as a channel for disposing of their
baskets at a higher price than they could receive from local people.
But this probably accounts for only a part of their motivation. By the
third summer, the Laboratory was a part of the life of the Pomo of Oak Valley.
Acting as informants for Laboratory members was regarded as a common activity.
The Pomo had known the directors of the Laboratory for a number of years
before the Laboratory itself was established, and this gave Laboratory members
a quick entree into Pomo life. Students were common visitors on the rancherias,
and many Pomo began to visit the Laboratory headquarters on friendly visits.
8
Rapport had been established to a point where the very fact of being a
member of the Laboratory was regarded by many Pomo as a sufficient reason for
confidence. The position of the Laboratory was also strengthened by the role
it assumed as intermediary and sponsor of the Pomo in the white world--
though it was not the only agency functioning in this manner. Oak City and
Oak Valley in general--as well as other parts of California inhabited by Pomo--
was anti-Indian to the extent of raising social and economic barriers against
the participation of Indians in the life of the community. The Pomo were keenly
aware of this and resented the fact that Indians were allowed to sit only in
the balcony of the local theater, that they were served in only one restau-
rant in the city, that Indian women were not accepted as customers by the
local beauty parlors, that Indians were not accepted as patients in the local
hospital, and that many whites refused to greet them on the streets. For the
first time, many of the Pomo found themselves treated as equals by whites who
extended to them their hospitality and in turn welcomed--even courted--that of
Indians, who introduced them as friends to local whites who had never before
spoken to an Indian. The Laboratory and its members therefore had a value to
the Pomo over and above the sheer financial matters involved.
This undoubtedly acted as a powerful motivating force, and the Pomo
seemed in many cases eager to have the attention of the Laboratory directed
toward them. I believe that this was the most important factor with Ellen
Wood, who herself made overtures rather than waiting to be approached as did
most Pomo. It probably was of major importance with Jane Adams. There is
reason to believe that it also had some influence upon Mrs. Martinez, for
members of the Laboratory who met Mrs. Martinez in Oak City after I began
work with Mrs. Wood gained the impression that she was hoping to be brought
to the Laboratory headquarters for interviews.
Another possible influence upon Mrs. Martinez and Mrs. Wood was the
opportunity to talk about themselves to someone who was fairly neutral and
who made no attempt to judge them. The only response of the recorder was
in the form of a question, or at the most of a sympathetic murmur if this
seemed required.   With Mrs. Adams, this did not enter since the inter-
viewing was not continued over a long enough period to work out of the
preliminary questions.
Probably all three factors entered into the picture with Mrs. Martinez
and Mrs. Wood, the first two with Mrs. Adams. Sometimes they found a certain
release and pleasure in relating incidents from their lives and would talk
for long periods without pause. At other times, bored with filling in details
which they felt to be of no importance or irritated with the whole project,
they continued because of the money paid to them or because they feared to
endanger their relationships with the Laboratory.   Mrs. Martinez may have
continued partially through friendship with the recorder since our relation-
ships continued over three summers. Personal relationships probably did not
9
enter the picture with the other two women.
Organization of the data: The information on each woman includes the life
history interviews, some material from other interviews in which they served
as informants on specific subjects, and observations on their behavior. There
is also some material regarding the women given by other informants. This
supplementary material is richest for Mrs. Martinez; very scant for the other
two women. All the material is to be found in the files of the Social Science
Field Laboratory. It will be found there typed in the form in which it was
first received.
In presenting the data, I have attempted to arrange them in chronologi-
cal order, which has meant in general the sacrifice of the sequence of thought
of the informant. The accounts given in the interviews have been cut and
chopped to fit into the procrustian bed of chronological sequence. Also where
several accounts of the same event are available, these have been combined
and worked into one running description. Where the accounts differed, however,
the deviations have been pointed out in a footnote. Moreover, since condensing
many accounts into one leaves the reader with no indication as to the common
motives or particular interests of the informant, the recurrence of themes
or an eagerness to repeat a given event will be indicated in a footnote or
dealt with in the final analysis.
While rearranging the materials has meant that in some cases the direct-
ing questions given by the recorder have had to be omitted because with the
new form they became irrelevant, wherever possible questions are indicated.
Where the answers indicate the nature of the questions, questions are indicated
only by the letter _ placed within brackets. Where the questions cannot be
inferred, they are given with brackets.
The documents have also been edited with respect to English. An attempt
has been made to make the English more grammatical and at the same time to
preserve some of the turns of speech which give the flavor of the original.
Connectives have been placed where no connectives once existed; identities
have been made a little more secure by such devices as substituting the ap-
propriate genders of pronouns; and occasionally whole sentences have been
inverted and knocked into a more "English" shape. On the other hand, the
vocabulary (with the exceptions of plurals and tenses) is that of the women
themselves. No words have been inserted, nor have words been changed. The
greatest amount of editing has been done on the account of Mrs. Martinez.
That of Mrs. Wood and that of Mrs. Adams stand substantially in the language
in which they were given.
I am fully aware of the disadvantages involved in thus extensively editing
life history materials, especially in the drastic revisions necessary to humor
the historical bias of our own culture.   However, to have retained the raw
10
data nearer to their original form would have increased the length of the
manuscript fivefold, and would have proved an insurmountable barrier to any
save the most hardened and enthusiastic pursuer of the personal document.
I have therefore attempted to compromise somewhere halfway between the
popularized life history and the truly scientific document.
LIST OF CHARACTERS
Below the characters who appear in the three life histories are listed
alphabetically. The individuals who appear in the life history of Jane
Adams do not appear in either of the other two life histories. Between the
accounts of Ellen Wood and Sophie Martinez there is some overlapping. Those
individuals who appear in both will be marked with an asterisk.
Adams --second husband of Jane Adams
Adams, Francisco --son of Jane Adams
Adams, Jane --the subject of the third life history
Adams, Vance --step-son of Jane Adams
Bailey, Jack -- a white rancher
Bailey, Jim -- a white rancher, brother of Jack
Bailey, Mark -- a "joking relative" of Ellen Wood, the husband of her cousin
May Green
Bailey, Rosemary -- daughter of Mark Bailey and May Green
Bear, Ed -- a "poison man", distant relative of Ellen Wood
*Blodgett. Reverend -- a white missionary
Brinton, George -- a Tripton County Pomo mentioned by Ellen Wood
*Brown, Mable -- mother of Sophie Martinez
*Brown, Tim -- step-father of Sophie Martinez
*Burns, Herb -- an Indian doctor
Captain Don Roberts -- a headman at Manzanita Rancheria when Ellen Wood
was young
Captain Peter -- a headman at Chiptown Rancheria, related to Sophie Marti-
nez
Captain Roberto -- a headman at Manzanita Rancheria and uncle to Ellen Wood
Captain Sam -- a headman at Chiptown; also the name of a headman at Manza-
nita
Cary, Dan -- an Indian doctor known to Ellen Wood
Carson, Nick -- chief Maru dreamer at Manzanita when Ellen Wood was a child
Child, Edith -- daughter of Jane Adams
*Clinton, Bess -- a dream doctor of Brushville
Clinton, Fred -- a Pomo mentioned by Sophie Martinez
Clinton, Paul. -- husband of Bess Clinton and suspected as a poisoner by
ElIcn Wood
Colt, Will -- a husband of Ellen Wood's mother
Crosby, Harry -- a white rancher
Danat, Bert -- first husband of Jane Adams
11
Davis, Jerry -- an enemy of Ellen Wood
Davis, Sarah -- an enemy of Ellen Wood
Day, Florence -- the step-daughter-in-law of Jane Adams
Day, Rita -- wife of Stan Day of Manzanita, mentioned by Ellen Wood
Day, Stan -- a Manzanita lover of Ellen Wood
Dean -- a white  rancher
Doyle -- a white rancher
Eastbrook, Dr. -- a doctor of Oak City
Evans, Alfred    brother of Ellen Wood
Evans, Mable -- half-sister of Ellen Wood
Evans, Palmer -- half-brother of Ellen Wood
French, Nat - - a white rancher of Tripton County
Garcia -- Mexican god-father of Ellen Wood
Gordon, Mrs. -- a white friend of Ellen Wood
Gray, Grant -- an old man at Manzanita mentioned by Ellen Wood
Gray, Mat -- a Manzanita man shot by Ellen Wood's nephew
Gray, Sonia -- half-sister of Mat Gray and an enemy of Ellen Wood
Green, Deborah -- daughter of Ellen Wood's cousin
Green, May -- cousin and childhood friend of Ellen Wood
Guest, David -- sol of Ellen Wood and John Guest
Guest, James --son of Ellen Wood and John Guest
Guest, John -- first husband of Ellen Wood, a Tripton County man
Guest, Margery -- granddaughter of Ellen Wood
Guest, Rena -- wife of David Guest and daughter-in-law of Ellen Wood
Harris, Lily -- a Manzanita woman who once lived with Ellen Wood's husband
*Harris, Tillie -- a Brushville woman, friendly to Sophie Martinez and at
odds with Ellen Wood
Harris, Wilmer -- a white rancher
Harvey, Nancy -- the aunt who reared Ellen Wood
Henry, Luke -- a white rancher
Henry, Matthew -- a white rancher
Hewitt, Frank -- the husband of Ellen Wood's close friend
Hill, Bob -- step-brother of Sophie Martinez
Hill, Charlie -- uncle of Sophie Martinez and maru dreamer at Chiptown
Hill, Tom -- father of Sophie Martinez
Jackson, Al -- a white rancher
Joe -- an old relative of Ellen Wood's
John, Leroy -- son of May Green, mentioned by Ellen Wood
Jones, William -- step-father of Ellen Wood
Jose, Ferdinand -- a Vineland man mentioned by Ellen Wood
Jose, Hank -- father of Ferdinand Jose also mentioned by Ellen Wood
*Kenny, Jay -- an Indian doctor living in Wilderness Valley
Kenny, Kate -- a friend of Ellen Wood
Lang, Jim -- a brother-in-law of Sophie Martinez
Lawson, Henry -- a white rancher
Lesser, Dr. -- a doctor of Oak City
12
Littleton, Fred -- a white rancher
Littleton, James -- a white rancher, borther of Fred
McCreanor, Jim -- a white rancher in Tanner valley
*Martinez, Bernice -- daughter of Sophie Martinez
*Martinez, Elaine -- daughter of Bernice, granddaughter of Sophie Martinez
*Martinez. Sophie -- subject of the first life history
*Martinez, Stephen -- fourth husband of Sophie Martinez
Mason, Harriet -- sister-in-law of Sophie Martinez
*Mead, Alec -- an Indian doctor living at Chiptown
*Mexican, Bonny -- wife of Tomas Mexican of Manzanita
*Mexican, Tomas -- a Manzanita relative of Ellen Wood
Moon, Sam -- an Indian doctor who treated Ellen Wood
*Mountain, Joe -- an Indian doctor from Tripton County
Orman, Dr. -- a doctor from Oak City
Perez, Ramon -- father of Jane Adams
Peterson, Chester -- a Manzanita man related to Ellen Wood
Post -- a white rancher
*Post, Ruth -- a sucking doctor living at Brushville
Renton, Ken -- a relative of Jane Adams
Renton, Robert -- a relative of Jane Adams
Renton, Victoria -- mother of Jane Adams
Richards, Dr. -- a white doctor of Oak City
Roberto, Laura-- wife of Captain Roberto who helped to rear Ellen Wood
Roller, Hiram -- a half-breed of Tripton County, related to Sophie Martinez
Florentina -- a Mexican woman, wife of Garcia and god-mother of Ellen Wood
*Sand, Joe -- an Indian doctor from Tripton County
Saunders, Grove -- a Brushville neighbor mentioned by Sophie Martinez
Sears, Ted - - a white rancher
Sharpe, Katie -- a Manzanita friend of Ellen Wood
Shevlin -- a white rancher
*Shobi, Tom -- an Indian doctor
*Shore  Ken -- an Indian doctor
*Silone -- an Italian wine-grower
*Sister Theresa -- a Catholic sister who worked among the Pomo
Smith, Lulu -- a childhood friend of Sophie Martinez
Stanley, Tom -- a Brushville friend of Ellen Wood
Swan, Charlie -- an Indian doctor mentioned by Ellen Wood
Tapner, Andy -- a Tripton County Pomo mentioned by Sophie Martinez
White, Louis -- a white rancher mentioned by Sophie Martinez
Wood, Albert -- son of Ellen Wood
Wood, Ellen -- subject of the second life history
Wood, Frederick -- son of Ellen Wood
Wood, Joy -- daughter of Ellen Wood
Wood, Tanner -- a Jones Valley man, third husband of Sophie Martinez
Wood, Robert -- son of Ellen Wood
13
Wood, Walter -- second husband of Ellen Wood
Young, Jack -- second husband of Sophie Martinez
PLACE NAMES
Big Rock -- a camping site on Oak River
Boulder -- a temporary rancheria inhabited in Sophie Martinez's childhood
Brushville - - a government rancheria in Oak Valley
Chiptown -- a government rancheria in Oak Valley
Clayville -- a rancheria in Tripton County
Fisher Rancheria - a rancheria in Tripton County
Green City -- a city of Tripton County
Green Lake - a lake and a rancheria in Tripton County
Grubville -- a temporary rancheria in Oak Valley near the site of the
present Brushville
Jamestown -- a city ot the north of Oak Valley
Jones Valley -- a valley and the site of Pomo rancherias
Lucerne -- a city to the south of Oak Valley.   Its site was formerly inha-
bited by Pomos.
Manzanita -- a rancheria of Oak Valley
Oak City -- a city in Oak Valley
Oak River -- principal stream in Oak Valley
Pleasant Valley -- a Pomo rancheria in Tripton County
Red Bluff -- a Pomo rancheria in Tripton County
Sandy Point -- a Pomo rancheria
Round Valley -- a reservation to the north where some Poro live
Tanner Valley -- site of several former Pomo villages. Now a ranching
community with a small Pomo rancheria
Tripton County -- where many Pomo still live
Vineland -- a Pomo reservation larger than most of the rancherias
Watling -- a rancheria in Tripton County
Wheeler -- a Tripton County town beyond Pomo territory
Wilderness Valley -- an isolated ranching community where a few Pomo still
live
Windsor -- a small rancheria
Acknowledgements:  First and foremost, thanks are due to Drs. Bernard W. and
Ethel G. Aginsky, Director and Associate Director of the Social Science Field
Laboratory, under whose guidance these life histories were gathered. It was
their introduction which gave me entree among the Pomo, their knowledge which
helped me to some understanding of Pomo culture, and their guidance which made
my work with the life histories possible. They have also read this manuscript
and offered suggestions for its improvement. Thanks are due also to all my
fellow members of the Field Laboratory whose pooled field notes serve as a
reservoir of information on present-day Pomo life. Alchough all contributed
notes relevant to this study, special thanks are due to Miss Juliette Lombard,
14
who collected the first brief life history of Jane Adams and turned this
material over to me, and to Mr. Birkbeck Wilson, who provided me with copies
of all material he collected from these three women, and who also gave
assistance during the preparation of the manuscript. (4)
Others have also been generous with their time and advice. Wilson D.
Wallis read and criticised the draft of the original life history of Sophie
Martinez which was written after the 1939 field season. Clyde Kluckhohn directed
my analysis of the life history of Mrs. Martinez which formed the nucleus of
this present manuscript. He has also read through the present manuscript,
whose organization owes much to his suggestions.
Finally,or perhaps first of all, thanks are due to the three Pomo
women who submitted themselves to the long interviews and prying questions
which the recording of a life history requires. I sincerely hope that the
material presented here will cause no embarassment to them, or to any other
Pomo. Names and place names are disguised in order to afford as much pro-
tection to all concerned as is possible.
NOTES
(Q) Place names as well as personal names are disguised, and therefore the
original village names are not given.
(2) This will be found in the appendix.
(3) I have never worked extensively with any of the Pomo men.
(4) Other members of the Field Laboratory were: Alfred Parsell, William
Henderson, Alice Gustav, Charles Churchill, Abra Lloyd, Fred Robin,
Clara Lewis, Joseph Shor, Stephen Cappanari,   Charles Brant, Helen
Weinburg, Robert Rohr, Hiram Friedsam, Ernestine Friedel, Enid Fenton,
Sol Hauser, Ai Li Sung, Alta Schwartz, and Linville Watson.
CHAPTER II                                 15
THE POMO
Introduction
It is hoped that this chapter on the Pomo (and the footnote citations
in the life histories to the relevant literature) will provide a background
for evaluating the accounts given by the three women. The utility of the
life histories as personal documents depends upon some knowledge of this
background, "for personal idiosyncracy is important only in terms of a context,
i.e., in terms of approach to or departure from a cultural norm." Some of
the context necessary for an understanding of the accounts is to be found
in the old Pomo culture, though this disappeared as an integrated way of
life before the oldest of the three women was born. Part of the context is to
be found in the adjustments the Pomo have made to the piesence of the whites.
Before the Whites
In the early nineteenth century,the Pomo inhabited an area in northern
California stretching from the coast far inland across two low mountain ranges.
The spread of Pomo territory, across the mountain ranges and valleys of west-
ern California, included several ecological areas: lakes, river valleys,
coastal strips, mountains, redwood forests, open meadows, and groves of oak
trees. The climate was less varied. Throughout the territory, there was
but a moderate range of temperature. Winter was a wet season. The summer
months were clear and dry. On the coast, these months were a time of fogs,
but inland, beyond the first range, even fogs were rare.    By midsummer the
hills and valleys were already assuming a burnished brown, the springs on
the hillsides failed, and the creeks were beds of dry    sand.  At such times
the only water lay in the pools that formed in the river beds as the rivers
themselves ceased to flow or in the lakes which occurred in one part of the
Pomo territory. With the winter rains, springs, creeks and the constant
rains sent their waters rushing into the valleys forming temporary lakes
along the valley floors.
The Pomo of Oak Valley, Tanner Valley and Lucerne, to which the ances-
tors of Sophie Martinez, Ellen Wood, and Jane Adams belonged, were among the
inland groups that lived along the rivers, dependent largely upon the acorn
harvest for subsistence though also hunting, fishing, and gathering other
edible seeds and plants.   It was a rich region.    Even without agriculture
or husbandry of any kind, it supported a population large for aboriginal
America. The Pomo made full use of the food resources their environment
offered--few people have probably had so few food taboos--but there is little
evidence that the population pressed close upon the available food supply.
Only in cases of widespread failure of the acorn harvest was there likely to
be famines, and these were rare. Usually there was enough surplus for trade.
16
There was also enough surplus to support a fairly advanced profession-
alization or division of labor. Women spent their time in gathering the plants,
seeds, and nuts which formed the major portion of the diet, in preparing the
meals, and in making the baskets which seem to have been used for almost
every conceivable purpose. Other labor was left to specialists. The major
professions were hunting, fishing, doctoring, gambling, and bead making.
Chieftainship also might be regarded as a profession. Minor professions
included the making of arrows, of hairnets, of flint drills for bead work.
These professions were carried on by men who had been trained in themt. The
right to practice a profession was hereditary in certain family lines. The
professional man chose his successor from among the more promising of his
young relatives, carefully trained him in the requisite techniques and ritual,
and at the end of his apprenticeship, resigned the status in his favor. By
this time the successor was usually near middle-age--the Pomo did not trust
responsibility or status to the young.
The work of women was not professionalized--there was no apprentice system
for them as there was for the boys in which some one older relative took
over their training and saw to it that they became proficient in some craft.
Instead, all women did pretty much the same thing, and while not all were
equally proficient, all were given the same training. The training of the
men was varied, although not all were chosen and trained to a profession.
Some remained just "ordinary men" who might help in a hunting drive or a fish
poisoning, but were not regarded by the others as "hunters" or "fishermen."
This might easily happen to those born into families which had rights to only
one or two professional openings, or even to those whose families had many
professional members if there were more boys than openings.
On the whole, however, although a man gained prestige by having a pro-
fession and was able to accumulate wealth in the form of bead money and baskets,
he did not live better than the non-professional man nor did class differences
appear. There was little boasting, and little display of property among the
Pomo. They were beyond the spread of the Northwest Coast potlatching rival-
ries, as they were outside the prestige systems based on war exploits which
engrossed the tribes of the Plains and East. While occasionally wars occurred,
the Pomo did not reward those who took part in them with special honors.
Politically the Pomo were organized in bands or villages which inhabited
one continuous block of territory, with no interstitial foreign bands to dis-
turb what little unity the Pomo as a group possessed. This amounted to little
more than a vague feeling of kinship with other Pomo bands, occasionally
acknowledged by a gathering for large scale cermeonials. These bands belonged
to one linguistic unit--but one large enough to include a number of mutual-
ly unintelligible languages. Neighboring bands could not necessarily understand
each othler.
17
The recognition of themselves as one"folk" did not prevent feuds and
occasional wars between villages or bands for each village was an indepen-
dent unit which acted of and by itself. Trespass upon each other's territory
was resented to the point of warfare. Formal visits might be exchanged between
villages for trade or for attendance at ceremonials, but informal visiting
back and forth was rare even where neighboring villages were involved. Fear
of witchcraft made the Pomo dubious as to the advisability of venturing alone
or in small groups into strange villages, especially as few had kinship ties
beyond their own village. Intermarriages between villages were rare, and
usually involved families which provided messengers or interpreters. Others
commonly married within their own villages.
For the most part then a Pomo's life was spent in contact with members
of his own village and within the confines of one small stretch of territory.
For each band remained within its own territory. During the winter months,
members of the band came together in the village which was built on a hill-
side beyond the reach of the winter floods that covered the floors of the valleys.
This was the site of the large "earthhouse" or semi-subterranean sweathouse
which served as a men's club-room and as a ceremonial center. Nearby were
the long brush "family houses". During the summer months, the band scat-
tered out into small family groups which camped in temporary shelters about
the water holes or at sites where food plants were abundant. This did not
result in any great dispersal of population, for the valleys were small and
good camping spots concentrated along the river bed. A family might move
from one spot to another as the season advanced, and then with the fall return
to the village where the brush houses would be repaired or rebuilt on approxi-
mately the same sites.
The long brush houses were inhabited by extended family groups, which
usually--although not invariably--represented the matrilineal line. After a
marriage, the young couple moved back and forth between their family dwell-
ings for some time, and eventually settled in whichever house had room for
them. In practice this seems to have been usually the house of the wife's
family. Here they lived with twenty or thirty other people. The men of the
household, however, spent much of their time in the sweathouse, from which on
ordinary occasions the women were barred. Here they made most of the arti-
cles they needed, away from the possibility of any contamination from menstru-
ating women. The sweathouse was also a clubhouse in which the men talked
and gambled. The brush house was thus peculiarly the dwelling of the women
of the family. The house itself was regarded as the property of one of the
older women. She was the family matriarch whose stewardship extended also
over all stores of food. She also acted as custodian for the wealth in
beads and baskets owned by any member of the family, and remembered not
only who was the present owner of each piece but also who-was to inherit it.
Her position of authority was a strong one, though it was shared with some
18
elderly male relative who might be either her husband or some blood relative.
Together the two made the decisions for the household, although commonly
they consulted other members before announcing their decisions. Associated
with the two old people were usually a younger man and woman who were being
trained to take their places as household heads.
Each extended family acted largely as an independent unit. There was
no clan  organization--nor for that matter any real political organization
of the villages themselves. Each village had several "chiefs", which came
from families with the hereditary right to supply chiefs to the village.
In internal affairs, the chiefs had authority only over members of their
own families, but they had the additional privilege of lecturing the people
of the village morning and evening on the necessity of living a good life.
They represented the village, however, in external affairs, and here their
position was enhanced by the fact that only they could speak during the
negotiations.
Like other professions, chieftainship seems to have been largely passed
down through the maternal line, a man usually being chosen to succeed his
maternal uncle.   Where there was no suitable male heir, women were occasion-
ally given the title of "chief" while some male relative performed the ac-
tual functions. More commonly, the sisters, mothers, or wives of the chiefs
were given a title indicative of chiefly status and served as official hos-
tesses for their villages whenever visitors attended a dance or a funeral or
other ritual in the village. Some Pomo groups permitted these women also
to lecture the village just as did the male chiefs.
Although the population of some villages probably reached a thousand
or over, no more effective political controls than this system of chief-
tainship were developed. That this proved sufficient is very probably due
to the development of specialization which left each individual largely
dependent upon others in the group to supply his needs. Concomittant with
this there had been developed a monetary system based on beads and baskets.
These could be exchanged for either goods or services and were also used in
the exchange transactions in which the Pomo indulged at marriage, birth, and
death. These reciprocal exchanges in which all were involved were addi-
tional mechanisms ilitegrating the group and organizing its social life.
The appearance of ingroup aggression was controlled partially by the
fear of "poisoning", a form of witchcraft. "Poisoning" was believed to be
done by unacknowledged professionals who had learned the art from some
older relative, and who were willing to "poison" for hire or to satisfy
their own personal enmities. When the victim sickened, his possible
enemies or enemies of the family were carefully considered by the family
group until the guilty person had been decided upon. The family then
hired its own "poisoner" to retaliate against the guilty one or his family.
19
This belief in poisoning led to circumspect behavior, for few cared to run
the risk of arousing enmity which might lead to a "poisoning" or dared to
express their own antagonisms as that was equally likely to result in a
retaliatory "poisoning."
Since "poisoning" attacks might be directed aginst either a trouble-
maker or other members of his own family, the extended family was careful
to control its members. The older members controlled all advancement and
were unlikely to train an unruly boy in a profession or as household head,
nor would they be likely to leave him any wealth in beads or baskets. Boys
who were inclined to give trouble might also expect to face severe treat-
ment during their initiation into the Ghost Dance Cult.    Girls were not
susceptible to these controls, since they were initiated into neither pro-
fessions nor Ghost Cult.  However, either men or women might be lectured
by their families and if they still proved recalcitrant, they might be
beaten.  As a final measure, the elders of the family might hire a poisoner
to remove a member who embroiled them with other families, or they might
drive him from the village and the village territory. Since even standing
gpon one's own rights might be regarded as aggressive behavior, a premium
was placed upon passivity. The Pomo ideal seems to have been the quiet,
peaceful individual who never under any circumstances involved himself in a
dispute, and who made every attempt to get along with other people.
Sickness and death were regarded as due either to "poisoning" or to
supernatural sanctions against the breaking of taboos. Many of the taboos
seem to have clustered about the woman's reproductive cycle. A woman who
was menstruating would not go near water or swampy land, could not eat meat,
fish, or grease, could not cook or work on baskets, could not handle or
approach ceremonial equipment, and could not attend even a common dance or
gambling game.  In some groups, they were secluded in special mentrual huts
for this period; in others, they stayed in a corner of the regular house.
The most important period was the first, when a girl lay with her face and
head covered and could not move about; but the taboos extended throughout
her life. Some of them applied also to certain periods of pregnancy. The
system of taboos extended also to the husband who during his wife's periods
could not eat meat, fish , grease, could not hunt, fish, gamble, or drill
beads, and could not approach certain springs or lakes. Usually at such
times to escape- contamination men slept in the sweathouse rather than with
their wives in the brush house, but this did not free them of the taboos.
Those who knowingly or unknowingly broke one of these taboos encountered the
water monster. This appeared in various guises, as a snake, spotted deer,
duck, fish, or a combination of these.   Such an apparition "scared" the
person who then became sick.   "Scare" cases were also due to any chance
encounter with some supernatural. The patient was usually doctored by
reproducing the frigthening apparition. He then told what it was he had
20
seen, and usually recovered.   In some cases, however, death was immediate.
Sicknesses which came on slowly or lasted a long time were attributed to
'"poisoning'. There were various methods used in doctoring such cases.
Among the inland Pomo, there were two types of doctors: the outfit or
singing or rattle doctor, and the sucking or dream doctor. The outfit
doctor was regarded as the most powerful. Such doctoring was one of the
professions and was always practiced by a man who was carefully instructed
in his ritual and curing methods by a predecessor who finally presented him
with his outfit, the badge of his profession. The sucking doctor, on the
other hand, might be either a man or a woman. It was one of the few statuses
in Pomo society which were available to the untrained person. The sucking
doctor derived his curing powers from his dreams in which he was given songs
and other rituals for use in healing. In some cases, the person who was
about to become a sucking doctor became ill, was cured by someone already
practicing as a sucking doctor who announced that he was to become a sucking
doctor, and then began to practice on his own.
There were also two secret societies among the Pomo which seem to have
had curing as one of their functions. The society or cult called by Loeb,
the Old Ghost Dance was exclusively a men's organization into which all
male members of the village were initiated. A special sweathouse known as
the "Ghost House" was erected for the occasion. The ritual seems to have
been built about the return of the dead, and consisted of dances and imper-
sonations in which men dressed as "ghosts" appeared. There was also the
initiation of the boys. Women and uninitiated children were not allowed
to enter the "Ghost House" or to see any of the ritual. Indeed, the later
Pomo insisted that the chief purpose of the society was the intimidation of
women to keep them in proper subjugation to the men. The Kuksu Cult on
the other hand was open to both men and women, but the number of members
seems to have been fixed and only a small number ever joined the cult. Each
member chose his own successor from among the children of his own family,
and acted as his or her sponsor on initiation. Besides its curing ceremonies,
the Kuksu Society had yearly ceremonials which included impersonations of
animals, birds, and gods, and also had special dances. These were held in
a brush enclosure built for the purpose. The Ghost Dance also had yearly
ceremonials. The villages, however, seem to have taken their turn as
sponsors and hosts of other villages, and each village did not hold the
ceremonials every year.
Besides the dances performed by the "Ghost" and Kuksu societies, there
were also "common dances" held only for entertainment, In these both men
and women took part. There were also gambling games, which during the
winter months might last through the night. Men played a hidden ball game
which had its own songs. This was the gambling game par excellance, and
those who took it seriously went off to the hills and prepared themselves
21
with "luck", a supernatural power gained through appropriate rituals.
Women did not take part in these games, though they were excited spectators
and offered bets from the sidelines. They had their own game, played with
long wooden dice. This had no songs, nor did the players prepare with "luck"
for the game, but it was equally good for gambling. Neighboring villages
might be invited to attend the dances or the gambling games, or these might
be held to entertain trading parties from other villages.
Visiting parties also come for funerals. Death was one occasion among
the Pomo which warranted the display of great emotions, and there was a
wholesale emotional discharge to which other Pomo groups were invited.     The
surviving relatives tore their flesh, covered themselves with dirt and ashes,
and worked themselves into a frenzy which came to a climax with the cremation
of the body on a funeral pyre. However, even in the nmourAing frenzy, the
Pomo did not give way completely to their emotions. Relatives were appoint-
ed to stand by the pyre and keep track of the property which the visitors
brought to throw upon the body as it burned, for the family was responsible
for seeing to it that the visitors received a return equal in value to what
they had destroyed. Other visitors presented beads or baskets or blankets
to the survivors, and these too had to be noted since an equal return must
be made at some future date.
When the cremation was finished, the bones were raked from the ashes
and buried in a grave with renewed mourning. Those who handled corpses and
bones were regarded as impure for a number of years and subject to special
precautions. Meantime, though a mourning period was observed, especially
by the women of the household, the memory of the dead person himself was
obliterated as far as possible. His personal property, unless he had di-
vested himself of it by oral will before death, was destroyed on his
funeral pyre.  His name was avoided, apparently through fear of the ghost,
though this caused little difficulty since personal names were kept secret
among the Pomo. If the dead were a young man or woman with a family, his
or her place was filled with another member of the same family who married
the survivor and perpetuated the union between the two families and the
family interest in the children of the marriage. If there were no children,
the survivor returned to his own people and was likely to be accused by his
in-laws of having "poisoned" the dead person.
Transition
Aboriginal Pomo culture was disrupted about the end of the first half
of the 19th century. The Pomo had probably long been in sporadic contact
with whites,but no settlements were made in Pomo territory until the early
nineteenth century.   On the coast, the first prolonged contacts were with
Russians who for a short period settled in that area.
22
Inland, Spaniards or Mexicans began to encroach upon their villages.
Mexicans established large ranches in the southern part of Pomo territory
and also attempted to missionize some of the Pomo groups.    The Lucerne Pomo
were among those affected by these events. Further to the north, the Mexi-
cans were known chiefly as raiders who swept through the valleys kidnapping
Indians who were set to work as slaves on the ranches to the south. Villages
were broken up; women and children were carried off to the south; men were
killed.  Those who escaped often hid themselves in the hills, and did not
dare to reassemble in their villages. Many of those who were carried off at
this time did not return; others after working as servants for some years
escaped and returned home to add further disrupting influences affecting the
surviving Pomo groups.   With the entrance of Americans into the area, condi-
tions did not improve. Slave raids continued until well into the 1870s un-
checked by American authorities.
Although no gold was found in the Pomo area, and the Pomo were spared
the annihilation which descended on California tribes unfortunate enough to
inhabit gold mining country, the whites quickly preempted the land and either
forced the Pomo off or allowed them to remain only on sufferance. The United
State Government early made treaties with the Pomo guaranteeing them a
reservation large enough for their needs in return for the cession of certain
of their lands. These, like other treaties made at this time with Califronia
tribes, were never ratified by the U.S. Senate.   Instead, the lands were
seized, and the Pomo left to shift for themselves.    By 1860, it was decided
to remove them completely from their land. Some were sent to a reservation
on the coast whose mismanagement seems to have been peculiarly flagrant even
for that day.  Others, at a slightly later date, were rounded up a nd sent
some sixty miles north to the Round Valley Reservation. Here they were held
with other California tribes, their ancient enemies, and subjected to the
raids of white outlaws who also coveted the Round Valley area. While they
were on the reservations, they were fed on government rations, and some
attempt seems to have been made to christianize them and to give them an
education. Both attempts seem to have resulted in little, and soon most
of the Pomo had escaped and started the trek back to their own valleys.
Here they found the land parcelled out among white ranchers, the old
village sites demolished, and the whites in full control. All this seems
to have occurred with almost no resistance from the Pomo bands to which
the three women belonged.
Some of the white ranchers who now owned their valleys suffered the
Pomo to form small settlements on their land in return for a constant
labor supp[y. The small settlements were known as rancherias, and were
made either by members of some previous village which was able thus to
reestablish itself after the initial disruption by the whites, or by people
originally affiliated with a number of former villages who came together to
23
form a new unit. Although they were little interfered with by their white
landlords, it was impossible to reestablish completely the old life. The
population had been reduced by disease, slave raids, and massacres to a
fraction of its former size. Whole family lines had been wiped out, and in
those which were left there were not enough members to fill the professional
statuses which formerly the family had controlled. Young men were freed
from the need to become apprentices and spend long years in learning ritual
knowledge, since the whole method of obtaining a living had changed. They
were now dependent largely upon employment by the whites hwo set them to
sheering sheep and cutting wood, and in return arranged credit for them at
some store or presented them with food and clothing. The young women were
taken into the households of the settlers to learn housework and take over
the laundry and scrubbing; but women were also able to continue with their
old work of gathering food, caring for their families, and making baskets
which were still in daily use.
There was further disruption because of the breaking down of family
ties. Older Pomo say that it is at this period when marriages became
brittle, and the Pomo began to discard their spouses easily.    Some said that
they learned this in direct imitation of the whites on the reservation along
with square dances, card games, and drinking.    It was further advanced after
the return home when many of the white ranchers took Pomo women to live with
them, and the binding together of families through marriages became less
universal. There was also the possibility of escaping from one's family by
moving into one of the towns growing up in the area and there working for
the whites.
Antagonism toward the whites was great at this period. Those who spent
too much time in contact with whites were likely to become outcasts from
their group or made to undergo purification ceremonies. Women who bore chil-
dren to white men might kill them at birth, or their relatives might kill
the children so that there would be nothing to bind them to the whites.
This antagonism seems to have reached its culmination early in the 1870s in
the Ghost Dance movement which declared that the dead would return, great
disasters would overtake the whites and all who associated with them, and
that those who followed the new cult would be saved from this general
disaster.  The 1870 Ghost Dance, known as Maru among the Pomo, came to them
from the east. Among the Pomo, the cult seems to have combined elements from
the Old Ghost Dance, the Kuksu Cult, Catholicism, Protestantism, the organi-
zation of the "common dances", and finally the dream pattern of the sucking
doctors. A man or woman, known as the maru, would have dreams in which he
would be ordered by some power to organize dances. If he failed to carry
out his instructions, he himself would die and general disaster would occur.
Some maru dreamed new dances and new songs and costumes which they then
taught to their people. Others dreamed that they should reintroduce dances
from the old cults which had been gradually disappearing. Under the influ-
24
ence of maru dreamers, the Pomo gathered in large numbers, built new sweat-
houses, and spent their days and nights in dancing. Some of the dreamers
said that the new era was on hand so that they no longer needed their
present property, and many Pomo destroyed or sold much of what they had.
By the end of the 1870s, when the prophesies had not been fulfilled, the
Pomo began to turn away from the maru cult and the maru dreamers were dis-
credited. The maru continued to survive among the Oak Valley Pomo only in
the form of the dream doctors. The old dances were discarded along with all
other forms of Pomo ceremonial save for the curing rites of the doctors. As
the outfit doctors died, gradually the dream doctors became the only native
curers--but this change was completed only in the late 1930s. In the early
twentieth century, some of the dances were again revived.
At the same time that the Pomo turned from the Maru promises, they began
an active attempt to adjust themselves to the new life imposed by the pre-
sence of the whites. Groups of Pomo organized themselves into corporations
and bought land which was held in common by the group. Their leaders sought
the advice of lawyers in the neighboring towns who checked titles and saw to
it that the Pomo could not be dispossessed of these new lands. In most cases,
the plots of land were large enough to allow some acreage for farming as well
as providing sites for dwelling places. These became the permanent rancherias
of the Pomo, and most of the Pomo moved to these rancerias. Even if they
continued to work for the whites, they usually had a house of their own or
relatives who could offer them shelter on the rancheria.
For the first time since the appearance of the whites, the Pomo were
independent of the ranchers, for they had land of their own from which they
could not be expelled on refusal to work. They also had land on which they
could grow cash crops instead of being completely dependent upon the gifts
and the credit system of the ranchers. In some cases they seem to have
worked their land in common and then divided the profit at the end of the
season.
During these years, the world in which they lived was also changing.
The white ranchers were abandoning stock raising and grain fields in favor
of new crops:  hops, grapes, and pears. These required a larger number of
hands than had the old products of the valleys, and the Pomo found themselves
in demand as field workers. Their work was largely seasonal, although some
of the men worked throughout the year. In the summer months, most of the
Pomo worked with the hops. They moved down to camps along the river from
whence they went out each morning to work in the hopfields. When it came
time for the hops to be picked, the news spread into adjoining valleys, and
Indians even from beyond Pomo territory would descend upon the valley and
camp side by side with the local people and pick beside them in the fields.
25
Marriage into other rancherias and even into other tribes became common.     With
the winter months, the people returned to the rancherias where the men either
lay around spending their summer's earnings or went off to work for some
white rancher. The women stayed at home and made baskets. Some of these,
were still made for daily use, others for the exchanges that still occurred,
but most of them were for the market; for collectors had by the beginning
of the twentieth century discovered the Pomo basket. It is probably signi-
ficant that at this period when the Pomo first were able to earn money above
bare subsistence needs that there occurred the first large scale taking over
of American furniture and household equipment.
In the early twentieth century, there began organized efforts on the
part of the whites to change the Pomo. These were the first such measures
since the early days of the reservations--since then the Pomo had depended
upon the whites to furnish them with opportunities for work, but otherwise
they had been independent. Now the Indian Service again began to interest
itself in the small Pomo groups scattered through the territory. It
bought plots of a few acres and persuaded some of the Pomo groups to exchange
their own land for that owned by the government. Brushville is one of the
rancherias established in this mannet.   In many cases, the Pomo exchanged
good land for bad and afterwards complained of their bargain. In accepting
the land, they also became Government wards rather than independent agents.
Those groups which refused the government land and remained on their own
rancherias never became wards. They afterwards complained that they were
cut off from government assistance. In the 1920s, this difference became
more pronounced, when the Indian Service established a sub-agency in the
Oak Valley area and made arrangements for Pomo wards to obtain medical service.
At about the same time that the government rancherias were established,
the churches again began to take an active interest in proselitizing among
the Pomo. Both the Catholic and the Methodist churches established missions
and schools for the Pomo. Finally the Catholic church succeeded in drawing
most of the Oak Valley Pomo under its influence and they became at least
Catholics.
The mission schools and the Indian Service schools in the area were
finally abandoned again    late in the 1920s, when the California Supreme
Court decided on the basis of a case involving a Pomo child *hat public
schools could not exclude Indian children. Most of the Pomo children began
to attend the regular public schools with white children. Others were sent
from the area to Indian boarding schools. Some never returned, but remained
in the cities. Others drifted back to the rancherias and attempted to read-
just themselves to Oak Valley.
26
As of 1940
In 1940, the climate and the contours of Oak Valley were the same as
they had been a hundred years before. Nearly everything else was changed.
The river which had once run dry through the summer now flowed throughout
the year, for water had been diverted into it from another drainage system.
The floor of the valley no longer was covered with brush or spreading oak
trees. Instead it was marked by the criss-cross of roads beside which
stretched hop fields and pear and prune orchards. On the low foothills rising
from the valley floor, the slopes were covered with the vines which supplied
grapes to the wineries of the valley. Everywhere were substantial ranch
houses, and toward the north of the valley lay a town of about four thousand
whites, a few Chinese, and a few Negroes. Nearby was a small farm colony of
Japanese. Elsewhere in the valley were two small villages of whites.
The two hundred or so Pomo residents in the valley lived largely on
three rancherias. Two of these were perched on the hills at the edge of
the valley somewhat hidden from the world. Chiptown Rancheria, however, lay
close to the highway and to Oak City itself. A few Pomo lived on ranches
owned by whites, though they still kept up some contact with one of the
rancherias and were regarded as affilitated with it. No Pomo lived beyond
the immediate reach of the whites--by car it was perhaps half-an-hour's
drive to the most distant rancheria.
They were also connected to the whites by less visible bonds. All Pomo
were dependent upon the white economy for their living. As in the years of
the depression, many received funds through some relief agency. Most of
the men were employed by the W.P.A. for at least part of the year. The old
received old age pensions from the state, and those who were blind received
additional funds. There was aid to dependent children, surplus commodities,
etc. Although the routes might be somewhat devious, there was probably not
a Pomo in the area who did not in someway receive assistance from these
sources.  In addition, they had access to funds from the Indian Service.
Most took advantage of the free medical service provided, although they also
used their own Indian doctors and some of them also visited non-government
doctors in Oak City.   Many sent their children to Indian Service boarding
schools.  On government rancherias, there had been grants for the building
of houses. Sophie Martinez was one whose house had been financed by the
government.
They were not completely dependent upon government aid. The jobs
available to them were principally in field work and this was seasonal.
The most important working season was that of August and September when the
whole family might work picking first pears, then hops, and then prunes or
grapes. But the Pomo no longer had a monopoly on these jobs. Since the
27
early depression years they had had to compete with white migratory workers.
More recently even the Oak Valley whites had become willing to work in the
fields.  The hop picking season and the other seasons had been shortened by
this influx of workers since the fields could now be cleared more rapidly with
many hands. This fact alone had reduced Pomo income, for they could count on
only a few days of work each year. The presence of many, workers also had
enabled the ranchers to cut wages. All Pomo seemed aware that harvesting no
longer payed them as it had in former years.   On the other hand, the presence
of numerous white campers was felt along the river banks where formerly the
Pomo had camped alone. The ranch owners were now required by law to provide
workers with tents, stoves, fuel, and drinkable water.
The Pomo benefited by these rules, as did the whites, but summer camping
had been cut to a minimum and many remained on the rancherias and commuted
daily to the fields. This had become possible with the construction of per-
manent water supplies on the rancherias and with the prevalence of cars.
The old methods of making a living had vanished completely. In the fall,
women gathered a few acorns from the yards of Oak City or the yards around
the ranch houses, where oak trees still grew.   Otherwise the oaks and the
seed plants and bulbs had vanished before cultivation or were ignored by
women who preferred to buy food from the stores. Occasionally parties went
to the coast for sea food, but this was rare. There were still deer in the
foothills, but these were seldom hunted, With the exception of basketry and
bead-making, the old crafts had vanished. Women still made baskets in the
winter-time, although many would not be bothered with the work since with the
depression prices were poor. It was then direct wage work or government
allowances which supported most of the Pomo.
What the average income per family was at this period is hard to say.
But living standards were low. One family envied by other Pomo for its
wealth had a monthly income of seventy five dollars. The household consisted
of only the wage earner and his wife, but much of their income went to their
three adult children or to other relatives.
The material equipment of the Pomo in 1940 was probably rather compar-
ble to that of whites of an equal income level. Most Pomo inhabited small
frame houses.  Some were kept neatly in repair, and swept and ordered.    Others
were old shacks which seemed to crumble about their occupants and fall to
pieces without attention.  The houses were furnished with tables, chairs, beds,
stoves, pots and pans. Commonly there were sewing machines, and one family
has a gasoline motored washing machine. Many families had battery radios to
which they listened faithfully. However, in most houses there were still
baskets to be seen, and sometimes standing near the house were leaching stands
for the preparation of acorn meal, and nearby might be located an earth oven
28
for making acorn bread. Most families had stores of white money beads. Some
also had dancing equipment hanging from the walls or stored away in trunks or
suitcases.
It is rather difficult to judge the degree to which the Pomo were being
assimilated. Two organizations, the Roman Catholic church and the Indian
Service, concerned themselves directly with Pomo welfare, but otherwise con-
tacts with whites seemed to be slight. Practically every Pomo in the area
was a Catholic at least by profession. The church maintained missions for
them, and the sisters and priest from Oak City made special efforts to keep
the Pomo within the ranks of the church. In return the Pomo were at least
baptised and buried by the priest. Marriages were not likely to be thus
formalized. Marriage and divorce were on the whole regarded as the private
affair of the individuals concerned, rather than occasions for the interfer-
ence of either state or church. Even the families of the couple were rarely
consulted, and only occasionally did wedding exchanges in the old manner take
place. The priest and the sisters lectured the Pomo on this as on other sub-
jects but without much effect.
The Indian Service was willing to recognize any union that the Pomo re-
garded as a union, any divorce, that the Pomo regarded as a divorce. In 1940
its chief attempt at compulsion was the attempt to check the sale of liquor
to the Indians. For this purpose the Indian Service employed one of the Oak
Valley Pomo as a policeman to check on the violation of the liquor laws.
Otherwise its chief concern lay in helping the Pomo economically and medically.
An Indian Service doctor and nurse were stationed in the area. The nurse
spent part of her time attempting to teach health practices and had organized
classes among the women for this purpose.   She was also active in organizing
a woman's club which was attempting to impro-ve conditions. The Indian Service
also offered the Pomo legal aid, gave them help in education through loans
for further schooling or the facilities of Indian boarding schools. It also
operated an employment service in the San Francisco area through which many
Pomo girls obtained jobs as houseworkers in the cities of the Bay region.
Other contacts with whites were of a different nature. In the fields
Pomo worked for white ranchers and under white bosses. They camped beside
white migrant workers along the river. They bought liquor from white boot-
leggers when they could and patronized stores run by whites in Oak City and
in the villages. But the Pomo were segregated into a caste position.     Almost
without exception, they were hired only as field workers. Women who had been
employed as maids in the San Francisco area were not acceptable servants in
Oak City where only two women were employed--and this for laundry work and
clearning. Pomo were seated in only section of the local theater. They were
not served in any restaurant in the town except for one run by a Chinese
proprietor. In the stores, they declared they were waited upon only after the
whites were served. Women were not accepted as customers at the beauty
29
parlors, and patronized shops some sixty miles away. Pomo were not admitted to
the local hospital as patients.   On the streets, they were not greeted by
many whites, even by those who might have gone to school with them or known
them for many years. In the churches, they were not welcome, and many refused
to attend the Catholic church in town for this reason.    In the schools, the
children refused to. play together. In high school, Pomo children were usually
left out of the social life of the high school students. The Pomo were quite
aware of the segregation and resented it.
For entertainment, they were patially dependent upon the whites.    Most of
them attended the motion pictures in Oak City.   They listened to radios and
read comic books. Since every Pomo in the area spoke English these avenues
into the white world were open to them. Many, however, centered their social
lives largely around drinking parties which might continue days. These might
include people from several rancherias. Organized social life was largely in
the hands of the woman's club whose membership at one time included most of
the Pomo women of the area. The club held meetings on the rancherias and or-
ganized an exhibition on Pomo aboriginal culture which was shown to the whites
of the area.  This exhibition and the response of the whies was s source of
pride to all members. The club also sponsored dances to which most Pomo, both
old and young, came.  Occasionally a white man would put in his appearance;
more commonly Filipino men from Tripton County attended, 'to the disgust of
many Pomo who had strongly developed racial prejudices themselves. But the
Pomo were overwhelmingly in the majority at these dances. Part of the evening
would be spent with old fashioned reels and square dances which the older
Pomo had learned on the early reservations and which had been a part of Pomo
life ever since. There was also jitterbugging and other dances for the
younger people.  And always there were those who sat and watched and laughed
from the sidelines. Although the dances were held to provide good "whole-
some" entertainment for the young people, many stayed ou'tside in parked cars
preferring to drink rather than dance the night away.
Very occasionally there might be a "Pomo" dance which drew Pomo from the
whole of Pomo territory. In Tripton County, dances were fairly frequent,
and many Oak Valley Pomo went to the dances there if they could find a ride.
In Oak Valley, such dances were rare. During 1939, 1940, and 1941, only
three dances were held in Oak Valley.    All three were held on the same
rancheria, and were sponsored by the same family. The singer and some of
the other dance officers had to be imported from Tripton County or Vineland
for the occasion, because no singers now lived in Oak Valley. Yet, these
dances were important occasions for the Pomo. They were held in connection
with a curing performed by a dream doctor who said that the dance must be
given before the cure would be complete. Those who knew how to dance were
asked by those sponsoring the affair to come and help. Those who knew how
to dance and had the dancing costume, like Sophie Martinez, recognized their
obligationto help. Those who did not dance attended as spectators during
30
the four nights of the dancing and watched and passed judgement on whether the
ritual was being properly carried out. On the fifth day, a feast was pro-
vided for dancers and spectators. The food provided ran largely to stews,
cakes and pies, but acorn mush, acorn bread, and pinole might also appear
on the table.
These were the only large scale rituals which stemmed in any way from
Pomo culture, save for the funeral rites. The dead were buried in regular
graveyards connected with the rancherias, and part of the care of the dead
was in the hands of undertakers of Oak City and part of the burial service was
in the hands of the Catholic priest. However, before the priest arrived
for the funeral, the women gathered about the coffin and carried out the old
ceremonial wailing while the men sat quietly watching. The coffin was opened
and baskets, beads, and lenghts of dress goods and blankets were laid upon
the body for burial with it. After the burial, there was a property exchange,
and the Pomo recognized their obligation to attend funerals and bring gifts
to the surviving relatives, just as the relatives recognized that they must
return the gifts with an equal value. Afterwards close relatives continued
to mourn, and at intervals women relatives might be heard wailing.
The disappearance of public rituals was not echoed by a disappearance of
private rituals. Curing rituals were frequent, but involved only "doctor",
patient, and a few close relatives. The few outfit doctors who still sur-
vived in 1940 no longer practised since they regarded themselves as too old
to remember their rituals properly. If a patient needed an outfit doctor, one
might be imported from Tripton County, but people commonly consulted dream
doctors resident in Oak Valley. These were all women. Three of them lived
at Brushville.   Other individuals, who were not known as doctors, had songs
and ritual knowledge to be used as a protection against disease or in curing.
A few women knew the songs used to ease childbirth; a Manzanita woman knew
songs to counteract the effect of breaking menstrual taboos and prevent ill-
ness. These curing rites were used along with holy water obtained from the
priest, with the professional care of white doctors, and with the information
printed in doctor books or taught to girls in the nursing course in govern-
ment schools.
Illnesses were still attributed to the breaking of taboos and to the
effects of "poisoning." Although many of the old menstrual taboos were no
longer observed, most people had settled upon a few which they regarded as
important. Women now often cooked during their periods, especially since with
small one-family dwellings they were often the only woman available to cook.
But they refused to make bread or cook the old Pomo foods. They were willing
to eat meat purchased in the town, but would refuse to eat deer or rabbit meat.
Most of them feared to approach swampy areas or rivers while they were menstru-
ating. During 1939-41, a girl with several years of nursing training at a
government school was treated by a dream doctor for a "scare" illness acquired
31
when she broke a taboo. Another girl who had graduated from the local high
school and was planning to go away to business school was being cured of a
serious illness which she and many Pomo thought the direct result of going
swimming when she was menstruating. Boys in their late teens said that they
would never go hunting during their wives' periods.
The White doctors treated the Pomo for tuberculosis, trachoma, venereal
and other diseases. The dream doctors treated them for the same illness but
attempted to counteract the effect of broken taboos or the malevolent poison-
ing of some enemy. This poisoning was not attributed only to old methods
of sorcery. The Pomo said that they had discovered a more powerful method
of poisoning based on the addition of battery acid to the victim's wine.
Against this neither white doctor nor dream doctor could work a successful
cure.
Political and social controls were relatively weak in 1940, probably
more so than they had ever been. The government owned rancherias had voted
to accept the Indian Reorganization act, but they had never organized themselves
into a community government. Occasionally, under stress, the people of the
rancheria might sign a petition asking the Indian Service to perform some job
or eject a distrubing person from the rancheria, but otherwise one heard little
of concerted action.  Manzanita, which was still owned by Pomo themselves,
held rancheria meetings at which all might speak, but did not carry out other
community actions probably due to several well entrenched feuds which had
rent the rancheria. No political organization included all Pomo groups--
they were as independent of each other as they had ever been. Rancherias
lacked recognized leaders such as the old chiefs or captains whose position
was acknowledged by their right to speak for their people as well as lecture
them publicly, but a few men were leaders in that their advice might be sought
in an emergency. The only Pomo who had any official position was employed
by the Indian Service as a police authority. This had undermined the informal
leadership he had formerly exercised over Oak Valley Pomo.
Extended family organization was largely a thing of the past. Marriages
between people of different rancherias was common, and young couples moved
back and forth from one rancheria to another, and often broke off the marriage
after a few months or years and remarried. Kinship ties did ensure some stable
background for children and older people too. When a marriage broke up, a
man or woman could count upon finding refuge with his relatives. Children
commonly remianed with the mother's parents or other relatives. The rela-
tives, however, had little control over the young, who could move off at a
moment's notice to the cities of California.
With the disappearance of the old professions, boys and young men no
longer needed to court the favor of their older relatives who might be in-
terestedin training them as their successors. The disappearance of the
32
division of labor based on the old crafts meant also the collapse of the
reciprocal dependence of men and women, of family members upon each other,
and of one segment of the community upon another. Instead each one might
now earn his own living and spend his money in his own way. The only
controls left to the community lay in the possibility that those who created
too much disturbance would be turned over to white authorities; in the biting,
whispering gossip in which the community excelled; in the threats of personal
violence which quite frequently materialized in beatings and knifings; and
in the fear of poisoning.
Probably the possibility of "poisoning" was a major factor in ensuring
that people did not trespass upon one another's rights.    The fear of it,
however, locked each small family off by itself. There was little visiting
back and forth among neighbors on the rancherias. The Pomo feared and sus-
pected both other Pomo and most whites, but they feared other Pomos most.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Aginsky, B. W., "The Mechanics of Kinship," American Anthropologist 37:
51-57, 1935.
"Popul ation' Control in the Shanel (Pomo) Tribe," American Sociological
Review 4:209-2t6, 1939.
"The Socio-Psychological Significance of Death among the Pomo Indians,"
American Imago, June, 1940:1-11.
Bancroft, Hubert Howe, The Native Races, Vol. I:362-377. San Francisco,
the History Company, 1886.
Barrett, S. A.., "The Ethno-Geography of the Pomo and Neighboring Indians,"
University of California Publications in American Archaeology and
Ethnology 6:1-332, 1908.
"Pomo Indian Basketry," UCPAAE 7:134-276, 1908.
"Pomo Buildings," in Holmes Anniversary Volume, 1-18. Washington, 1916.
"Cere imlo)nies of the Pomo Indians," UCPAAE 12:397-441, 1917.
"Poino Bear Doctors," UJCPAAE 12:443-465, 1917.
Carpenter, Aurelius and Percy H. Millberry, History of Mendocino and Lake
Counties, California with Biographical Sketches. Los Angeles, Historical
Record Company, 1914.
33
Chestnut, V. K., "Plants used by the Indians of Mendocino County, " Contri-
butions from the U.S. National Herbarium, 7, No. 3., 1902.
Dubois, Cora, "The 1870 Ghost Dance," Anthropological REcords 3, 1939.
Yreeland, L. S., "Pomo Doctors and Poisoners," UCPAAE 20:57-73, 1923.
Gibbs, George, "Journal of the Expedition of Colonel Redick M' Kee, United
States Indian Agent, Through North-Western California, Performed in the
Summer and Fall of 1851," in H. R. Schoolcraft (ed.), Information
Respecting the History Conditions and Prospects of the Indian Tribes
of the United States, Vol. III, 99-177.   Philadelphia, Lippincott, 1853.
Gifford, E. W., "Pomo Lands on Clear Lake," UCPAAE 20:77-92, 1923.
Indian Tribes of California--Hearing before a Subcommittee of the Committee
.on Indian Affairs, House of Representatives, 66th Congress, 2nd Session,
March 23, 1920.  Washington, Government Printing Press, 1920.
Kniffen, Fred B., "Pomo Geography," UCPAAE 36:353-400, 1939.
Kroeber, A. L., "Handbook of the Indians of California," Bulletin of the
American Bureau of Ethnology 78:222-271, 1925.
.Loeb, Edwin, "Pomo Folkways," UCPAAE:No 2, 1926.
Mason, Otis T., "Hudson Collection of Basketry," American Anthropologist
9:346-353, 1900.
Powers, Stephen, "Tribes of California, " Smithsonian Institute Contributions
to North American Ethnology, Vol. III. Washington, 1877.
35
CHAPTER III
LIFE HISTORY OF SOPHIE MARTINEZ
In 1939, 1940, and 1941, Sophie Martinez was living in a shack on the
Brushville Rancheria in Oak Valley. At that time her family consisted of
herself, her daughter, and her granddaughter. In a neighboring house lived
her mother and step-father, Mable and Tim Brown. The-latter were two of
the oldest Pomo in the area and were practically senile. Tim Brown died
in the winter of 1940, and thereafter Mrs. Martinez cared for her mother in
her own home.
Mrs. Martinez was in her late sixties, and rather perturbed because she
had been unable to satisfy the State officials that she was old enough to
receive the pension given to all over sixty five. She=was not strong, since
she had not entirely recovered from the effects of an operation, but, despite
the fact that she made weekly visits to the Indian Service doctor sta tioned
in the area, she was able to walk seven miles and more into Oak City, to pick
hops in the broiling sun, and to dance all night when Indian dances were held.
Her eyesight was failing, so that she no longer could make baskets during the
winter as she had once done, but she could still see well enough to enjoy
the moving pictures in Oak City.
She seemed on good terms with her family--her step-father spoke of her
affectionately and said that he regarded her as his daughter. Her mother
said that she helped the family financially since she was sorry for her
daughter who had such a hard time. Her young granddaughter was her closest
companion, and although in 1941 there may have been some estrangement due to
the child's rapid maturing, the relationship between them was always very close
and very affectionate. Mrs. Martinez was somewhat. estranged from her daugh-
ter, the child's mother, who was regarded by other Pomo as one of the "wildest"
of the young women in the valley. However, the daughter,Bernice Martinez,
lived with her mother and the two seemed on friendly terms whenever they were
seen together.
By other Pomo, Mrs. Martinez was probably well liked. In the first two
summers, I gained the impression that she was on good terms with all of her
neighbors on Brushville Rancheria, with most of whom she was distantly re-
lated. In 1941, Ruth Post attempted to attack her one night with a piece of
firewood, declaring that Mrs. Martinez was attempting to attack her husband.
Neighbors at Brushville, who heard the attack and came to the rescue, regarded
Ruth Post as a trouble-maker and said that her accusations had no foundation.
Other Pomo in the valley spoke of Mrs. Martinez with respect. I should say
that in their opinion she was a good, quiet woman who caused no trouble and
did her best to take care of her family and fulfill her responsibilities.
In addition, she was respected as a good dancer. Those few whites who
knew her liked her and spoke of her with affection. The Indian Service
doctor said that she was a "fine woman" with "a certain sweetness about her. "
36
I myself liked and respected her. She was a motherly person with a love
of all small things: babies, birds, and animals. Although her life was not
an easy one, she did not indulge in self-pity nor would she enlarge upon her
private family affairs. She gossiped neither about her own family nor about
other people, and I never heard her say a really unkind thing about anyone
with whom she was then in contact. Despite this, she had a hearty sense of
humor and could laugh readily and heartily over the things that caught her
fancy.
Some biographical information dealing with Mrs. Martinez was obtained
from her mother and step-father. This deals largely with her infancy, and
is therefore inserted here.
Birth and Infancy
Mable Brown, Mrs. Martinez' mother, said that Sophie Martinez was born
when she and her family were on the Round Valley Reservation, some sixty
miles north of their present home. A few years before all of the Pomo had
been rounded up and removed to the reserve. Mable Brown was one of those
captured at this time. At that time she was living with her first husband,
Tom Hill, a Pomo from the same band as herself. Sophie Martinez was proba-
bly their first child, although Mrs. Brown contradicted herself on this point
frequently. Once she said that her first child was a girl who was born dur-
ing her second stay at the reserve. Tim Brown, her present husband, identi-
fied this child as Sophie and said that Sophie was Mrs. Brown's first child.
A week later, Mrs. Brown said, "I had two babies before Sophie. They were
boys and they died. My children always die; I don't know why. The first ba-
by was a big boy when he died." The same day she said that she had only one
child, a girl, by her first husband.
According to Mrs. Brown, Sophie was born in a big barn-like building on
the reservation. Mrs. Brown was staying with her own people at the time.
Before the birth of the child, she hoped for a girl, "Because maybe a girl
would want to stay with one good." During her pregnancy some woman who looked
after her made a big fire by which she lay so that she would "not get cold."
(I) She was very ill when the child was born, but after the birth she fell
asleep immediately. The people caring for her made a hole in which coals
were placed. These were covered over carefully and a bed made on which Mrs.
Brown lay for four or five days. During this time she drank warm water
constantly. This was to prevent her from "getting cold in the stomach."
The baby was washed frequently in warm water. (2)
Soon the child was placed in the regulation baby basket. Mrs. Brown
said, "I didn't bother too much.    I let her sleep.  If she didn't cry too
much, I didn't bother. Babies like that. I didn't do anything--just watched
her."  Tim Brown added, "When it cried, just give him suck.     That's all."
37
Most of the time the child stayed in its basket, though Mrs. Brown said that
she took her out when she cried. At night, the child slept in the basket.
In addition to nursing her, Mrs. Brown fed her ordinary acorn mush and buck-
eye mush; but she was unable to estimate the age at which these supplementary
feedings were begun. Weaning may have been sudden, for Mrs. Brown once told
Abra Lloyd, a member of the Laboratory, that Sophie was taken by her father's
mother before she was weaned. This woman had no daughters and wanted the
child, "so I let her take it."   This statement was never confirmed:    Sophie
herself denied it and Mrs. Brown denied it in later interviews.
Sophie was given two Indian names: one by her father's family and one
by her mother's family. (3) The name "Sophie" was also given to her at this
time by one of the Round Valley agents.
During Sophie's infancy, the family continued to live at Round Valley
though Mrs. Brown said that she was constantly in fear of the Indians from
oth'er tribes who were on the same reservation. "I was afraid they might
kill me. They were wild Indians. They looked like wild Indians." She also
complained that they had little to eat and were hungry most of the time. When
Sophie was a few years old, the whole family escaped from the reservation and
succeeded in remaining at large. "I ran off in the night and came back to
Tanner Valley. We walked. I had no baby then--only Sophie. I was with some
old people.  They were all women except for Tom Hill and his step-father."
Immediately after their escape, Hill left Mable. "Tom Hill left me and
got another woman. That's the way the Indians do it. He left me and got ano-
ther woman." (4) Mable took Sophie then and went to live with her own father
and step-mother. Then she began to live with Tim Brown whom she had met at
Round Valley. Brown said, "The girl was about six or seven years old when
I came to Round Valley. She couldn't talk much then." For a few years the
family lived on the McCreanor ranch where Tim Brown worked for a white man
who "liked Indians." Brown seems to have been fond of the child and to have
treated her more or less as his own. Once he said, "Now all my children
are dead.  Step-daughter is all I got.    I call her my girl too."
Mable and Tim Brown had a number of children, although they disagreed
as to the number. All died young--the oldest living only until he was in
his late teens.  Mrs. Brown said, "All of my children died except just that
one I have left. Maybe somebody poisoned them. That's the reason my chil-
dren always die." (5)
Childhood
My mother said that when she was little she stayed with a white man and
woman, and the white woman taught her everything. Thev're all dead now. The
woman told her to wash clothes, and she didn't know anything about it.      She
38
didn't know what the woman was telling her. She didn't understand the
language. So the white woman took her hand and put it in the water. She
did that way the first time my mother said. The woman had children and they
knew her, my mother. When she went away, they cried for her. The people
were good to her, she said. She lived there in the house and slept there.
They gave her a good bed, she said. (6) She started staying with them
because my grandfather was staying there with those white people. That was
in Tanner Valley. They're all gone now. She liked staying with them, she
said. She felt as though that white woman was just like her mother.
Then she married, and after a while she went away from there. She married
my father. (How was that?) She wanted to marry him, I think. She stayed on at
the same place for a while, and they built a house for them. The white people
with whom they stayed did that. And both of them worked for the white people.
She worked washing and watching the children, she said.     They stayed there
about four years, about five years, she said. They had no children at that
time yet. They were young yet that time. The white woman didn't want her
to go away, she said, but finally they went anyway. They went to the rancheria
way up there in Coyote Valley. And they stayed there for awhile. They had
relatives there and they stayed with them.
Then the white fellows took the Indians up to the Round Valley Reserva-
tion.  We call that place machahai.   Then the Indians would run back from
the reservation, and they would take them back.    They took them by force,
I think.  My mother says they stayed there for four years.     I never remember
anything about that.   My mother says they went to school up there, but they
never learned anything.   My mother told me about that.    I don't know anything
about it.
Early Memories: When I know something for the first time, I had a dog. That
was in Rounid Valley.  That's all I know in Round Valley.    I called him simi.
It's just a name.   It was a she dog.   I don't know how I got it, but my mother
says I was crying for it all day long:    crying, crying, all the time.   And
some white men stole that dog. They stole it from me. And I cried all night,
and my father got that dog. But they didn't want to give it up. It was
family-way already, and that's why those white fellows took it.     We never got
it back again. I called my grandfather simi, and my grandmother simi too.
All the people I called simi that way. (1)
We stayed in three houses that we had there. In the other houses someone
else stayed, and we had one house.   That's all I know.   I don't know where we
were, but my mother says that we were staying in Round Valley. I can't remember
that place. That's where I was born, but I can't remember that.
39
(What is the first thing you can remember about your mother?) I never
see my mother tit me.  Maybe when I was young she make me quit.   I don' t
know. I don't know what to say. I can't remember what my mother. (8)
After about four years, we came to Oak City, my mother said. That time
they hadn't built the courthouse or the jail yet, she said. First we stayed
in Jones Valley, my mother said. That was a rancheria a long time ago, but
they're all gone now. We stayed with him that time. And that place my father
left my mother, she said.  I don't know. That time I don't know anything.
But that time he was looking for another woman, she said. And that place he
left her. He was crazy for another woman. That woman had a man, but they
were crazy for each other.
(Did they talk together after they separated?)   No, I don't think so.
They never talked together. They don't like each other, I guess. They hate
each other because they had different man and woman. They don't want to talk
to each other. They divorced in Oak City. My mother divorced my father.
That time Blodgett was living yet. That's why they divorce in Ukiah. Blodgett
did that for my mother. He know it. (9)
(Did your mother talk to you about your father?) She told me about what
he do to her.  He leave her.   She stay there at his home, but he leave her
there and go to the other woman.   "That the way he is," she said.  My mother
said he was going to look for the other woman and I was crying for him, she
said. And she told me, "What you want to cry for him?    He got the other woman
already," she told me she said.   She whipped me that time.  I guess because
I cry for him.  And my father see it, and he whipped my mother too.   I don't
remember that. I was little, little. Just walk around that time, she said.
She was--my father whip my mother; and she said she tell somebody, "I'm going
to go away from here!"  She told the other man, the other woman.   They said,
"No! No! You can't go ayay." The old man and woman said that to her. "don't
go! Stay with us. Stay with us for a while," she said they said. She said,
"This girl crying for her father.   That's why I want to go away from here.
I don't want to stay here looking for him all the time," she said.   (j). She
said that to that one called Captain Sam.   (q). That was my father's uncle,
I guess.
My mother stayed there about a week, I think; and same rancheria my
father getting a woman. Same rancheria! And my father said to my mother,
"tYou steal my thread!  You steal my needle!  You steal my everything!  Soap!
Everything!"  And he take that soap over to the other woman.   That's why he
said that.  And she said to him, t"You do that!  I never do nothing.  You
steal that from me, and you give that to the other woman:   your soap, that
thread, that needle!' That's the way my father talked to her,she said. I
don't know.
40
And that time my mother went to Tanner Valley, I think. Her relation
stay there, and she go there. She stay there all the time, home now. She
stay home now. (10)
Relationships with people:   ().    I  slept with my mother when I was little
girl. When I was little baby, I slept with her, I think. When I knew some-
thing, I slept alone. She was married to Tim already that time. He's not
my father, but I call him father. My father left me when I was young. But
Tim was good to me, just like my father, and I liked him.     I was young that
time when she got him.   I didn't talk yet.   My father left me, and got another
woman. And I always cried for him, she said. She didn't like that. That
man left me, and he got another woman. When I knew something, she had this
old man already. I saw that old man, and I thought he was my father all the
time. I was big already when I found out.
(q). My mother called me tidai. She would say that to me. She called
me mata too. Tidai is just language. Mata means "woman", but not that way.
In some different way, I think. (1I)   My father called me, "Baby."    But I
never said, "Papa" to him. Because he left me--that's why. White men
never leave each other do they? My father left me and got another woman.
That's why I didn't call him "Papa". Because he left me. His wife hated me
too. She didn't like me. When he got something for me, she always got mad.
She never said anything to me, but she would get angry all the time. If he
bought something for me, she would get angry. I don't know why that was.
She was unuu a Green Lake woman too. (L2)
(Do you remember any other relatives living with you when you were young?)
My mother's father lived in Chiptown. He was a short old fellow. I had other
relations there too, my mother's sister and brother. They all dead now.
My mother had two brothers and two sisters. They were her own brothers and
sisters, I think. (q). I think they belonged to my mother's real mother. (ii)
(Did you have any brothers or sisters?) I had four brothers and two
sisters, I think. One was big already, a man already, when he died. I was
big already when he was born, about thirty-five I think. (j). My mother
never had any children before me, except me, she said.    I was about sixteen
years old when one of those boys was born. And I was seventeen, maybe nine-
teen, when the girl was born. And they died. They never knew us. They
didn't know what day they were born--the Indians don't know that. That's
how I don't know what year I was born. (14)
Whetn my first brother was born, I didn't know that time how they get a
baby.  I was living over there with my mother that time that baby was born.
My father got me after that.   That was my brother.   I was big already that
time, about sixteen.    We called that brother mit'i.   That means brother.
I called liilm my amt'i, my brother.
41
We had four rooms there, I think. We had a big house that time. That
'was this kind of house. I never saw the brush house. That was before me,
I-think. We all stayed there, my father and mother, grandfather and grand-
mother, and my aunt and her man too. My mother had'two children, two boys.
Then my uncle and his wife lived there.   That was all there was there.
(q). I slept with my aunt all the time. I had a bed, but I slept with
her. (q). That was my mother's sister. She had a man, but he was working
over some place in Jones Valley, I think. He was working for a white man
chopping wood. He came home Saturday nights. Saturday nights he came home
and stayed there with his woman.   Then I slept in my bed.    I slept with my
aunt because I just wanted her, to be with her.    I was afraid of the night
time.  I was just afraid of something.   I was afraid of something so I lay
with my aunt. I was small when I slept with her all the time. She told me
things.  She told me about the early days, some things about that.     But I've
forgotten it since I was young that time.
After awhile we moved to another rancheria called Boulder. My mother
stayed there, and I stayed there awhile, and then I'd go with my grandmother.
I stayed with my grandmother lots and with my mother's sister. She was better
than my mother.  I stayed with them lots because I liked them.     (q).  That
was my mother's own sister.   She's dead now.   I stayed at Chiptown with her.
(How were the other people in your family?) Sometimes I fought with
my grandmother.  I would be angry.   Sometimes she whipped me. (L5)    (q).  She
was a mean old lady. She was just mean. She took a rope to her man, they
claim. I stayed with her sometimes. I called her a?mina. Sometimes I stayed
with my grandmother, and sometimes I stayed with my mother. My father had a
different woman, and my mother had a different man.    That was why I stayed
in two places.  I went to both places all the time.    I just went from one to
the other.
My mother whipped me once. I was going to school. She didn't want me
to because she thought I was going to see my father. He had another woman
already, and she didn't want me to go there to him. That's why she whipped
me. I was going to school, but she thought I was going to my father and she
didn't like that. We were at Chiptown then. She followed me and kicked me.
She was married to Tim already then:   she was staying with him.    I cried about
it. That's all.   I never did anything.    I was little that time.   I never went
to school after that.  I wanted to later, but I had a baby already.     They
built the school house there, but I couldn't go. That was when the Sisters
came and built a school house for the Indians. (a6) But I had a baby already
and that's why I never went to school.     q).  Those were Jack Young's children.
I was living with him there the time they built the school house.
42
(When did you begin to live with your father?) He got me when I was
big, my father did. And he took me home. I didn't know him, but he took
me home anyhow.  That time they still live in Tanner Valley.    I was crying
all the time.   I was crying.  I didn't like it.   That was why I was crying
all the time. Now my father is dead. Afterwards I stayed with him and his
wife. And I stayed with my mother too. I would go away from there and stay
with her.
My father wanted wpe, and he got me when I didn't know him the first time.
I didn't know him, but he got me. He took me home to their house. That was
in Tanner Valley. I didn't know him that time. He had no other children; he
had just me alone.   My mother had no children that time yet, but he asked her
for me and she told him to get me. That's how he took me. He took me home.
I didn't know him, and I was crying and crying and crying all the time. He
had a Green Lake woman that time. (q). That was a different woman than he
got when he left my mother. She had had a man too, but she left him. He got
a different woman. She was good to me.
I never called him "Father." I never called him "Father." I called
him "Tom" all the time. Tom Hill. His name was Tom Hill. I stayed there
with them. I wanted to run off and I cried, but they watched me closely.
I was small, but I wanted to run off. I hated my mother for that all the
time. I hated her because she told him to get me. (q). I don't know why
she told him that. Maybe she didn't want to keep me. Maybe she didn't want
to watch me so she gave me away.
We stayed up there a long time, I think. It was about three or four
years, I think. I can't remember how long it was. I slept with my grandmother
when I otayed up there. I can never remember that house. I can never remem-
ber how big it was or what it was like. My mother had stayed there too, but
then she married this old man, and she stayed with him there at this place
all the time. But she was a Tanner Valley woman too.
(Tell me about the time you saw your father's new woman?) She was good
that time. He brought her up there. That time she was good. We were some-
place way up there where we stop. That wasn't the woman he got when he left
me first time. I don't think that way--I don't know who left me, my mother
or him. (17)
That was the time he was going to Green Lake all the time. We don't know
what he do. Long time he stayed there. It was a month, I think. He stayed
with her. They said an Indian told my granmother that he was married in Green
Lake. I never heard that, but my grandmother told me about it. "Somebody
told me your father got married to a Green Lake woman," she said.     "Eh,eh,it
I said.  They stayed about one month there before they came.    Our relation
stayed in Green Lake--my grandfather's relations.    They're all gone now.
43
That woman had a boy that time, and she brought him too. He was younger than
me, I guess.  They claim that way.   He's my brother.    He calls me '"sister"
all the time. We was together all the time. That's why he call me "sisterr",
and I say ttmy brother" to him. Her man died too, that woman's man. That was
why she got the boy. Drown, I guess--his father. That's what they said.
I don't know. Lots of people drown there that time in the water. She was stay
alone that time my father came there, and he tried to get her.     He brought her
home.
The first time, she never know how to cook, my grandmother said. She
didn't know how to make bread, and the old lady had to cook all the time.
She did something else, and my grandmother cooked.    My grandmother teach her
how to make bread.  And she learn to cook, she cook bread and everything; and
my grandmother sit there looking.
She stayed with us all the time.    Sometimes she was mean, but my grand-
mother say nothing to her.   So my father stayed good home, she said.     And that
way we stayed.  Sometimes she feel good, then she good.      Sometimes she feel
good, then she good. Sometime she feel mad, then she no good. She good cook,
and she good everyhting.   But she mad, she don't talk good.    I never said
nothing to her.  I was afraid.   I never talked to her, but sometimes I talked
to her when she was good.   Sometimes she made my dress too when she feel
good, I think.   (i).  I never come to her when she got mad.    My grandmother
said not to come to her when she got mad, so I go some place and play there.
My father never said nothing. He like her. He never said nothing to her.
He see the woman too mean, too mean, but he wanted it.     She was mean to me.
(s). She never did nothing to me, but she always got mad when my father buy
something for me. That's the way she was.
That time we stayed up there north of Oak City.     My father had a bit of
land there.  We all stayed together:   my grandmother, my-grandpa, my father,
and his two brothers. They were big men already. They got no children, but
they had women. And my father's woman too.
Fourth of July, we come to Harry Crosby's place to pick hops there. Lots
of people there that time, hop picking time: Sandy Point people, Vineland
people. We moved down there. Crosby got us and took us down to the hop
fields, and we stayed there.   "They going to pick hops," he said, and he got
us. So we moved away from home, all of us.
My father's wife tried to get a baby that time.     Some of them who want a
baby would catch a bull snake.   They catch it alive and put it around the
woman' s waist. I couldn't stand that bull snake around my body, but I saw
them do that. She was crying and afraid of the bull snake. My grandfather
did that. He caught a big bull snake, but she never got a baby from that.
She went to that rock, that baby zock.    Three women went down there.   And
44
she got baby that time. (q). No, I don't go with them. They was working
hops way down there, and they stayed there. I was staying with my grandmother
that time. (q). They tell me about it. That time one girl--she had no man,
but she went there. They said everything they doing, she do too. She got
no man, but she go to the rock too. And when she married, she got all girls.
She was liking baby, I guess. (18)
My father's wife got a baby that time. And they fight each other too,
my father and that woman. I don't know why. They get mad, I guess. That
baby died. I think that was already lady now--maybe she have baby already,
ain't it? She not live long. Maybe they do something when she get that
baby--that's why it died quick.
I don't remember when that baby was born. I picked her up. My grand-
mother washed the baby. Some of the Indian women no doctor when they have
baby. No white man doctor, but Indian doctor singing, singing, singing.
I don't know what makes them sing. Slow, they say, them kind. They don't
want nobody to hear them sing that, I guess. (L9) My father was there.
My grandmother asked him, "What makes that baby die quick?" "I don't know,"
he said. They were fighting, but he didn't want to tell her that. I guess
maybe he shamed. (g). I don't know. He never whip her, but that time he
whipped her. That's how the baby had something wrong. Before that he never
whipped her when she got mad. I never see it. We never saw them fighting.
That baby never cry. Just "Ah, ah," she said. She never cried good.
My grandmother said, "I think this baby not good," she said.      But she
watched that girl every day. I feel sorry for that girl when she died.
Babies never die quick. (q). Sometimes I took care of it. She was one
month old--she was a little bit know something already when she died. My
father got a doctor that time she died. That was after twelve, the doctor
said, the time she died.   That was a white doctor he got.    He said, "That
baby no good." The doctor said that. "No good, I don't think she live
long time," he said. That was over in Chiptown. That time we stayed there
yet that time.
(Did your father like children?) Yes. Maybe he don't know children,
I guess, but he liked children. He just had one girl. I was his first
baby.
Illnesses: They say I was sick, some kind of sick, and my mother was holding
me down. (20) Indian people get some kind of glass, and they cut. Cut
right along the forehead. And blood comes out. I had that. "My head going
bust, Mother," I said.   "Can you cut me and blood come out?"     She do that to
me, and she cut and cut and cut. And she suck and suck. She do that, and it
feel good. The bad blood comes out. Every old Indian man and woman do that.
45
I was sitting down already that day. And she told me, "Can I cut again?"
"No, no, I afraid, " I said.   "This time it feel better," she said.     "But
you cut deep, and I afraid," I said.    They cut just the skin and suck.    About
the next week, "Do it again, " I said to my mother.     I was afraid.   She said,
"But it feel better now?"   "Yes, I feel better.   My head hurt," I said.    That's
how I got no good head.   Think nothing.    Bad blood I got in my head.    Indian
doctor says I got no blood, but I had lots of blood. (21)
I was young that time--just young yet. Some kind of sick I had. And
that time my uncle was doctoring me something. He was singing, singing,
singing. And I don't know nothing.     But he singing, and he was cooking some-
thing.  I don't know what he got, but boil it and wash me in it.     And I feel
better in the morning.   Some kind of sick I had that year.    Not sucking doc-
tor--oh, one old man did suck me.   He say to me, "You pretty near gone.     If
I never sucked, you die.   You was gone already--die today."    And he was cut
me again right here on the forehead. Gee, I was crying. The man cut me, and
I was crying. "You cut me, Mother," I said. "I'm afraid you (the doctor)
might cut too deep."   "No, no."' he said, "I not cut you deep.   I know," he
said.  And he su.cked the blood out, and he sucked me, sucked me on the fore-
head.  He said, "You feel good tomorrow morning.    You feel better tomorrow
morning."
He was a good doctor, Indian doctor, sucking doctor.     He was good, but
he suck.  He bite with   his teeth.  They never bite with the teeth, sucking
doctors. And next day he come again. "How do you feel?" he said. "Girl,
how do you feel this morning?" "I feel better, better than yesterday," I
say. "Going cut again," he say.    "No," I say.   "I'm afraid."   Sore yet the
bone in here. That was why I afraid. "No, grandfatherl" I say. "I,m
afraid." Soon as that, I feel better. Now I walk around. He was a good
doctor. That was this old man died' uncle. (22) I call him father, that
old man died.  And my mother paid him beads for doctoring me.     (q).   She
says about fifteen dollars worth of beads she give to him. After that I
was already feeling good.   I was already well.   We stay home all the time.
My old people stayed home. That's all I know it.
(q).  Once when I was little, I pretty nearly died. (23)     I had measles,
I think. Lots of children there got them. All of my grandfather's children
got it. They were my mother's father's brother's children. Everybody had
it. They say that it used to be that when they got that kind of sickness
everybody died. There wasn't any doctor then. There weren't any doctors
at that time yet, I think. They made me drink sheep shit. I drank it.
They say that that's good for that sickness. My grandfather got it and
boiled it. Then we drank it. That made me better. My uncle was doctoring
me with some kind of Indian doctoring. He called it doctoring the sickness
we call dici dita, "fever sick." He doctored me by singing. He sang--he
46
was that kind of a doctor. (2) He used a fire-stick too. He made a fire
and took the stick and moved it about my body. I had lots of fever. I
don't know why we all got sick. I was little then and staying at home. My
grandfather--my mother's father--was living then.     He was in Chiptown, and
he stayed with my mother and me.    I stayed in bed, and he doctored me for
four days and nights.   Night time is the time when they doctor for that sick-
ness. After that we were all well. We had good luck. They say Indians
have no medicine for that kind of sickness.
(Who took care of you that time?) My mother took care of me, I think.
My mother took care of me when I was little--my mother and my aunt. Tim was
working for a white man, but they were living in Chiptown.
Another time when I was little I had whooping cough. That's diwikilu,
coyote cough. My grandmother took care of me then. She made me drink sheep
shit. They boiled it and made me drink it. They say that's good for that.
And my uncle doctored me too. He was living at that time yet, and he doctored
me. That's how I got cured. He was singing, and he cured me. There were
lots of children there that time, and they were all sick.
Fears: (Did you ever dream?) Sometimes I had dreams, but I can't tell about
them. I've forgotten them. (L5) Before I got up, I forgot it. I would talk
in the night, my aunt said, talking loud when I was asleep sometimes. I
slept with my aunt then. I would speak to something. "What do you dream
about?" she said to me, "When you talk loud?" I said, "I just forgot it."
Sometimes I cried, she said. She asked me what I was dreaming about. I
never told her. I didn't know. Sometimes I didn't know. "I don't know it,"
I said. I really don't know what I dream. I always talked loud when I was
dreaming something, they say. I dreamed that somebody was coming to me, and
I was talking loud. Somebody was sneaking around behind the house. Somebody
was sneaking around the house. "Don't you fellows ever see it?" I said.
"No, we never see it! they said.     They were trying to do something to us,
I think. So I was afraid. I saw two men running behind the house. That's
why I was talking loud.    I was afraid of those two men running.    I told my
aunt about it. She said she didn't know. "Somebody might sneak around.
Some men might sneak around behind the house. We are asleep and don't see
it," she said. I though they were going to kill us, and that's why I was
afraid that time. (26)
(Do you remember hearing an owl when you were a child?) My grandfather
told me--He said, "yAn owl takes the children."    He said that so I would go
to sleep. "Sleep' Owl going to take you."t So I sleep, afraid. (q). We
was there north of Oak City, I think. We stayed there about five years, I
think. My father had a bit of land there. I stayed with my father then.
My mother had a different man then, and my father had a different woman too.
47
Sometimes I came to my mother.
One time he was--some children were crying. Some boy was crying, crying,
crying.  And my grandfather talked owl.    We had a brush house that time. (27)
They had a watermelon patch   there and stayed there.    And he talked owl.   That
night we heard lots of owls coming up where we stay.     I never see that before.
And that baby was crying. He stopped. He was scared of that owl. He said
they were coming to. that brush house. They look just like they talking,
Indian talking.  We can't sleep that night.    I'm afraid and can't sleep that
night.  They stayed there a long time just like Indians talking.     Toward morning
they go someplace.  That time I was asleep, I guess.    And my grandpa tell me,
"They go already. The owl gone already," he said. And I said, "Call again.
Call that owl again." We was never sleep. That was why I say that. Nobody
sleep that night. They're afraid. They never do nothing. Lots of people
up there too, but they never shot at it. (g) I was sleeping with my father's
mother.  She push me down and held me on her arm. -I afraid.     She said, "Go
ahead and sleep." She said to me, "Sleep! Sleep!"
Everybody was afraid of it.    They came in the brush house.    They do
everything--destroy the fireplace. They do that way they say when owl
coming in.  My grandfather talked owl.    That's why they get mad, they claim.
That's what the Indians claim. He always do that kind, the old man. I don't
know what kind of old man he is. He said, "Owl something." He told us,
"Old Man Owl." (L8) That was summer time, I think. That time everything
coming ripe--corn ripe, melon ripe. We stayed there a long time. Then we go
to picking hops in Oak Valley, I guess, that year.
Daily Life:  When I was a little girl, I never did anything.     I just felt lazy.
But my mother would tell me to do something.    She'd tell me to get water and
everything like that.   If I didn't, maybe she might whip me, I guess.     She'd
say to me, "Get water'   Get wood!"   (q).  My mother never whipped me when I
knew something.  She never did anything to me.     It was because I was alone,
she said.  I had no brothers and no sisters.    I don't think anybody ever
whipped me. I was afraid of somebody and good to everybody. That's why
they never whipped me.   They say they whipped children in the old days, *but
I never saw it.
I never think about when I was a little girl, so I don't know what to say.
We had dolls and played. We made dolls from anything. We'd rock them and have
a good time. We played rock house too. We'd put rocks together to build a
house.  We played "Baby" too.   We'd make girl or boy, and then we'd play
make children again.   Sometimes we'd fix our hair in a pigtail.     We called
that "China Girl." Sometimes we played with some kind of flowers. We were
playing all the time--we never did anything else except to sleep sometimes.
We'd take the dolls and make them dance Indian dances. We played with flowers,
making girls and boys. We made them with flowers and called them babies.
48
We played, and we rode babies, and we made babies. We played all the time.
Sometimes we didn't even eat.   It would rain hard, but we played anyhow.
Sometimes we ate no supper. When it rained, we just played there and got
wet. We had no shoes--nothing. And my mother would scold me when I got in
because I was wet. t"What are you getting wet for?" she said to me. Some-
times we played we built houses, some kind of play house, and we played there
together. Sometimes we danced there. There would be men and boys singing
for us. I was about fifteen then I think, and we played there all the time.
We played there in the daytime and at night we went home to sleep. Then we
played again.
When I was about the age of Elaine, I picked hops for the first time. (2)
That was at the Post ranch. One time my grandfather and I got tired of picking,
and we stopped. That was my mother's father. He found a bull snake and chased
us with it. He chased me and all the other children. We were fraid and ran.
I was picking hops that time. I didn't know how to count money, but I was
picking anyhow.   That was the first money I earned.   I wanted to keep it, but
my mother and they--I don't know what they did with it. Maybe they used it.
(Did you go swimming?) We went swimming, swimming, swimming all the
time. We played around there. We lay in the sand sonetimes and got hot, and
then we swam again. Sometimes we swam in the river. Both boys and girls
swimming together. My mother never said anything about it. All day long we
swam. It felt good swimming. The first time I was in the water I was swim-
ming all the time, and I learned that time. I was swimming alone that time.
My mother took me the first time, I think. My mother did that, I think. (30'
That was at Chiptown, old Chiptown.   There were lots of people there in Chip-
town--lots of people were there that time, but now they're gone. All the
people I played with are dead now, I think, except for Lulu Smith. I played
with her. She stays in Chiptown. Her mother was my father's aunt. She
was younger, but we played together.
Sometimes we played the shinny-game, gapi?im. (Si) That was in Chiptown,
the old place. We took sticks and hit at the ball. We played that with the
old women. There were four or five sometimes, playing on a side. We played
with the boys too. I was about fifteen years old that time. I think it was
a long time ago. It feels that way. We bet handkerchiefs sometimes. Some-
times we won. Tha's all we played all the time. Now everybody has quit
playing.
Learning: (How did you learn to make baskets?) I was at Chiptown when I
learned to make my first basket. I just looked on while somebody was making
a basket. I just looked at it and watched. Then I started to make one. It
was no good the first time. Then my mother showed me how. I made a one-
stick basket first. That's the easiet kind. I kept it until that time when
lots of white men were buying baskets. They came around after baskets and I
49
_sold that one. Sometimes for my baskets I got ten and fifteen dollars. The
feather baskets were higher--they're too much work to make. Sometimes my
mother made baskets.  I looked at them.    It was hard to make baskets the first
time.  I learned how to fix willow.   You scratch it with a knife to make it
good and even.  Everything has to be even for the basket.     My mother showed
me how to do that.  She took a piece of glass and made the willow even.     The
design we just make so it looks good.   Sometimes we make it again.    One design
I learned from a Green Lake woman--she made them good that kind.     She was a
Pleasant Valley woman.  She stayed with us all the time.     I didn't know how
to make the three-stick baskets the first time.    A Green Lake woman taught
me all the time.  She made good baskets.    She was my aunt.   (q).  My father's
brother's wife.  That time I was thirty-nine.    I never made any before that.
Before that I made one-stick baskets.   That kind is easy; three-stick baskets
are hard to make.  That's why when we start making baskets, we make the one-
stick kind first.
Winter is a good time for making baskets.    This time of year is no good.
The roots dry, and they break easy. When a woman has month sick, she doesn't
make baskets either. Just now they do everything. Used to be they never did
that when they were month sick.   They never made baskets.    If they do that,
they're going to see something, they say.    (q).  Sometimes snakes.   I don't
know what they call that snake, I don't know. The moon sick woman gets sick
if she sees that something lying there.    Indian people make them well by
doctoring. Nowadays there is no Indian doctor. They're all dead now. They
cured--those Indian doctors did. They sang and called for everything, and that
sick girl would stand up when they were singing that. Some people stand there,
and they sing.  And she was cured already.    (j).  I never got sick that way.
They tell me, "That's no good." That's why I never went out and never did
anything when I was month sick. I stayed home (Q2)
Sometimes I made beads too. My grandmother used to make beads all the
time.  She told me to learn how to do it.    "A good thing,". she said.  "Some-
time somebody might like to buy beads." That's how I learned. I learned from
my father' s mother. She made all kinds of beads all the time. She lived in
Chiptown. She died after my father did. My father was young yet when he
died, but he got paralyzed and died. His arms and legs were paralyzed, and
he couldn't talk.  The doctors said he had what they called paralyzed, but the
Indians said somebody poisoned him.    Somebody got even, I guess.   I was stay-
ing at Green Lake when he died.   I stayed with Martinez then, and my father
died in Oak City.
(How did you learn to dance?) We used to dance there at that place they
called Grubville or Brushville. We had a sweat house, and we danced Indian
dances there every night. When I learned to dance, I watched somebody who
was a good dancer. And I learned by watching it. That's the way they do with
50
dancing. I learned to dance American dances too. My father always took me
around when they were dancing, and he always made me dance. That's how I
learned to do that. Sometimes I danced with my father. Sometimes I danced
with other men.
I still dance. When a person asks us to dance, we have to dance. If
we don't dance, we're going to be sick they claim. Just something make us
sick--heart pains someplace. Indians cure that too. They doctor it. But
not now.  We have no doctor now.    The singing doctor cured that.    Something
going to make me sick, they claim, if I don't dance. (q). I never was sick
from that. Some women get sick from it. If they talk anyway, if they do
anyway, they get sick. (33)
Adult Life
Experience with the Maru Cult: When I was about sixteen, seventeen, eighteen,
they had all the dancing at Chiptown.     (q).  I don't remember if I'd had the
moon sick yet at that time. Maybe I had. My grandfather got them to dance
that time. That was my mother's father's brother, I think. I danced too.
I danced the yeu?ke. I didn't know it, but I danced anyway. yeu?ke means
"Moon Sick Dance." That was the only time we danced that.
They were dancing four days that time. That's the Indian rule. Every-
thing in dancing is that way. They danced everything that time--all the old
time dances. My uncle said they were to dance all those dances. He was a
maru. He dreamed everything, and that's how he got to be maru. (j4) He told
us to dance and to have a big dinner. That's how we danced that time. They
built the sweat house there too that same year. They danced the djaduwel
that time. I was afraid first time I saw that. They say that everybody
go naked, all naked, and put black on their bodies and white and black on
their faces.   They fix it like that.   One man called it someplace--he was
crying around "Ooh" someplace. They call that matutsi. They come in four
times, about six of them. They were old men. That man call for that
djaduwel. He get in the sweat house--all of them get in. They dance there,
dancing four times. And they quit there. They go out running around by the
fire going out. That's the way the djaduwel people do. Those old men never
afraid of the fire.   They eat fire too.    Some of the djaduwel do that. (35)
(Who was the maru that time?) I think he was called Charlie Hill. He
had stayed with a white man, and that's why they called him that. He was
my mother's brother. He lived with us in the same house. He always used to
tell stories, like the one about the rattlesnake. My mother's father and my
mother's brother were there too, but they never told nothing. He was the only
one to tell them. Maybe that's how he got to be maru, I think. He told
everything. My grandfather never told me anything. He never talked. Just
51
sat there. Before that man became Matu, he was a bead-maker. When they
played grass game, he always won all the time. He would win beads--a whole
lot of good beads he won all the time.   He was a lucky old man.   (q).  I don't
know how he got luck. I don't know. He never showed it to me. That was why
he won all the time playing the grass game. And he worked for white men.
"Good white people," he said.   But he never fought with white people, he said.
It used to be every day the white men, Spanish men, would whip the Indian
people, but they never whipped him, he said.   Everybody was good to him.
Nobody fought him. That's why he got old, old. He was old when he died.
My uncle was living at Chiptown when he had the first dreaip.    (How did
that happen?)  I don't know.  Maybe he saw something, and that was why he got
that.  That's the way they become maru.  When they have a woman who is month-
sick and they look around and see something, they become maru. His wife was
month-sick that time. That's the way he got it. When he went to Green Lake
to get fish, he saw something and got that way. They used to get fish at
green Lake, and at Green Lake someplace he saw something. (36)
There is a big fish in the Blue Lake water. He saw it just like a fish
lying there and moving.  He saw it and was scared of it.   We call that kind
matikoi. (37)  That is some kind of snake in the water.    It's still in the
water all the time. I don't know what white people call that. I've never
seen it, but it lives in the water, they say. Nobody sees it except the
maru. And it bothers the maru all the time. They say that at Blue Lake in
that old time, that old time before our time, there were Indian boys.    And
they made that.  Those boys made that thing.   They were singing, singing,
singing; and they were making some kind of -feather basket with red feathers.
They put it on the top of their heads, and they put a fish tail on it. Just
like a fish they made it. Then they put marks on something on it, and they
put it in the water. It was finished. They sang as they put it in the
water. It floated around there, and they called it back again. "I want
to tell you something.  Come here:" one said.   It came to him.   He told it,
"You don't want to bother anybody except moon-sick people. You bother them!"
They told that to it.  "Bother nobody!   Be good to everybody!" they said, and
put it back in the water again. That's why it never bothers anyone, they
say.  That's the story they tell about that.
That's the thing my uncle saw, but it was a small fish. It made itself
that way, I think.  Sometimes they see a deer or duck .there instead, they
say.  They say that it stays on this side of the lake.    That's why they're
afraid of that water and never swim there.   White people swim there and never
come out, they say. Maybe matikoi takes them.. When my uncle saw it, the
small fish all came together and made a big fish. Someone threw a rock in
and scared all the fish. That was after my uncle had been scared already.
His grandfather was with him getting fish at Green Lake, and it was he who
52
threw the rock. He hadn't seen it. Only my uncle had seen it. That's the
way it is with that kind; just one person sees it--no one else. That man
just threw the rock. My uncle said, "What made you do that after I was scared
by that fish?" And his grandfather said, "I ought not to have hit that fish
if you were scared by it."
My uncle didn't know that his wife had the month-sick. After he went to
Green Lake, she got it.   Green Lake is no good, they claim.     He shouldn't have
gone there. That's why he got sick. For about two months, three month, he
suffered. He told everything. He said he saw a fish there: "A big fish,"
he said.   "I feared it," he said.   He asked his wife, and she said, "I came
after you left, and I'm so sorry." She told him that. (38)
I was there when he came home. He told us what happened.. He had gone
down to the water, he said, and a big fish made his sick. Then somebody was
doctoring him there. That time there were lots of doctors yet. It was a
singing doctor doctored him that time. The doctor made a fish and water,
and he showed it to my uncle. My uncle just stood there. Everybody hold
him, and he just stood there. He never moved, never breathed, just stood
there. And the doctor was singing--making him breath. That's the way the
Indians doctor. We call that sop?ka, "scare something." The doctoring made
him well, and after he was well he became a maru. (p9)
I can remember that.   He never slept nighttimes.    He was always singing.
I was a young girl yet that time, but I remember it. He sang maru songs that
something gave to him, he said. We had lots of beads then and he gave every-
body beads that time. He said he was going to give a dance every day. They
were the same kind of dances as before, but they called it maru. Something
gave him the songs, he said. I've forgotten what he said, but he told us
about it. Something gave him the maru, he said. Something bothered him all
the time during the night. He never slept well--singing all the time.
When he was maru, he told us to be good to people, to be friends with
people. "Be friends with the good people," he said. We were good to people
at that time.   And he told us there was going to be lots of wind, sometime,
some day. There was going to be snow and rain. And he would go around sing-
ing all the time. "I'm going to kill you," my uncle told us the man said to
him.  That man said that just to him.    No one else heard it.    "If you don't
dance, I'm going to kill you:" the man would say. He talked to my uncle
all the time, and he told him to have the dances quickly. That's how the maru
do things. He was afraid to die.
My uncle said that some kind of water was going to come in here. It
was going to come in through here sometime. "Water is coming in"' he said.
"Water is coming in.'   That's what he said all the time.     I heard him some-
times at night singing. He would be singing loud. He was getting crazy, or
53
something like that. When he got that, it made him crazy. "Water is coming
in and going to drown everything," he said. "Do you see that water coming?"
he said to us.  We said, tThere's no water there."    He said, "Yes, there's
no water now; but it's coming in, coming in. You'll see!" He told us,
."When that comes in, everyone is going to drown." But we never saw the water.
He was singing and singing, and that's how the water never came in, he said.
That's why it never bothered us, he said. That was what he singing for. "I
don't want the water to come, and that's why I sing. That's why the water
doesn't come," he said. He said that everybody was going to drown, both
whites and Indians.  "I'm singing to stop that," he said.
And he told them to dance there that time.     If they didn't dance, he
would die, he said. Something, someone, would kill him, he said, if they
didn't dance. So that time they had all the dances there at Chiptown.
My uncle was maru for a long time--until he died.     When he died, he was
a maru still.  He dreamed about it all the time, he said.     And about four
times he had big dances of both the old time dances and the maru.     He didn't
know all the dances, but they wanted to dance them.     (How did he get all the
people to dance?)  My grandfather was captain of that rancheria, and he told
them all to dance. That was my mother's uncle. He had a white name, but I
forgot it. He always talked for everybody in a good way, telling them the
good way in the morning. When he talked, when he was telling something, you
felt good. He walked around every house telling them in the good way. "Stay
good, behave yourselves, my people," he said. He was that kind of man. And
all the time he was talking for my uncle. He told him, "Good: Make good:
Feel good:" (40)
Maturity:  (Where were you living when you had your first month-sick?)      I
stayed in Chiptown with my mother that time. My mother was always telling
me about that, but I didn't know it until I got it. That is sigaco. That
means "moon-sick."   (What did you do?)  The first time I got that moon-sick,
I cried.  I didn't like it.   I didn't like it, so I cried.    I wondered about
what made it that way.   I didn't know that first time.    I.didn't want to do
that again.  I was scared.
(q). My uncle Tim was there then. He was still young that time yet.
My two little brothers were there too that time. They were the only men.
Tim and my uncle told me not to walk around and to stay home. The first
time women get that way they stay home, they told me.    So I stayed home.
I got it in the night time, I think. I was asleep, and I got that way.
It was wet all over my thing.   I looked there and it was all that blood.
Wet!  I was lying in wet:   I thought, "That's not good."l And I was crying
because I saw that blood.   I saw the blood, and that was why I was crying
all night.  My mother asked me what was the matter.    And I said, "Oh'   I'm
54
II
just crying.   She said, "I thought you were sick."    Then I told her, my
mother. "I have blood in my thing," I said, "and that's why I'm crying."
She said, '"I think you have the month sick. That's why you have blood."
I didn't know that. '"I don't know, Mother," I said.    She said, "That's the
only thing that has blood in you. That's the only way you get blood in the
thing. That's the only kind, the month sick. That's why I tell you all the
time,  she said.  "That's all I'm telling you about all the time,    she said.
"Mother, I don't want that:" I said. "I don't want it, Mother!" And she
said, "You can't help it! You can't help getting that way."
Then she watched me pretty closely. They told me not to walk around out-
side and to stay home, or I might see something. So I stayed home. For five
days I stayed home so I wouldn't see anything. Indians claim if you have the
month sick, you might see something bad. That was why I was afraid of that.
After five days were over, they washed me.    With angelica root, I think it
was.  I washed in the river, and she washed my dress.    We wash with angelica
root, and the month sick is gone. That's the way we do it. My mother told
me what was going on.   I was big that time--seventeen or eighteen years old,
but I didn't know what to do. The old people watched me. My father's mother
watched me closely that time. And I didn't eat meat or grease then. (41)
(Did they say anything to you that time?) They asked me if I'd ever
gone with a man, but I hadn't gone with a man. I just did that. "have you
gone with a man?" they asked. "No," I said. (@)
My grandmother told me about men that time. I said, "I don't know. I
don't know what the man," I said. She told me how to do. She told me how the
men treat women. "Some men are good; some men are no good. Some men are good
men; some men leave a woman and get another woman. That's the way some men
are," they said. "If you get a good man, stay with him good," she told me.
Early day people never thought about men even when they were big girls.
I was that way. I was big, but I never thought of men. I was about severn-
teen or eighteen when I first got a man. But today every girl begins to
think about getting men just as soon as she knows something. (43)
Marriage: I was about seventeen or eighteen when I first got a man. I didn't
know him. He'd never bothered me; he'd never talked to me, but his relation--
his sister--came to get me all the time. I'd seen him often, but I'd never
talked to him. He came from Green Lake. His father was from Green Lake;
his mother was from Tanner Valley, I think. His sister came to get me and
took me home. We'd never talked together before that. But she took me home,
and I cried.   I didn't want to go there, so I cried. (44)
I didn't want that man that time. I said I didn't want him. I told my
mother so. They'd never talked to him or. said anything to him, but his sister
55
.wanted me. She came to get me all the time. On Sunday they were playing
k'adai there at our house. That's the stick game. (45) And that time they
came.  They were coming, so I hid there in the house.   I didn't know-what
they were going to do.  I hid there under a bed.   I didn't like it.  I didn't
know that man., Some other people and my grandmother were sitting outside in
the shade. They asked them, "Where's that girl?" And. they said, "She's
ft
inside, I guess..
One of them came in where I was hiding.   I lay there.. Never spoke.  One
of them--that was my mother's aunt--asked me, "Where have you gone, baby?
We want you out here."   She said that, and I came out. (6) ."Grandmother,"
she. said to me ,come out! We want to talk to you."   She said that, and I
came out.  She talked to me telling me about it.   "We're to get you,t she
said to me. I said, "What for?" I said that. And she said, "That woman
wants you for her brother, she says."   "Why?" I said, talking, talking,
talking.
For about two hours we stayed there.   Then my mother-came in.  She came
in, and they told her about it.   She said to me, "They wvant you. Go with
them:"  "I don't want to go with them," I said.   "I don't want to go"' And
my mother said, "What do you mean by that?   They want you!"  My mother got
mad.  I didn't like it; I didn't know that man. But my mother told me all
the time to go talking loud.   She said, "You never do anything we want !  If
they want you to go with that man, you go."   So I went.
They took me home with them.   I didn't know that man. I'd never talked
to him. That's why I didn't want to go.    But I went anyhow.  I didn't want
to, but I went.  I said, "I don't know that man.   I doA't want to go with him."
But she told me to go, so I went.   And I cried there for a week.  I didn't
want to go there.  "I'm going to come back from that place," L said to my
mother.  "No"' she said.   "You're going to stay there.  Why are you going to
come back?" she said.  I said, "I don't want to stay there.."  But I never
came back.  I stayed there and didn't come back for about two months. (47)
They were staying on a white man's ranch.   He was working that night,
but the others were some place around the town and now they were ready to
go home.  They took.me along.   His sister did that.  She had the name of
Harriet. They're all dead now. They stayed in Jones Valley all the time.
When we got home, we talked together.   That's when I talked to him first.
"You came, " he said.  "It's good that you came; I told my sister to
get you," he said.  "Why?" I said.   "Because I want you,," he said.  He really
wanted to sleep with another woman. I don't know why she got me. He slept
with other women. I knew that.    But she got me anyway.  I hated him that
time because I didn't know him. That's why I hated him.
56
We ate supper that evening, and then I slept with him.
According to the Indian way, if you marry a man or woman, you give him
beads. You pay him like that or with baskets or blankets. The man's side
gives blankets; the woman's side gives baskets. Indians do that way. I
did that--my family and my relations did that. When I was married that first
time, they did that. That time was the big time because I was young. There
were lots of people there. After we had stayed together, they brought all
the things. (48)
When I married him, I couldn't cook. I couLdn't make dresses either.
I didn't know anything. Harriet made a dress for me. I learned how to do
that that time. She got me, but she hated me. She hated me afterwards--I
don't know why. She was older than I was; I guess he was too. He had a woman
before me. That's why he said to me, "I don't want to live with you," when
he left me. That woman left him, I think. She wanted another man. That was
Grover Saunder's mother. They had no children.
I stayed there about two months, I think. Then I said I wanted to go
to my mother. We went there. We went for just one day. And Harriet gave me
twenty dollars when I went. She gave me no beads, but twenty dollars cash
when I went there. I gave the money to my mother. And she said, "Look!
That's why I was telling you to go there. I was telling you for a long time."
That time she was young yet, my mother.
Then we went back. About six or seven o'clock we went back home. We
stayed near the river some place over there working for a white man. They
were chopping wood that tine, I think. They were chopping willow wood there.
And that year we picked hops at Jack Bailey's place right there on the other
side of Brushville. There were four brothers, Jack Bailey and Jim Bailey--
and what did they call the other two? We picked hops there. They were good
people, those Bailey people. They were good to Indians. That's how they all
died. And when we were through there we picked at a different place again--
at the Post ranch over there. And after we were through there, we picked for
Jack Bailey on this side. And from there we went home.
We went away up there to Jones Valley.   That was the old place where they
stayed.  It was a rancheria then, way down close to the Oak River.    That's
where they stayed then. Now it's a government place, and only young people live
there. The old people are all dead. They claim that the place was no good
and that's why everybody died there. Once everyone who stayed there was old;
now it's all young people there. Something's wrong with the place, they claim.
Some kind of water they drink there is no good.
We stayed there about two years. I'd stay with him, and then I'd go to
my mother and stayed with her. For two years I stayed with them and then I
57
went with my mother.   (_).  I just wanted to go to her. We stayed there
about two months, I think.   Then we stayed--I went to my father too that
time.  They were in Chiptown too that time.   That was old Chiptown where
there was a big rancheria once.   Now everybody is gone    I stayed with him
for good, I think.  We stayed there with my father about two or three yeats,
and there I was family way already.
Motherhood: We stayed there and stayed there. And I-had the baby already.
I stayed with my father that time.   My mother stayed in a different house there.
I stayed with my father.
(How did you know about the baby?)   My grandmother told me.   She was
asking me about it.   I hadn't had the month-sick and that was why she was asking
me about it. I said, "I don't know. Maybe. I don't know that kind." She
said, "You're that kind already. That's why you never got the month sick."
She said, "I guess.you're in the family way already. That's why you never
get the moon sick.. That's why you're that way."    She knew that I had no
month sick because I was staying with my father that time.- My man was there
too.  And they watched me close.   If I did some things, the baby would die,
they said.  If I lay on my stomach when I was lying down, that was no.good,
they said.  They were afraid of everything.   And when I was already in the
family way, my back hurt.   My grandmother told me that, "Your back hurts when
you have that." (A2)
The first time I had baby, I felt ashamed.   I just felt shame.   "You've
got a baby," they said.   And I felt a big shame.   I think everybody feels
that way, don't they?   And I was sick all the time.   I was so sick I couldn't
eat.  Sometimes one can't eat--some babi:es do that.   But I want trout fish
all the time, that time.   Some man got them for me.   They were little trout
fish.  An old lady cooked them on the coals.   (5).  That was Harriet's man's
sister. (22O)
I felt sick all the time when I had that first baby,and I lay down. I
couldn't stay up.  My grandmother built a big fire, and I lay there.    She made
a big fire and fixed it good--made a bed there for me to lie on. (g). She
used a blanket and some kind of straw.   She put,that on-top of the fire and
put the blanket on top that to make the bed.   There were lots of coals and
that made it good.  And they told me not to eat grease or meat.    I should eat
not fat meat and no grease.   That time they had whiteman' s grub already.  They
gave me mush and Indian mush too. We never ate fish either when we have a
baby. They're afraid of fish--that's no good. Then they watched me. My
father's mother watched me. For a month I never ate grease or meat or fish.
Indians do that.     )   They get some kind of illness, they say, if they do;
and that's why they're afraid and never eat meat.    It's the same Way when
they' re moon sick.
58
My back hurt all the time. My grandmother said, "That's because you're
family way." Anid they watched me. They got my mother too. My father had
a different woman there, and she watched me too. There was no white doctor
there that time. I don't think they knew the white man's doctor at that time
yet. Nobody had heard of the whiteman's doctor yet that time. (51) And
Harriet and her mother came there too. The old woman came from Green Lake.
They watched me too. Women know how to get along at such times. But that
time I didn't know how.
All that day I was suffering. And that night, about two o'clock, I had
the baby already. The Indians have songs for that kind too. It makes you well,
"Baby'  Get baby"' she was singing.    Women sing that.   That's the way they
make the baby come. It's just like a doctor. (g). It was my grandmother,
my father's mother, who sang. She knew how to sing that kind for the baby.
But I don't know that. I never can do that. They sang low so that nobody
could hear. They don't want anybody to know that song. They keep it to
themselves. She kept that song for herself--she didn't want anybody to know
it. (q). She sang four songs. She had four songs--that's all. My aunt
at Green Lake knows that kind too.    She's still living.   (Q).   That's my
mother's s ister.
After she sang, I got the baby. I was scared. He cried. He was shaking
his hands beside his head this way. I do like babies when they' re just young.
That was a boy baby. When I was young I said I wanted two girls and two boys.
"I think that's enough," I said playing.
(_). My grandmother cut the cord, I think. I didn't know that kind yet
that time. And she washed him and cleaned him up. Then she put him in a
blanket. I don't know who made the basket for him. They say that because
they put them in the basket that Indians never walk quick. Now they never
put them in the basket--they do just like the whites.
After the baby was born, they cared for me in the Indian way. They made
a fire and made the coals good and hot. Then they put in something grass,
wet grass, and they took it up. They covered the coals with the grass and
put over them some kind of blanket--make it good and clean to lie on over
the fire. Then there was hot water all the time. I just lay down there.
I never sat up.   Just lay in the bed all the time.    I felt weak that time.
When I was getting all right, I sat up and stood up too. They told me to
do that. They didn't want me to lie down then. "That's no good," they said.
I wasn't to walk around all the time. Just once in a while I should get up.
Then I would get stout, they said. (52)
When I was well already, that man's sister--his mother and sister came
there. (23) They brought a blanket and beads, and they gave the beads and
59
blanket to my grandmother. That time my father had lots of baskets. Lots of
baskets we had at that time. I had lots of baskets too one time at Green Lake.
Now I have no baskets--nothing!   She washed that baby too.   q). His sister.
Walt Mason's sister. Her name was Harriet.
Death of the First Child: And in about one month, about one or two months,
the baby died. We were in town that time, and the circus was there. A big
circus came there, and we looked at everything.   We didn't know about all
those things that came with that circus. They claim that was why that baby
didd.  That's how he got spotted, and his body came out all spots. (54)   There
was everything there--everything. Lions: That time everybody was there too.
There were Green Lake people and Vineland people in town.   One man told me,
"Don't come close to me!"he said. Maybe he had something. (55) We thought
it was that something that made that baby die that time. And then there were
some kind of animals--everything like that. There were camels and zebras and
lions.  That's how that baby died, we thought. (56)   We Indians call that
ma.idzin.  That means--animal he does something.   That's how that baby died,
we thought.  We don't know, but they claimed that.   They say that, but I don't
know.
We went home, and that night the baby was sick already.   For two days he
was suffering--crying, crying, crying.   And in two nights he died.  He passed
away.  That was the first baby I had.   It was a boy.  His body came out all
spots just like that dress.   Like that it came out on his body.
My grandmother was crying. I didn't know anything about crying that
time yet. (Did you cry?) Well, I was crying, but I didn't know anything
about crying. Crying is a special way. (j27) Then my father and the others
took the body and they buried it. After two or three days, they buried it.
That was the first baby I had so they buried it quick. (Why was that?)
They buried it quick because it might spoil. They put in beads and baskets.
I was there and saw it all.   (q). They had no priest yet that time.
That was the first baby we had.   He had no children before that either.
He'd been married before, but he had no baby before that one. We cried when
it happened.  Everybody was crying.   He told me, "It was something we saw.
That was why that baby died.   We ought not to have taken him there."  We
never thought about that. We never thought about it's going to do that. We
just went there to see the circus.
(Had you been nursing him?) I was trying to, but I had no milk. I don't
know why that was. They say that some women get that way and have no miilk.
But I tried to nurse him anyway.   That's why he died  I think.  That time
they didn't know about cow's milk either. They put salt in here in my breasts
to get milk there. When I have babies, I have no milk.
60
The first baby would be an old man, wouldn't he, if he had lived?
The Desertion of Mason: After that we just stayed there. Then we went to
pick hops that time at the Crosby place there. That was this side of the place
where they have the big wine place now. That fellow was good to Indians. We
stayed there, and we picked hops there that time. That time they picked hops
about a month. There were lots of hop pickers on the place.
Then my mother and the others moved away from Chiptwon to stay on some
white man's land near the graveyard. They stayed there, and I went with my
mother that time.   We stayed there about two or three years, I think.      And
that time my man was getting crazy. He left me. After he left me, I had
that baby--the one born dead. That was a boy too. It was born about two
years after the first baby died, I think. The Indians claim that when a
little baby dies, then the woman is family way quick again.
That man knew I was that way, but he left me and got another woman. I was
crying four days with that baby that time. I couldn't help it. I was crying
four days. I felt sorry for that baby born dead. It was already dead. I
saw it, and that was why I was crying.    I couldn't help it.    All the time I
was crying, crying. That happened about two months after he left me, I think.
He went to stay in Green Lake. He knew about the baby, but he left me. I
had no month sick that time, and that's how I knew.     I told him, "I haven't
had the month sick."
He was making a baby at Green Lake too the same time. He got a baby
there too, they say.   I don't know, but they said so.    They said he had a big
boy at Green Lake. He was a good man, but he was getting crazy. I never said
anything to stop him. I never said anything. I didn't know how to say any-
thing. He was a good man, and he was good to us. But he got crazy for
another woman. That's why he left me. His sister scolded him. "Don't do
that, brother:" she said to him. She always called him, "Brother." But he
minded nothing. He went to Green Lake. That was the first man I had. I
never went with a man before that time. He was the first man I had. They
told him to get fish at Green Lake, and he went there and found a woman
there. It was winter time. He stayed there the whole winter. All winter
he stayed there, and he got a baby there too. I knew that afterward. Somebody
told us. He left me, and he was crazy for that other woman. (58)
After the baby died, he came back. It was about a month after that that
he came back. He came to our house. I knew what he was doing. I had heard.
He'd left me, and he had another woman. But he came there. He came to the
rancheria, and was some place around there. He said that he was going to kill
me. One woman told us that he said that. That was what he said. Then he came
there to our house. So I hid and slept in the other house that night. I
61
slept in Peter's house that night.    (q).  That was old Chief Peter.   He was
Tim's grandgather.
He came to our house, my mother said. I hid my blankets and my every-
thing. I told my mother, "I don't want him to sleep in my blankets or in
my bed."t And I hid everythintg of mine. But he slept there anyway. My mother
ade him sleep there.    He slept in my bed.   I came there early in the morning
to our house.  My mother had breakfast   all ready.   I found him there.    I said
to my mother, "'Why do you want him to sleep in my bed?    I don't want him.   I
don't want him to sleep in my bed!"' He had another woman already--that was
why I didn't want him.   He had a boy there in Green Lake, they said.
My mother told him to get up. "Breakfast's ready!"' she said. He ate
there. He had never come there before, but he came there then. He told me,
"I hear you married another man. I heard about you marrying a man," he said
to me.  I never answered him.   And I said, "What did you come here for?    You
ought to stay with that woman and not come in here. Don't qome in here any-
more!  Stay with that woman! Don't bother me anymore!"      And he said, "I feel
sorry for you."  "Why?" I said.   "I don't feel sorry for you!"'   "You were a
little girl--that's why I don't want to whip you," he said.     "You were a little
girl when I married you.   That's why I don't want to whip.you," he said.     I
never answered him. I said. "That's why you got another woman! There's no use
in your coming around here."
He told me he'd heard I had a man already.     He was telling me that!   He
had a baby, but he was telling me that. "I don't want to bother you any more,"
he said. That was the last he talked to me.
He'd been good to me. For about one year after that first boy died, I
think, he was good. He stayed with us. He chopped wood and brought it to the
house. He was a good man, but he was getting crazy. He was good to my people
too, and he never drank whiskey or wine. That time there was lots of wine and
whiskey, but he never drank that. His family was good to me too. Now he has
no family. They're all gone. He's dead too. Somebody poisoned him, they say.
(Why was that?)  I don't know.   He killed somebody, and tbat's why they-did it.
That's what I heaid. That time I said he was getting crazy--that was how he
killed a man, they say.
He did that after he left me. That night it was raining. Raining hard.
They killed the man that night, they said.    I don't know how it happened.
They were drinking, I think.   They didn't kill the man, but the others didn't
want those two fellows so they said they had done it. They say a white man
really killed him, but those two men were blamed. The sheriff came there in
the morning and took them to town.   They told us somebody killed a man.     He
was a Green Lake man, the man that was killed.    We'd seen him that night, and
62
he talked to us. He told me in the Green Lake language,
Grandmother." He said that to me. I knew that language
Sulpher Bank language a little bit too. And that night,
killed him. (59)
"Walk around,
a little bit, and the
that night, they
Then they tried those two men. Everybody was in town that time. The man
that was killed was lying there just naked. Right here on the side of the
head they'd hit him. They hit him with something on the head. Everything
was mashed up. Everybody looked at it, but I didn't go there. I was afraid.
They used something and hit him right along the side of the head.
kDid you go to the funeral?) We
Green Lake after the trial was over.
hollering around there all day long.
it was in Green Lake.
never went there. They took him to
His mother was crying there in town,
But we didn't go to the funeral because
They tried those men, and they tried them. They they took them down below,
(q). They took them to San Quentin. He told Louis White that he would write
to me. He said he wanted me. Louis told me that. He said he wanted me to
come. But I said, "'I don't want to. I'm afraid to come." I don't know how
many years they were put in for, but they claimed the other boy was the one
who killed the man. He was my uncle too. And he was my man's brother's boy.
But he never killed that man, though they claimed he did, He died in prison
down below. The other one came back after about five years. He was still
alive.   (Which one came back alive?)  That was Walt Mason.
They sent the body of the other one up here, and somebody buried him.
But they stole his body, and they buried him after one year. After one year
they buried him over there in Jones Valley. They stayed in Jones Valley
that time. We went to see it. That man took the body out. It was night
time. They were afraid of the white men. They took him out and put him on
top of a blanket.   That's all he wore.  Then they put in beads, lots of beads,
and lots of blankets; and they put him back. I thought, "Why are they steal-
ing that man?" That was why I wanted to see that man and find out. (Which one
was that?) That wasn't Walt Mason--it was the other one. His brother's boy.
He had been there one year, and he was all black. Just like something getting
that way--dead. I saw it. I was there that time and saw it. He was just
black. (Why did you go?) He was our relative, that boy. Everybody was there.
There were lots of people there for his funeral. He was a nice-looking boy--a
nice-looking boy.
When the other one was below yet he asked Louis
told me that he wanted me again. That was Walt. He
wanted me to come back when he got back here. But I
was afraid of him.   He came home, and he stayed with
White and Louis White
wanted me again. He
didn't want him. I
a white man in Jones
63
Valley.  He stayed there at that place.    After he had stayed home about five
years, he came to our camp over there. That time we were picking over at the
Shevlin ranch. That time he came there. My grandmother was there too--my
father's mother.  She came and stayed there too that time.     He came there and
told me, "Come back with me!" He wanted me to go back with him. I said no.
I was afraid of him when he came back. I'd forgotten him already, and that's
why I didn't want to go with him. He was a good man, but he was getting crazy.
He was drinking too much wine and too much whiskey. That was making him crazy.
(Were you living with anyone that time?) I had no man that time. I was
alone, just alone.  He went back from there, and went way up there in Jones
Valley where he stayed with a white man. Then he married another woman. His
sister didn't want her. That was this Bess Clinton. (60) She was a little
girl that time--just a small girl, But his sister didn't want her. That was
why he went to Round Valley. He stayed there two or three years. Then he got
sick.  Somebody poisoned him.   That was because they had killed that man.     (i).
I don't know who did it. They say they know that somebody did it. I don't know,
but that's what they say.
Bess was small that time. And she stayed with him that time when he was
sick already. They brought him home to Jones Valley. That place he passed
away. He was lying there dead, and she was sleeping with him, lying beside
him. That was when she was small.    His boy at Green Lake was dead too.     He was
a big fellow already when he died.    (q).  He got something--he had some kind of
cough that time. That's why he died.
Later Marriages:   (Where were you living then?)   I had children that time by
another man.  I'd had that big boy I lost.    One of them was a big boy.    We
were staying at Brushville then. Right there we had a graveyard. There are
lots of people there. I have three children there. I lost three children
there--one girl and two boys. That man left me too.
(Where did you meet him?) We were staying there by that white graveyard.
They had a sweathouse there, and they were dancing there.     We talked together,
and that's how we got together. That man I was talking about, that Walt, I
was married to him then.   The other man told me I shoula stay with him.     That's
what he said to me.   Somebody told him that Walt, about it.    That's why he
said that to me when he came back from Green Lake. (q). That was Jack Young.
I never had gone with him, but that man said that. Somebody told him he said.
After they took him below, I got the other man. He was staying there at that
place near the white graveyard. That was our place. We stayed there about
five years.
My mother didn't want that man. I got with him the time we were dancing
Indian dances there all the time. We had a sweathouse there, and we were
64
dancing. That time we talked, and we stayed together. He talked to me a long
time, and we got to be good friends. Then we got together. He said he wanted
me. He told me he wanted to stay with me. Twice he said that to me. And he
said, "I want you."   He said, "I m going to stay with you."   "All right," I
said. (61)
The first time I always hated him. And my mother didn't like him. He
was too mean. (Why did you marry him?) I wanted to. I thought he was a good
man. And he bothered me so much. That's why I married him. Afterwards he
always  whipped me.   We had no children then.   But when we had children, he
quit that. When we came together he was always jealous. The first time I
didn't know he was mean, so I stayed with him. My mother didn't like him.
She didn't want him. She'd heard that he was too mean. He was mean and
jealous, always talking jealously. That was why my mother didn't want him.
But I fixed my mother. Afterwards I thought about what I was going to do.
(q). I think he had been married before that. That's the way they live,
I think. That's what they said.
We were together about three years. Then I had a baby. That time it was
a girl. My mother took care of me. It was born dead. It never moved. First
it was moving around inside, and then it was dead.    I don't know why it got that
way. It was dead inside. They claim that it was because we were in the wagon.
We were going to the coast that time. I was family way already--big already,
and we were going over in the wagon. That's why the baby died, they said. There
was too much shaking.
We stayed on there at that place after the baby was buried. Then he left
me. He got another woman--got married to her. And I stayed on there a long
time at that place over there on the other side of town near the white grave-
yard.  I stayed there about three or four years, I think, with my mother.     She
stayed there then. Sometimes I stayed with my own father, Tom Hill. He lived
in Chiptown. He had another woman, but I stayed with him. He wanted me too.
While I was staying with them, I never did anything. Sometimes I made baskets,
fine baskets, and sold them. I always stayed with my father and mother all
the time. Even when I was married I stayed with them sometimes. My mother
washed for white women sometimes in town. I went with her sometimes. She
washed for the Sisters too. She washed towels and pillow case and dish towels,
and she ironed them too. Now they have machines to do it. Sometimes I helped
her. She ironed for them, and they payed her three dollars. She gave me one
dollar and fifty cents. She payed me that. I never go to the Convent anymore.
I always went ther, but that old Sister is always sick all the time now, and
I never see her. I liked her. That time I worked for the Sisters, I was about
thirty five or thirty six. We were working for that woman they called Rush's
wife. My mother worked for her too. I went with her and washed some clothes.
65
That was a good woman.   She gave my mother everything.   I just went there with
my mother. (62)
Then Young's mother told him she didn't want him to leave me. She didn't
want that other woman he had.   After that I stayed ten years with Young.   I had
two other children, I think, when I was with him. I had my boy--the one big
boy. He died when he was about nine years old. That time we were staying at
Brushville, and he died of something. Then there was one tiny little one,
three or four weeks old. Something troubled it. They claimed that an Indian
poisoned it.  The Indians claimed that, but I don't know.    My children never
grew up, just the same as my mother's children never grew up.
He left me again after I had those two babies by him--one girl and one
boy.  He got another woman.   I never said anything about it.   His mother didn't
want me to leave him. She wanted me to stay with him, she told me. She didn't
want me to go away.   She was a good woman.  "Stay with us.   Don't go away'.
she said to me.   (Why did you leave?)  He wanted the other woman pretty bad.
She was a crazy woman who wanted everybody.   He married the other woman.   I
liked him, but he left me,   I couldn't help it.' Then I had to stay alone.
My mother didn't want that man.   She told me about him.   Men always do that
to me.  They stay with me, and thep they get another woman and leave me.    That's
how I married four men. This last man I lost, we stayed together for forty
seven years. (6)
(Who was the third one?) Tanner, Tanner Wood. (Did you tell me about him
before?) No, I never told that. He did just the same as the others did to me.
He was an old man. I was young. But he left me and was looking for another
woman. He stayed at that place way up there in Jones Valley. I was staying
there with his sister.   One time he came there, and it looked like he wanted
that Harriet and Bonny too. Bonny was young that time. OA) He wanted Bonny,
but Harriet wanted him awfully bad.   She had a man, but she wanted him anyhow.
That was how he was getting crazy. They told me about it.
He was staying at Chiptown, and I was staying with his sister. He was
there sheering sheep, and he stayed there for good. He neVer came back. So
I thought about going home. I thought I would go home. My mother was staying
there at Brushville that time. So I went home from that place. I thought
about going home, and I got a big basket--just a big basket.    I had a small one
too--a round one. That big basket my father's mother made for me. I took that
with me, and I got away from there. After sundown I got away from there. I
took everything of mine--all my things. Nobody saw me. And I went to my uncle's
house there. One night I slept there. The next morning I went to my mother's.
I went home that da'y and left that man. After I stayed there about a month,
he came there.
66
He came there, and I hid from him. I went some place by the other house.
I told my mother, "I'm going to get away from here."     I slept that night by
Tillie's house there. (@Q ) He came there, and then he went back home. I
came back early in the morning to my mother's house. She told me that he had
come there and had asked for me, she said. He told her about it. She told
him I'd gone some place. That's all I saw him that time. That was the last
time.
That time I was going to school again. Only I had two babies that time.
I wanted to go to school anyhow, but I couldn't go. The baby girl was sick
that time. She died. She died before the boy did. (g). I don't know; I
don't know. They claim that somebody poisoned all of my children. That's
how I lost so many children, they claim.     I don't know who did it.
(When had you gone to school before?) When the Sisters built a school
house over there near that white graveyard. Those were the first Sisters.
That place I was going to school, but I had a baby already. And they said,
"Old lady." That's why I never went to school. They laughed at us. So we
never went to school that time. (Why did you want to go?) I liked to go to
school, but they laughed at us so I couldn't go. That's how I'm like I am
and don't know nothing. Two of us tried to go that time. The other was a
half-breed.
The big boy I told you about, somebody stole his hat. That's how he
got sick, they say. We were working the hops over there that time at the
Shevlin place. We were training hops. That morning he was sick. He was
staying with his grandmother then, with his father's mother.     We left him
there.  That time they stole his hat.    That morning he never sat up.    He was
just stiff all the time.   He couldn't move.    He was just stiff.   They stole
his hat; that's how he got sick. (66)    From that time he was sick all the time,
all the time. The doctor never helped him. So we hired an Indian doctor, but
he got worse, worse, worse. we had an Indian doctor for him, but he died any-
how. The doctor was singing, just singing. He was just singing, but the
Indian doctors cure when they doctor. He was doctoring him about three days,
and he was getting worse and knew nothing. For three or four days the doctor
doctored him, and that night he died. That time everybody had gone. The
doctor had gone home.
We kept him about three days, I think, after he died. Then we buried him
there at that place.   Brushville we call that place.    He was dead, but we paid
the doctor--the Indian doctor who had doctored him. We paid him beads. (Who
did they belong to?) They were my mother's. We had the priest and the sisters,
and they buried him. There was the church house there too that time. They had
built the church there.
67
(Someone stole his hat?) That's what they claimed, that somebody stole
his hat.  I don't know who that was--some man, somebody.   Someone took it and
poisoned him.  The sucking doctor knows that.   (Why did they do it?)  They don't
want us, that's why. That's why we have no children. We had lots of children.
My mother had lots of children, but they all died.   I had lots of children, but
only one is left.  We call her baby all the time.   I never named my children,
Just call them "Baby."
When that boy died, I had no children left. That was the last one I had.
The young one had already died. I felt sorry for him w1en he died. I just
felt sorry for my boy, and I put in beads with him. I put in lots of beads
and baskets too. I made them. My mother and I made them. At that time
she was still making baskets too.
After that I still stayed with my mother all the time. Tim was there
too. And I had two brothers at that time. They died too that time. And
my boy was dead too. When he died, his father bought a suit for him. A
good suit. He would have had a baby already if he had lived, I think. That's
what I think about. He was growing quick that time. He was growing long,
tall. (E7)
Conversion to Catholicism:   (When did you become a Catholic?)  I was already
married when they baptised us. (68) They baptised everybody.    I was baptised
in Round Valley when I was young, my mother says.   But I don't know anything
about that. Anyway they baptised me. The priest put water on my head. (Why
did you have them do that?) I don't know. They said it made one feel good.
It was to feel good. They told me about that praying. They wanted people
to pray all the time, they said. Everybody was baptised that time, and that's
why I did it. I believed in that praying. When I pray, it feels good. Sister
Theresa told me that.  That Jesus knows our language, she said.   "You pray
for him in the Indian language," she said to me. "If you want something,
call for that in the Indian language," she said. "He knows our language,"
she said. When I pray a little, that helps me a little bit.    That's why I
wanted that.
(Did you ever see him?) Yes, I saw him. I was sick that time at Green
Lake.  I was lying down there that time.   I didn't know anything that time.
My eyes were shut, and I lay there in the bed.   Then jost light came over my
eyes.  I looked up.  Jesus was standing there.   He had a mule there too.  He
was standing there looking at me. I ought to have kept still. And I looked
up and saw it. He's a nice looking man. (g). He looks just the same as his
picture. Just like that he looks. Just the same. He never said anything to
me. If I'd kept still, he would have said something to me. He would have
told something to me. But I woke up and jumped up. I was scared. There was
light--just light. Then it just died out, and he went away. I never saw him
after that.  That's all I saw of him.   I said, "Help me, father."  I said,
68
"Help me: Come to me: Help me!" In the Indian language I talked to him.
When I was in the hospital, that city lady was asking me if I knew how
to pray. "I know how a little bit,"1 I said, "but not much." "You pray any-
way,"t she said.  "That helps a lot." (e)
Marriage to Martinez: After that boy died, I still stayed there all the time.
In the summer I picked hops and went camping. For a long time I was going
around like that. Then that time I found that old man. (i). Martinez.
That old man who died. He was a Red Bluff man. His father came from Tripton
County. We stayed together all the time, all the time, all the time. He
didn't stay at Red Bluff. He didn't want to stay there. We went over there
just when there was dancing. He didn't want to stay there, he said.
His grandfather told him not to stay there. That's why he went around
everywhere, he said. He had lots of grandfathers over there, but they're all
dead now. And his real grandfather told him not to stay there. He told him
to go away somewhere. That's why he stayed some place around. He stayed at
Green Lake some place. His mother was from Red Bluff, and his father was from
Wheeler. He knew that Wheeler language too. His grandfather told him, "I
don't want you to stay here. I don't want you to die. If you stay here, you're
going to die. Somebody will poison you." That's all he said. They hated
each other, and that's why he said that, I think. He had a big family, and
they all hated their grandfather, he said. (70)
There were four in the family the first time I went with him. There
were three brothers and one sister and their mother. Their father died a
long time ago, I think. They're all dead now. The sister died too. They
got some kind of sickness. That sister, she died quick. They stayed around
here a long time.
I was a little young yet that time he came to me. I don't think he'd
stayed with a woman yet that time. He had no children then. It was over there
in that hop field, way over there where the Indians stay, on this side of the
Indian Place. (LI) They were staying with a white man there. I stayed there
too. We picked hops there, and they chopped wood there. I was living with
my mother that time. My brother was living yet then. He was about twenty six
that time.   Maybe twenty six.   He was a big man already that time, but he'd
never gone with a woman yet. Men are always like that, but girls--the first
time they know something, they want men. In the early days, we never did that.
We didn't care about men that time.
(How long after the third man left before you went to live with Martinez?)
It was a long time.   About one year.   I was staying alone all the time.    I didn't
want any men. Then I thought I was going to marry another man, a Manzanita man.
69
But that man was staying over at the Post ranch. And one time we met each
other in town, and he took me home. We never knew each other before that. He
never drank, but he was in town. His family was in town too. He came to me
and talked to me,   He said, "I want you.  Come, let's go home."f  I went with
him and stayed there.
We picked hops there, and when we were through they moved to Henry
Lawson's place over here.   That time Matthew Henry stayed there. We moved
there.  My mother and the others were at Shevlin's place, and I went there.
I wanted to stay with my mother now. After hop-picking, when everything was
finished, they moved up to Luke Henry's place and stayed there all winter.
That was Matthew Henry's brother. They chopped wood there. All winter long
they chopped wood there. They moved up over there in the hills and stayed
there all one winter. About May, about June, they finished the job, and they
left that place. Then they moved back over to Tripton County. They had no
house or anything, but just camped out by the lake. They stayed there at
Pleasant Valley that time. From there they came back here.
After we had been living together about two years, I was family way
already. That was a boy. It was the first baby we had. We were glad about
it. He wanted that baby too. We came to this rancheris where my mother was
staying, and we stayed with them that time.   We stayed there all winter, all
year around. That place we had the baby.
His mother and sister came there where I had the baby. They brought some
blankets; they brought some beads too. His mother said, "I don't want anything
in return. I give you these beads for nothing." (L2) My mother was sitting
there too.  I told my mother about it.   I said, "She doesn't want to be paid
back."  That's what I told my mother.   "She doesn't want anything for this,"
I told my mother.   She spoke a different language.  That's why my mother didn't
know what she said. I talked that language a little bit that time. And I
gave my mother the beads. My mother fixed food for them, and they ate it.
About 4:00 they went back home after staying there all day.
That baby cried all the time, all the time.   I couldn't nurse it.   We
got cow's milk, but it didn't want it. It didn' t want to take it. He was
a little bit of a thing, but he didn't want to take it.    I had a sore on my
titty that hurt. That's why I didn't want to make it nurse. Cow's milk isn't
good for babies, so they got canned milk for it.   But he didn't want to take
that either.  He didn't want milk.   (g). Dr. Richards was the doctor then, I
think.  Again he got cow's milk.   He said that cow's milk is better.   "I think
cow's milk is better for him,' he said.   So he got it again.   They got it
there at Brushville.  He got it from just one cow, the way the doctor told him
to do.  That man who is dead got it. (73)   Every morning, I think, he got it.
The doctor told him what to do, and he gave us something to be drunk with it.
70
He told us to add a little bit of warm water. The doctor told us to do that.
It wasn't to be thick, he said.   That's what the doctor told him.
I don't know how that baby got sick, but his bowels moved and moved every
day so he was suffering all day long and all night long. We never slept. But
he was getting big anyway. He knew something already.     Then the doctor told
me to nurse him. But he would never take my titty. After he drank that other
milk, he would never take it.   He was crying, crying, crying.    He didn't want
it, or milk either.   He didn't want any milk either.   We couldn't do anything.
They couldn't do anything.   We showed the doctor, but he never did anything.
He didn't know how. The baby was getting worse and worse every day. The
doctor said, "We can't do anything to help it."    He got a nurse, but she couldn't
do anything. She told him that. The doctor did nothing. Then the baby couldn't
move already. He couldn't move. Only with his hands he could move. That was
all. Children never die quick. I've seen that. While he had some kind of
flesh, he still lived.   He was living.  When he had just bone, he died.
I don't know why he died. Maybe the milk was no good. Something was
wrong. Something was wrong some place. They were singing for him too. Jay
Kenny was singing for him. But he died anyway. I don't know why. It was
the milk that did that, they claimed. Milk is no good. His bowels moved too
much, and that's how he got that way, they said. The doctor never stopped it.
He ate something.   The Indians claim that when you have a young baby you should
never eat some things or the baby will get that way. (q). I don't know what
it was I ate. Honey is the worst thing, they say. But I never ate that. I
know that kind is no good for babies.    My grandmother said that when one of
her babies was big already and playing around he got sick.    She told me about
it.  "Don't eat that kind," she said, "when you have a baby."    She didn't
know about that the first time, and she ate it before she was big already.
That's why he got sick, and his bowels moved so. He almost died, she said.
And she told me not to take that when I had a baby. I don't know what it
was with my baby. I've forgotten. (i4)
He died.   I saw that.  I was afraid of it too.   I think I got the priest
that time, and he was baptised.   When he was going to pass away, the priest
was going to pray for him. For his last breath, I think, he was going to
pray for him. That was the first priest we had. I don't know what his name
was. The sister came out too every day, every day. Sunday morning he passed
away. It was Sunday morning, early in the morning, about three o'clock at
night, I think. That was after the priest prayed for him. And my mother
cried. We were crying there. Everybody was crying there. My man's sister
and brothers and mother came there. Then he was buried. There was a funeral,
and they buried him there below.
I said already that we buried him, hadn't I? Where were we going that
time? We were going to his mother's. We went there to the Henry place there.
71
They wanted him to work there. That was why we went. He was going to work
for Matthew Henry--so we went there. We stayed there about a year. They
always stayed there with MAtthew all the time, working for him on everything.
We were together about a year and a half after that, and we had another baby.
That was a boy too. We had two boys and two girls--that makes four. Everyone
of them died, except just that one. That's the last one I had. (75)
We stayed in the same place all the time up there. And after hop-picking
time I was big with the baby. That was the next one. After hop-picking time,
it was about one week after hop-picking time, I think, that time they killed
his brother. The youngest one. He was a boy yet that time. I don't know
who killed him. There were lots of people around there, and they killed him.
We were down at the Luke Henry place first and then we went over there
to the Shevlins'. Then they moved over to Matthew Henry's place again. We
started hop-picking that morning, and that night after dinner, we heard that
he had been killed. Somebody killed him. Someone came there and told his
brother.   (q).  I don't know why they killed him. Maybe he was drunk, and
that way why they killed him.   We didn't know about it.  We didn't see it.
There were lots of people in here at that time, just like there is now with
hop-picking. It was hop-picking time. They were here from everywhere. It
was just like when the man was killed this summer. Just like that they put
him on the tracks. But this time they found the body. When the eight o'clock
train came, they found him there and took him to town. (76)
Move to Green Lake: I had the baby one week after they killed that boy. That
time we were finished with the hops. We went to Green Lake that time. (77)
What was going on in town that night? It was the election, I think.
That old man who is dead went to town. He went to see the election. And
he was drunk, but he wasn't very drunk. He saw them running after him.
Some Indian did something to a white man, I think. Ned Clinton shot a white
man with a sling shot. Everybody had a fight there in town. They whipped
all the Indians. There was lots of noise that night. There was pistol
shooting, and the sound of horses. Bob Hill was coming, and he had a pistol
and kept shooting it. He was running in front of everybody shooting it.
He didn't shoot nobody--he just shot it up in the air. This man who died
was there. He saw them running after him. Those white fellows were going
to ship him too. So he had an old knife--a broken knife. And he got one
of them on the chin. He never saw when he hit, but he hit the man. That
time it was Fred Littleton he caught. He hadn't done anything, but Fred
hit him. That old man had blood on his face so he couldn' t see anything,
and he did that. (78)
Those Littletons were good men, but they say they drank too much. That
Fred Littleton drank too much. His mother didn't like that when he fight the
72
Indians. That time Fred Littleton told somebody he was going to kill that
old man. He didn't want that man in here. He was going to do something to
him. That time another white man and Fred Littleton were together, and Fred
did that to that old man. James Littlton, his older brother, said, "What
makes you do that to the Indian? Indian people worked for my father all the
time," he said to Fred. My mother told him that too. And his mother told
him, Indian people are good to us, good to us. They never fought your father."
His mother said that to Fred. That's how we got away from here. All of us
worked for his father, Old Man Littleton. He was good to Indians, but Fred
did that. His father was good to Indian people; he never abused the Indians.
She told him that. "What makes you do that to Indians? she asked him. "Your
father never said anything to Indians. He was good to Indians," she said to
him. Maybe he was drunk and that was why he did that. "It's your fault that
the Indian did that to you,   she told him.
I was home that time. We were camping at Shevlin's place picking hops
there. I was home that night. That old man, he came home and told me about
it. He stayed away all night and came home in the morning--at dawn, I guess.
He said that all the white people were after all the Indian men. So one white
man told him to stay there by the fire--he was safe there. He said, "I cut
somebody because they chased us around. I'm going to my mother's place tonight.
I won't be home, I guess." That old man came home the next morning about ten
from his mother's place. Andy Tapner came home right after he did and told
him they were going to kill him if he stayed here and that he should go away
as soon as he could. Fred Littleton wanted to kill him, but James Littleton
told him to get away from here. James Littlton obeyed his mother, but Fred
didn't. Their father was good to Indians, but they drank too much.
That's how we got away from here and went to stay in Green Lake. They
just chased us away from here, so we went over there to live.
(Where were your mother and Tim that time?) She was here. She was
staying over at Brushville that time. She knew we were going because that
old fellow came home and told them that night, that morning. She didn't say
anything. She said, "Go on then. Go on before you get killed." She was
crying, I think, when we was going. Her old man was there too. He said to
us, "Be brave. We didn't do nothing, but they did themselves and they chased
us. So go on."
We used that old man's horse and wagon, and another man went with us. We
had a baby that time we went ther to Green Lake. He brought the wagon back
when we got over to Green City. They took us to Pleasant Valley from here.
At Pleasant Valley: (What did you do at Pleasant Valley?) I stayed home there,
washed dishes, cooked, and washed clothes. We didn't stay there long.
73
One-lady there didn't like us there, so we went away from there. Every
place they hated.us, it looks like. (q). She was jealous of me over that old
man.  She was jealous over her own husband and that old man. It was at the
table.  We were eating breakfast.   He was laughing.  So she said, "Why don't
you keep some woman for a sister or aunt or mother instead of loving them?"
She said that--the old woman said that. And then her husband said, "I don't
love anyone. I feel happy because we have company here. And we can't be
mean. We have to laugh sometime. Can't anybody laugh? A person doesn't
have to love someone to laugh."
The daughter stayed home. I was going to town with that man and that
old lady too. And that man died was going to stay home too. We left them
at home. Then I found some other woman in Lakeport, and I went home with her.
That old lady thought I had gone with her son-in-law and got even madder. We
looked for her every place, and we didn't find her.    She was home when we
got home.  She thought I went with her son-in-law.    That was why she was saying
that. Her daughter, the one who stayed home was that old man's wife. That's
why they said that. They expected me to be that way too. The other woman
told me. (79)
And then this woman's daughter was pregnant. That night she had that
baby, we didn't know it was there. We didn't know it. She was in the other
house. And they told her to cook and eat. She didn'-t cook. She was sick.
They told her to cook. She brought the baby in several days after it was
born.   They told her to make diapers and gowns and things for the baby,
and she made them.   They forced her.  The baby cried all the time, every
night. Never stopped. The lady's nipple was bad. It was infected, and
the baby didn't have any milk. It cried all the time. Eveyytime she nursed
it, blood came out.   The other grandmother came there too.   She came from
Sandy Point. She watched the baby and took care of it. When she watched it,
the baby didn't cry.   She took good care of it.  She nursed it from her own
breast. (q). No, she didn't have a baby then, but she had had babies before
that time.  She had big children.   We went away when that lady was still there.
She was jealous of both of us. (q). That was my mother's sister, I think.
I called her shedai.
So I went down there to Watling with my aunt that time. We stayed there
about two weeks, and then my brother came there.   They had a quarrel, I guess,
with that old lady.   That's all.
In Tripton County: Then we stayed at Clayville at the lake. I don't know
what they call that place the other side of the lake. There was an Indian
rancheria there then, and we stayed there. There was one white man there.
We were going to build a house there, and he didn't want us to. I don't know
if he owned the land there. He was a German they said. That was Hiram Roller.
74
He's my half-brother. We call it brother, but you fellows call it--what do
you call it? Cousin? My mother's half-sister's son. It's that kind of a
relation. He's dead now. He was a half-breed. He had a white father. He
stayed there a long time. There was an Indian rancheria in there all the
time. He didn't tell us to go away. He said it to my brother. He got mad,
and we moved away.
We went to Green Lake at bean picking time. We stayed at a bean field--
Nat French's. We stayed there and worked there picking beans. They'd started
the bean fields already. We picked beans there the first time they picked
them. That was the first year we came there. I had a baby that time yet. It
was a little baby--a boy. We came there, moving away from the other rancheria;
and we stayed there picking beans. Nat French was the bean man there the first
time. He had big bean canneries at Green Lake. He was a poor man, he said,
and after he planted beans he made money. At first he worked for somebody all
the time. He told everybody that.
There were lots of people then at Green Lake when they were picking
beans there first. Lots of Indians picked beans that time--old people and
young people too. There were lots of Indian people that time. Now they're
gone, and hardly anybody is left there. They paid them a dollar and a half
a day. Everybody, men and women, got the same amount. The first time they
picked, only the men folks worked. No women picked at first. After they
were picking already, the women folks worked too.    They made lots of money
with those beans. There were lots of sisters and lots of mothers all working
together.
They played cards there in the camps, and they played the grass game too.
One fellow told us, "I can't help   it," he said.   "I can't help  it. I did
something wrong." He stayed on this side of our camp. He said to us, "I have
something. X like to win money, and I did something for luck. It's not good
for the baby, but I did it," he said to us. That time that baby got sick.
That was Sunday morning. That man had told us about it already. The baby got
sick.  It had some kind of fever.   "I have luck," he told us.   He was trying
to win money. After that the baby got sick. (.)
I had nothing; that old man who died had nothing. We had no beads that
time. That's why we never called the Indian doctor and told him to do something.
We just couldn't help. So he was worse every day, every day, every day. My
mother and the others were below that time. They had gone way down below to
Bodega Bay to pick potatoes. They always went there every year. So we had
nothing. That's why I never called a doctor. The Indian doctor would have
helped it a little bit; but there was no doctor. (81)
He never--he was dead quick that time. He died at the same place. We
buried him there at Green Lake. I never saw my mother that time. They were
75
down below. So we buried him alone. My aunt was there. They told my aunt
there, and the other one I call my aunt too, They were there. Everyone was
there. And that old Jim--he's our relative too--asked me, "tWhere are you going
to bury that baby?"  My aunt told me that we should bury him in her graveyard.
That old man told me, "I'm sorry I did that."   He didn't mean to do it, but he
did it anyway.  He wanted to win money.   That was why he did it.   He was my
uncle. He stayed at the Green Lake rancheria. (q). He's my mother's half-
brother. I don't know what kind of luck he had that time.
After that we picked beans.   We picked beans that time for pretty nearly
two months. They dried and were pulled off, and then they grow again. That's
why we picked so long there. That was the first time I picked beans there.
When we got through with that, we bought the land. Five acres of land,
I think, that was.  We stayed there a long time.   Every winter we had floods
and all those things. We built a house there, and that's where we stayed.
That was before the government gave land to the Indians.
I didn't have any children that time. That time I was sick all the time.
One old lady was dreaming about me all the time. She told somebody that some-
body had given me a baby girl. That was her dream. And she told it to some-
body.  (j_).  That old lady is dead. (87)   She told the dream to my mother.
That's how I got sick all the time. She dreamed all the time about somebody
had given me a baby girl. That's how I got sick all the time, she said. And
I didn't know it.
It was seven years after the boy I had last died I had no moon sick. I
got just good. Then that time we worked by the lake there and stayed there--
everybody moved there that time--I had the month sick for the first time after
seven years. I was afraid. We were staying there by the lake. There was a
big rock there at that time. We were going to build a house there that time.
I never even went out. I just stayed in the tent all day long, all day long.
That lasted about five days, I think.   That was the first month   sick I had
for seven years. I told him about it, I told my man, "I have that kind.
Don't sit toward the water this way," I said. "Sit this way," I said to him
all the time.  I said to him, "You might see something there."    That water's
no good, they say.  The Green Lake water has something.    He said he would do
that.  After about five days, I washed myself clean and we both went swimming.
We had a bath in the water. It was cold there that time. And I cooked then.
Indians never cooked when they're month sick. That's no good. That's what
they said.  If a woman did, somebody--some relative--would get sick, they
claimed. It would be one of her men folks, they said. Lhey claimed that.
They were afraid of that.   (q).  No, I never got sick from that.   They never
cooked when they were month sick because they were afraid. If they cooked
that- time and they had a brother, he would get TB they claimed. That's why
76
they don't cook. (83)
We stayed on there about one month, and Nat French got that old man. He
wanted him to work for him. Then we quit the lake, and he worked for the
boss. I don't know how many day he worked. One month, I think. Everybody
from Green Lake was working for Nat French that time. We were all staying
by the lake there, all of us staying together. That morning he brought the
truck there and got us all. We moved away from there. That time they were
planting beans already. That old man planted beans all the time. He knew how
to do it.  That's why Nat always got him.
Then we moved home. We stayed home while he worked there. In the morning
his work started.   He was planting beans.   That time I had no baby yet.   I
drank pain-killer. Some kind of medicine. I drank it all the time. That made
good blood, I think. That's why I got the month sick that time. That's what
I thought. We look for that all the time now, but maybe they've quit making
it. It's bitter, but you put sugar with it. I drank it with hot water.
That place I was family way again. That was when we were staying there
at home. I stayed at home. His mother and we stayed there at home. That
baby was a girL. It was the one before this Bernice. She was big already
before Bernice was born. I almost forgot--that time that man's sister died
too. That was the year after that girl was born. Oh, no! It was the year
before she was born. His sister died and never saw her. And when that girl
was big already, she died. We buried her in that new government land there.
That was the Fisher Rancheria. She was crawling around the table already,
that time the government bought the land and gave it to the Indians.
(Was Bernice born then?) I don't know. I can't remember that. Maybe
Bernice would know. Maybe her father told her. I know that girl was born
four years before Bernice, but that's all I know. This Bernice was the next
one.  She was born on the government land after we came there.     She was born
a year later.   She was the last baby I had.  4i)   That old man was sick
when she was born, and I had to do it myself.    He fell off a house and he
had a broken bone, I guess.
(q). He was staying in the house at Green Lake, and he was fixing
the roof. He fell down. That's why he was sick all the time. That time he
was staying in Green Lake. The first time the government gave the land there,
they told him to build that house. That's why he was working there. He was
sick all the time. He never worked. That's why I made baskets all the time.
I made lots of baskets then, fine baskets. (85)
After Bernice was born, I took her and took care of her good so that she
grew. We had that one girl. That's all. We lived in Green Lake until she
77
was big--about sixteen or seventeen.   We stayed there all the time, and we
worked.  That old fellow was better, and he worked.
I felt good at Green Lake. I felt good back there. I like it there,
and I have a big house there.   The government gave us land to live there,
but we bought our own lumber and we built houses there. We still have that
house over there yet. Somebody stays there. She promised to buy it. She
was going to fix it up and stay there, but she hasn't sent the money yet
except for fifteen dollars. I liked that place, but it was no good in winter.
Lots of water there then.   No roads there, and lots of water.    It's a good
place. We got fish there in the winter time--lots of fish. We sliced them
and dried the fish.   That was black fish.   But now no fish they say in Green
Lake. (86)
(Tell me more about what you did when you lived there.) My head is no
good. I never think about that. I never think nothing about it. I just can't
remember. One time they danced there. We danced there one time, Indian dances.
Lots of people were there that time. They came from Manzanita and Red Bluff
and Mission and from Vineland too. Big tables they put it there that time.
That was after one man went to be a soldier in the army.    They made a dinner
over it. Everybody ate. We cooked fish; we cooked Iidian bread and put fish
on top of it. They played baseball--everything they played that day. They
danced just one night that time, I think.    And Sunday they put up the table.
There were lots of people there. The people came for the dinner. (q). My
brother gave the dance. They call it my brother. His name was Hiram Roller.
We all helped him. We put up money. We cooked. The money we put up, we
bought bread and everything. Pies. We got mush and p..nole. After that they
went home. It was finished already.
One time we danced for the people over there at Green City. We were
dancing four nights there, and lots of people came. Lots of white people
came. It was about the fourth. They started a little before the fourth,
and the last night was on the fourth.   There was a carnival there too.    It
was a big time.
(What else did you do?) I washed clothes all the time. That little creek
there, everybody washed clothes there. I liked' to wash there. One old man
told me, "No good place that Fisher Creek."    He said, "fIt's dangerous."
You're not supposed to go there when you're menstruating. You see all
kinds of things. In the early days, somebody got killed there. There is
some kind of duck--some kind of mallard duck there. The Indians call that
"deer duck." It's got feet just like a deer. That's why it's dangerous.
And the people from there were mean, and all of them are dead. That old
man was telling me about it.   There were mean people there, and they all died.
They killed each other. That was the early day people.
78
(Tell me about when Elaine came to live with you?) She lived with me
ever since she was born. She thought I was her mother. She called me, "Mama"
all the time. I wanted a baby. That's why I took care of her good. That's
why she's stayed with me all the time since she was born. She was born at
Green Lake. Bernice stays with me all the time too. (87)
Return to Brushville: (How did you happen to come back to this rancheria?)
After he talked to Fred Littleton that time, we came back here. For a long
time, about six years, we never came over here. We stayed there at Green
Lake. I came over here because my mother is here. We came back the time
she was sick, and they thought she was going to die. That's why we came here.
It's about six or seven years now since we came back here. (88) Fred Littleton
wanted that man who died to work for him. So somebody told him to go there.
He worked for Fred, and they talked together that time. Since then we come
here all the time. The other white fellow said that it was Fred's fault that
the old man did that to him. He neve fought with Fred, but Fred did that to
him. That's what the white fellow told him.
A Long Illness: (How about this last time you were sick?) I was sick. I had
lain in bed about five months, I think, because I had that trouble.     I had
trouble on this side, and I had a big belly. Dr. Orman was doctoring me. I
had--I don't know what you fellows call it. Belly Button? The first time
I had the trouble, I went to Dr. Orman, and he cut it. I think that was why
I got that way.
(Had someone else doctored you for that?) Everybody doctored me that
time. Joe Sand doctored me, and Fred--the first time he doctored me three
tiems. I've forgotten his last name. That's Tim's half brother. And Ken
Shore doctored me, and Joe Sand doctored me, and that Tom Shobi doctored me.
Alec Mead doctored me last. (?U) That's why we have no beads. We paid those
five people. They were all singing doctors. (g). We paid what we liked.
We fixed the beads--by the hundred. If we wanted to pay lots, we paid lots.
And they never ate meat or grease.   They eat no grease when they doctoring. (0Q)
I was sick a long time. Then
he did that, it was cold. And the
that kind of sickness, they said.
that in eighteen days I would get v
eighteen days you lie in bed,'" he s
So I didn't.
Dr. Orman operated on me for it. The day
wind was blowing that day. He was good for
So I went to him. He cut it, and he said
well. That time he said that to me. "For
said.  "Don't try to sit up," he said to me.
Every day he came there. He came there, and he pulled that kind of
stitches. And he said, "At last I've got it, Sophie Martinez." And soon I
felt good. But that week I had it. Pretty soon seventeen days had come.
Something in my chest felt like a rock. And I lay there and lay there. He
came there. I felt something like just dark. And I told him, "I think I'm
79
going to die." I lay down, and I got up again. I felt no good. I thought
I was going to die. My mother, she knew that too. She said I was going to
die.  "No, don't cry, Mother'" I said.    I never tell her about that now.   She
always cries because she's so sorry when I tell her. I colildn't stand it,
and I followed him around there. It was hurting me there, and I was hollering
around. It was just like something steel in there. I got sick all the time.
I lay there for about a month, and I had a swelling up right there on my
right side. I was suffering, suffering there. The Indian doctor was doctoring
me, but I didn't want anybody to touch me around there. That hurt. That
evening Dr. Orman came there too; and the priest and sisters came. And the
sucking doctor was doctoring me.    (_). That was Ruth Post.   She's a sucking
doctor. The priest prayed for me, and the sisters prayed for me.     But they
didn't help any.   It hurt.  I lay there all the time.   The doctor came and
said, "I can't help you." So my man who died said to him, "Can I hire the
Indian doctor?"   "If you want to, hire the Indian doctor," he said.    So they
got the Indian doctor.   He's living yet, that old   man.  They call him Alec
Mead. He doctored me four times. Four times he was doctoring me. (91)
Already we had no beads.   We'd paid the doctors; we'd paid everything.
I had ten dollars yet. I said, "If I die, you buy a blanket for me, a blanket
and sheet."   I said that to my man.  The beads were all, gone; everything was
gone. He said, "No." He said, "I'm going to get the doctor again." They
got him again though we had nothing.   That's why it was no good getting the
doctor.
We fasted that time and never ate meat or grease for one year while I
suffered. Nobody ate meat at that house. At last he doctored me. We were
hungry for meat,, for grease, like that.   That was the last time we tried.
Those were the last beads I had. I had already died up to this my hand. t
looked like a devil. He told me, "You're not like peopie." My old man said,
"You look just like something as though you were already going to die." But
still I knew something.
Then he doctored me.   Three days and nights he doctored me.   That was a
good doctor. That was the last time he doctored anyone. The last beads I
had went to pay him. And he doctored me. He had a fine rock, a fine rock.
In the center was a hole. It was a nice rock. And he was singing, singing. (92)
He was through already and going home. He told me what day we were going
to be able to eat meat. Meat, I wanted awfully bad. Meat--we hadn't had it
for a long time. He told us, "I know you fellows want to eat meat." Alec
Mead said that.   "After four days you fellows eat meat," he said to me.    So
after four days, I said to my mother, "I want meat!" -That was Saturday.
Saturday evening we were going to eat meat. My mother said to that old man,
Tim, "Get me good meat:   You boy good meat."   We hadn't eaten meat for a long
80
time. And that night, that evening, we were already going to eat supper. I
wanted meat awfully bad. I wanted roasted meat. They cooked it on the coals.
And I wanted mush. So my mother pounded mush. That was acorn mush of some
kind.
I was going to eat meat. I hadn't eaten meat for a long time. That was
why I wanted meat. And that evening, it hurt me someplace in here. Then it
broke outside. I was sitting in bed. I was eating meat, and something like
water came out. I said to my old man, "Come home: I have something" He
had just started supper. He ate nothing. He just came. Something was coming
out. Something just nasty. I sat there with my stomach all over the bed.
If the inside broke out, I would die that night, I though. Then that Indian
doctor was singing. He had a rock, some kind of rock we call catoxabi, "swell
them up rock." We call it that. The stuff came out, and I felt better. Gee,
I felt better.
That night I felt good, but I never slept. I was afraid it would burst
again. I couldn't move. I felt good, but that night it got swollen again.
That's why this doctor took me down below. (g). That was the Indian Service
doctor. They said that time that the Indian doctor beat the white doctor.
(What do you think?) I feel that he was a good doctor. If that Indian
doctor hadn't doctored me, I would have died that time. He saved me.
Our friends, our relatives, came there Sunday. They always do that.
They came to look in on us. My mother told them I had that. They call that
tumor. White doctors call it tumor. They say I had a tumor. Then some white
people came there to buy baskets. I had a little basket that time I made for
Bernice once. It was a little basket. They wanted a basket. She showed it
to them. They never bought it. They said I was sick, lying inside there.
The people came in there. There were one woman, two men, and one Indian man.
He had the white woman and two white men along. The woman said to me, "You're
sick, Mama?"   "Yes," I said.   They never bought the basket, but they said,
"We'll get a doctor for you, and we'll come back quick." Then they went. And
they got the doctor that day. That was the hospital doctor.
He asked me, "You have a tumor?"    "I c n't know what I have," I said.    He
never did anything. He was just trying to make me sleep. He shot me in the
arm, but I never slept. After that I was sick again. They put me in the
Jamestown hospital. (93) For two nights I was lying there the first time. They
looked me inside, and the doctor asked me, and I was telling him that I was sixty
seven that time. I told that doctor, doctor, doctor? The Jamestown doctor--
what's his name? He is a good doctor.
After I had been there two nights, they put me in San Francisco. That
time I lay there for five weeks. I came home before the fourth, one week
before. The first time I went to the hospital there were three Indian women
there.  They stay in Green Lake.    They used to stay at Covelo, but now they
81
stay at Green Lake.
When I was there below, the doctor told me I was still a young woman yet,
only sixty-five.  He said I could still have a baby.    I said to him, "I don't
think so."' He told me again I could. But I never had one.
I've gone to the city twice to the hospital. After the first time I went
there again. That time I was pretty much dead. I had "gold blood" they said.
They were going to operate on me, but I couldn't stand jt.     I was too weak.
But I never eat fried meat.   I ache yet.   And I never eat beans.   I like beans,
but I never eat them.   I'm afraid to.   The first time I went to stay in the
hospital, I wanted to stay.   But the next time, I was aAraid.    I was afraid
they were going to cut me again.   That's why I'm not well yet.    I go to the
doctor every week. They dress me yet. Those hospital doctors ask for me yet.
The Indian Service doctor tells them how I'm getting along. He was telling
me that the other day.
(How long since you went the second time?) After my old man was dead, I
went down below again. He's been dead about five or siy years.
Death of Martinez:   (What happened to him?)   He got hurt that time he was
fixing the roof at Upper Lake. He was sick all the time. He had asthma
once too. Dr. Bailey stopped that. That was the first doctor we had around
here. He was the government doctor. That old man's breath shook him. It
shook him. Some white man in town sold him medicine. He drank it too, and
that stopped it. He was a little bit better then. But before hop-picking he
died. We were with that man--what do they call that man way down there? I've
forgotten his name. We were staying there. My old man was sick all the time.
He felt sick, but he was working on the government road there. That's why he
died.  (What caused it?)   I don't know.   94)
We were going to pick hops at that place that year, but we moved away
from there and picked for Ted Sears.We picked for him then.       (q).  I didn't
want to stay there. We Indians don't like to stay at a place like to stay
at a place like that if someone has died there. We don't want to stay there.
That's the last we picked there.    He doesn't want us to pick there now, they
say.  He never told us, but somebody told us.    We had picked hops every year
for Ted sears, but they say that to us. That's why we've quit going there.
For three years now we've picked for Wilmar Harris. This year we're going
to pick for Roberts for the first time. (Why not go back to Harris?) Oh, he
never gave us wood or tents there. All the other places give wood and furnish
the tents. He never does that. That's why we've quit going there. He's a
good man, but that's why we quit going there.    Roberts gives them wood and
tents.
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Epilogue
Mrs. Martinez broke off here with her hop-picking plans for 1940. She
continued to live at Brushville during the winters, and to pick hops during
the summer. Her step-father died in 1940 at Brushville after refusing to go
to the hospital. He said he was too old and causing people too much trouble
and he would rather die than be in the way of the others.    At his funeral,
Mrs. Martinez had the leading role in the funeral trading that went on. We
were told that many people attended, and that a good deal of property was
exchanged, which indicated the family had a position of some importance in the
Pomo community.
After the death of Tim Brown, Mrs. Martinez assumed the entire care of
Mrs. Brown, who by then was quite senile. According to Mrs. Martinez in 1941,
"That woman's almost dead. She sees ugly white people around her all the
time. They come and bother her. Then I pray over her and sprinkle holy water
on her, and it stops. She's all right again then." Mrs. Martinez said that
the year before when Mrs. Brown was still living in her own house with Tim Brown,
they had killed a number of rattlesnakes near the house. It had never done
that before. Mrs. Martinez was afraid that that was what was bothering her
mother and causing her to have the visions. She said she was sorry they had
killed the snake, but they had been afraid of it.    One day in town, she asked
Alec Mead, the outfit doctor, about it. He said the snake was telling them,
"Don't bother me. Don't come and kill my children. Leave us alone."
Mrs. Martinez was waiting for her mother to die, and then planned to re-
turn to Green Lake. She was also waiting in the hopes that finally she would
obtain her old age pension, which she was convinced she should have had for
some years. In the meantime, since she was now too blind to work on baskets
she spent her winters drilling and grinding beads which are still an important
medium of exchange among the Pomo.
She was also attempting to bring up her granddaughter to have due regard
for Pomo customs and was perturbed by the child's apparent desire to grow up
quickly. When Elaine was out of her sight, she worried for fear that she might
be in mischief or that someone might have poisoned her or injured her in some-
way. Since her life was so centered about her granddaughter, her ambitions
for the child may throw more light upon Mrs. Martinez's own values. In 1940,
she was asked what she wanted for Elaine.
"You mean something good? I think if she stayed home with me and made
baskets that that would be good. And I want her to go to school and learn
something. That would be good too. Her mother wants her to go to high school
and maybe to Sherman. She wants her to do that. Elaine wants that too. I
think it would be good too if she stayed home with me. When she's home with
83
me, I know she's doing good. But when she's off with girls or with women,
I don't  like that.   They're always talking about everything.   They talk about
men and things like that, and it's making her crazy. I don't like that. (Do
you want her to marry?) Yes, I want that. While she is still just young,
before she starts running am und, I want her to marry a good man. I want her
to marry one who doesn't drink much and one who will stay with her good. I
want her to have one who will look after her good and biy her clothes.     I
want one who will watch her good. But Indian men aren't like that. They all
drink too much and run after women, They're crazy after women. They leave
their women."
NOTES
(j) For pregnancy customs, cf. Loeb, 249.
(g) Cf., Loeb, 250-255.
(3)  Cf., Loeb, 259.
(4)  This is a constant theme with Mrs. Brown.    She brouight this into every
conversation she had with me and mentioned it to other members of the
Field Laboratory.
(5)  This is another constant theme.   Mrs. Brown, and Tim Brown also, will
not say who poisoned their children nor will they describe poisoning
methods, but they frequently claim that poisoning has killed their
children and other members of their family.
(6) Cf. the appendix for Mrs. Brown's account, which is practically identical
even to wording with that given above. This information was given by
SM in 1940. The original life history begins with the theft of her dog,
cf. below.
(1) SM gave two accounts of this incident, one in 1939 and one in 1940.
They agree. The account used here is that of 1940 which gives the
incident in slightly more detail. In 1939, she began her autobiography
with this event.
(8) This was said in 1941. She had not been asked about nursing. The state-
ment was immediately followed by an account of a childhood illness when
her mother bled her. Cf. below.
(9) Blodgett was a Methodist missionary stationed first at Round Valley and
then at Oak City. He had married Mable and Tom Hill.
The question in this and in the next paragraph were asked in 1941.
84
(10) These last four paragraphs were given in 1941. However, the desertion
of her father is a constant motife running through the interviews. Often
she phrases it as a desertion of herself rather than of her mother.
(11) Cf. Loeb, 261. Names may or may not have meaning. In some Pomo groups
children were given two names.
(j_) This account was given in 1939. In 1940, SM said that her father's wife
had been kind to her. In 1941, she said again that the woman was "mean"
though she qualified this and said that sometimes she was 'tgood."
(13) Mrs. Brown denied that any of her brothers or sisters lived past child-
hood. She may have been observing the taboo against naming or referring
to the dead, or these may have been relatives classified as mother's
brother and mother's sister.
(14) All time estimates and age estimates should be disregarded--SM may have
been anywhere in her teens or younger or older when these children were
born.
(j5) SM mentioned being whipped only in 1939 and 1941. In 1940, she denied
ever having been whipped after she was old enough to remember. In 1941
she mentioned only having been whipped as a small child before she could
remember. The account that follows of her being whipped by her mother
was also given in 1939. SM could never be brought to repeat the incident.
Mrs. Brown herself denied ever having whipped her children though one time
she said with enthusiasm, "Whip! That's the way to do!"
(16) About 1900, the Roman Catholic Church established schoo's for the Pomo
Indians.
(17) This and subsequent paragraphs about this woman were given in 1941, though
she had been referred to in the previous years.
(L8) Cf., Loeb, 248, where the use of both bull snake and "baby" rock are
described.
(19) Cf., Loeb, 250-251. He says that a woman in child birth was assisted
by old women relatives, and only if the labor were difficult were male
relatives and an outfit doctor called. He does not mention the singing
by old women, but in the files of the Field Laboratory is information
from other Pomo informants that this is a common custom.
(L0) SM told this illness in 1941, and implied that it had happened when she
was stL1ll qutite sm8ll.  It came spontaneously when she was asked what was
t1i ttrst LhilIg sII could remember about her mother.
85
(2) Cf., Loeb, 325, 328. Headaches were cured by the sucking doctor who
sucked out the bad blood. Among some groups of Pomo, bleeding was done
by anyone to cure fevers and headaches.
(22) This was Tim Brown's uncle.  Tim Brown wasereferred to by name in 1939
and 1940.  He died before the summer of 1941 and in the interviews of
that summer he became "fthat old man died" since SM carefully avoids the
names of the dead.
(23) SM told about these two illnesses described below in 1939 and 1940.
(24) An outfit or singing doctor rather than a sucking doctor. Cf. Loeb, 326;
Freeland 56.
(25) SM constantly refers to her bad memory. This did not seem always due to
a desire to avoid a question. At times she would 'be unable to recall a
Pomo word and would send her granddaughter to someone else on the Ran-
cheria for the information; at other times whe would ask someone else
about aii event that she had forgotten.
(6) She feared that the men were putting some object near the house in order
to magically poison the family. Cf. Aginsky, Socio-Psychological Role
of Death among the Pomo Indians, 9; and Loeb, 331.    Probably every Pomo
living in the area today believes that other Pomo do poison.
SM maintained constantly that she could not remember her dreams, and
this seems quite probable. The only dream I have recorded for her occurred
in June, 1940. Then she dreamed about a rattlesnake and cried out in
her sleep. Her daughter told her about this the following morning, but
she could not herself recall the dream.   That she did drea,i frequently
is shown by the fact that her granddaughter reported that she often
talked in her sleep.
(2g]) This account of the owl was given in 1941. In previous years she had
said that she herself had never seen the brush houses and that when she
could first remember people were already living in board shacks such as
they have today.
(Z.) Cf., Loeb, 315.  "The name of the night owl---was never mentioned.    This
bird was also called matutsi because he was supposed to understand the
esoteric language of the secret society." It is probable that SM's
grandfather was an initiate of the Kuksu Cult.
(L9) Elaine Martinez, SM's granddaughter who was then about ten.
(30) Cf., Loeb, 218; Powers, 151.
86
(31) SM was once asked if her mother had played with her. She laughed so hard
at the idea, that she could barely utter a denial. When asked about this
all she would say was, fVI m just laughing.'
(32) Basket making was a subjedt SM was always willing to talk about--she was
interested in the subject and described at some length how she prepared
her materials and the different types of baskets she had learned to make.
She is, or rather was before her eyes began to fail, a competent basket
maker, but she did not surpass in this craft.
(33) SM is a good dancer, and is proud of her prestige as a dancer. It should
be noted here, that though her mother was a fine dancer and a singer,
SM does not claim to have learned from her.
Dancing is one of the subjects in which SM shows constant interest.
She was always ready and eager to talk about the different types of dances
she knew, though she was never able to describe them sufficiently well
for the recorder to discover what the differences were between them or
even to visualize them.
(34) The maru cult is the Pomo form of the 1870 Ghost Dance. The ceremonies
were organized by a man or woman known as MAru (or matu) who received
Power through dreams. The Maru dreamed a ceremony with its songs and
dances and instructed the people in them. If his instructions were
ignored, he was killed by his power. Cf., Loeb, 395-396; Dubois, Cali-
fornia Ghost Dance Religion of 1870.
According to the Oak Valley Pomo, the cult began to die out among
them around 1885. Today there is no real Maru cult in the valley, although
there are "Dream Doctors" or "Sucking Doctors" who are called "Maru" or
"Matu."
(35) The djaduwel was part of the "Old Ghost Dance" ceremonies of the Pomo.
Cf., Loeb, 161-163, 338-339.   Cf., also Dubois, 89.   Dubois said that
Bill, a North Pomo man, dreamed "that they should dance the old Djaduwel
(ghost-impersonation, part of the kuksu cycle, but not the Kuksu dance
proper). He dreamed that he should give it in the spring when the flowers
came out. Evan Brown, a dreamer at Upper Lake, was the first to say
that everyone should know the secrets of the Ghost-impersonation dance."
It is to this revival of the djaduwel through the maru cult that SM refers
here. The name MAtutsi refers to members of the secret society called
by Loeb the Kuksu Cult. Cf., Loeb, 355.
(36) Blue Lake, a small lake, is still avoided by Pomo. Young people refuse
to swim there. It is always referred to as a "bad place."
87
(37) Cf., Loeb, 303.  This is another name of Bagil, the water monster, who
appeared to punish people who violated menstrual taboos. The person
became ill and sometimes then became a sucking doctor when cured.
8) A man should not hunt or fish when his wife was menstruating.      He was also
not supposed to dance or gamble. Infringement of menstrual taboos by either
men or women was   punished by the sight of the water monster. Cf. Loeb, 273.
(29) Cases of fright were cured by recalling the haunting vision. A person who
had seen the water monster was cured by being shown a representation of
the monster.  Cf., Loeb, 323; Freeland, 63, 67; Aginsky, 5.
Compare this account with that given by EW in her life history of
a man "scared"' by deer.
(Q) The chief "acted mainly as peacemaker and preacher." Cf., Loeb, 236.
(tI) For menstrual customs, cf. Loeb, 273-274.
AD) EW in her life history said that the Pomo thought girls did not menstruate
until they had had sexual intercourse. This may be the reason for the
response to this question. After this information was received from EW,
SM was asked whether girls ever "went with men" before their first men-
struation.  She said some did and some did not, and that if they did their
mothers objected.
The question was asked to discover what training SM had received
at the time of her first menstruation--since according    to Loeb this was
a time when girls were lectured on how to conduct themselves later in life.
SM indicated that she had received little attention at this time.
(@2) Compare this with information from EW and JA, both of whom assumed that
girls would have considerable experience before marriage. SM's worries
regarding her daughter and her granddaughter, the latter having just
reached puberty, may influence her material. Or perhaps her attitude is
due to the fact that she is older and nearer to the old Pomo culture which
may have taken a more puritanical stand.   Cf., Loeb, 280.   One of his
informants said, "In the olden days, boys and girls did not think of sex
much, as they do now. Men had to be fully grown arLd have mustaches, and
women fully developed before marriage."
(L) Her first marriage was an incident regarding which SM was always ready
and eager to talk. She related the incident five cr six different times--
the accounts agreeing almost completely.
(t5) The gambling game played by women. Cf., Loeb, 215. Mrs. Brown, SM's
mother, was an enthusiastic player of the stick game.
88
(46) In 1939, when SM described this event, she said they pulled her from
beneath the bed and beat her. She never afterwards repeated this version
though she frequently described the incident. The only check here is
from EW, a neighbor of SM's, who said that SM and her mother had told
her that SM hid under the bed and was pulled out when the people came.
(47) Loeb, 282, says that the choosing of a girl "twas sometimes done by the
parents and sometimes by the boy with the consent of his parent. It is
not likely that an unwilling couple was ever forced into marriage."
(48) Cf., Loeb, 278, 283.
(!9) Cf., Loeb, 246 ff.
(50) Cf., Loeb, 249.  Pregnant women were forbidden fish.    SM herself said in
1940 that during pregnancy a woman did not eat fish and that for a month
she had eaten none. She never repeated the above account which was given
in 1939.
(51) Yet in 1941 she said that when her father's wife had a baby some time
before this that her father had gotten a white doctor.
(52) Cf., Loeb, 250-254.
(53) Cf., Loeb, 251-252.   "That man" refers to SM's husband.
(54) SM repeated this incident several times, and was always interested in
speaking of it. Twice the account was substantially the way it is here.
Once it was an abbreviated version which differed only in the omission
of certain details.   However, in the 1939 version, SM said, "That baby
died when it was one month old. Something was wrong. Something we
Indians call that chicken hawk, old time way. It flew around over the
baby, and the baby got all spotted like." According to Loeb, 252-253,
this was a Pomo belief. However, SM never repeated this version and
finally in 1940 when she was asked if any of her children had died from
this cause, she said, "No. The Green Lake people always sing songs for
that when a baby is born. They sing because a hawk something might come
around. If the hawk floated around here, the baby would die. They always
sang for me. That's why I never had any babies die that way. For my
first baby, my grandfather sang."1
(55) The man was probably fixed for gambling, and had gone through certain
rituals which ensured luck hut were also fatal to small children if they
were brought in contact with one who had used them.    Cf., Loeb, 216-217,
where he cites the case of a man carrying a charm for gambling when he
89
unwittingly came near a young child. The child bad convulsions and soon
died.
(~) Cf., Aginsky, 4-5. He cites Powers' example of a Pomo who was frightened
to death by a turkey-cock,a bird strange to him but resembling one of the
supernatural monsters. Pomos believed that meeting a monster might cause
death.
(5) A special ceremonial form of wailing used after a death and at funerals.
It is done by women.   Cf., Loeb, 286, 291.
(58) Mason's desertion was another topic of constant interest to SM. She
referred to it three times in the brief account given in 1939; in 1940,
she gave two long versions and several other brief ones of the event.
All agreed with respect to the main details. The only variations come in
the reported conversations--and even these are substantially the same.
(59) This murder was another topic that SM seemed to enjoy talking about. She
gave several recitals in which no discrepancies appeared.
(60) She lives on the same rancheria as SM, and is one of the people who appears
in the life history of EW. EW said that she was married to Walt Mason,
SM's first husband. Rita Day who must be around fifty or older said that
she could remember seeing Bess Clinton when they were both children and
that Bess Clinton was already a widow. This must have been about forty
years ago.
(6i) Cf., Loeb, 275, "The word for sexual love.. .is ... (wanting one another)."
Loeb records a courting conversation given him by a male informant which
is practically identical with that given above.
SM gave two fairly extensive accounts of her life with Young--one
in 1939, and one in 1940. They agree with very slight variations. However,
she did not seem greatly interested in Young, nor did she spontaneously
turn the conversation toward him.
(62) This account of working for whites was volunteered spontaneously in 1940.
In 1939, when she was asked if she had ever worked for white women, she
said,  fNo,, I never did work for white women.  They don't like Indian
women. I don't know why. They don't like us. They hate us around here.
They don't even like to look at us around here. The city people are better.
I have lots of friends down there. White women are friendly with me down
in the city. rf As she said this her tone was bitter--in complete contrast
to her usual emphasis on "good whites" who were "good to Indians." At
another time in 1939, she said that she used to work for a woman in town
washing clothes, and that all the Indian women had done such work until
the whites got washing machines and no longer wanted Indian help. She
90
also that when she was a little girl, her mother used to wash for an
Italian woman, and that she had gone with her mother to the woman's
house and played with the children there. She liked the children, and
they were "good" to her.
(@) This statement came late in the summer of 1940.     In all previous accounts,
she had referred to but three husbands--never to four. This was the only
occasion on which she spoke of the third man. EW, however, said that
SM had been married to four different men, and she gave the same names
that SM gave.
(64) This is a niece of Tim Brown. She is now a grandmother.
(65) Tillie Harris who also lives at Brushville, and is distantly related to SM.
(66) In the files of the Field Laboratory there is the report of at least one
other case where a hat was believed used in poisoning.
(67) This seems to be a constant theme with SM, that these children who died
young would now be grown and have children themselves.
(68) Due to an oversight, SM was not asked which marriage she referred to here.
The information is probably out of chronological order, but is placed here
because the first reference to the priest comes with the funeral of her boy.
(69) SM several times in other contexts mentioned the help she got from praying
and from holy water.   In 1940, she once said she wanted to go to the Con-
vent to get some holy water to sprinkle around her house to keep evil
spirits away. In 1941, when her mother was suffering from visions, SM
said, "That woman's almost dead.   She sees ugly white people around her
all the time. They come and bother her. Then I pray over her and sprinkle
holy water on her, and it stops and she's all right again."     SM also
called in a dream doctor to treat her mother at this time.
(70) B. W. Aginsky a few years before 1939 was told by Martinez that his
grandfather had driven him from the Red Bluff with threats of poisoning.
Martinez belonged to a different Pomo linguistic grouping than did SM.
His father was not a Pomo.
(71) Manzanita Rancheria,
(72) Cf., Loeb, 251-252. If she had said nothing, SM's family would have been
expected to make some return.
(73) Martinez. SM never spoke his name if she could avoid it.
91
Q() Cf., Loeb, 254.
(7k) This refers to Bernice Martinez, the youngest and only living child.
a(k) This was told August 16, 1940 at a time when people were coming into the
valley for hop-picking.   The "man killed this summer" was an old Indian
who was found on the tracks, his body thoroughly crushed by the train.
The Indians believed he was murdered for his old age pension and then
placed on the tracks.
We have an independent check on the death of Martinez's brother.
EW was asked about the matter and said, "Well, they found him on the
track, but that wasn't want killed him.   You  know, if a train hits you
it's all mashed up. But nothing was mashed up on him. They took him
home and laid him on the bed. And next morning, somebody lifted his head,
and there on the pillow was a red mark. It was blood. So they looked
at his head, and there under the hair was a big railroad spike that had
been driven in there. Somebody had killed him. Thiey were all drinking
together that time. His family didn't know who did it then, but later
when that man died up in Wilderness Valley, he confessed it. He told
his daughter. They had been fighting about some woman. He was a big
tall fellow, and this other one was just a little short man but the woman
liked him. His name was Jim Lang. He wasn't called Martinez. Maybe they
had different fathers."
(7) SM first said only that they had moved to Green Lake. Later when asked
why they went, she said, "Oh, we just moved there. My mother's sister
stayed there, and that's why we went." This was sai.d in 1940. A few days
later, she gave the version of their move after the election night fight,
and in 1941 she gave a more extended version which checked with it.
(78) This seems to be the only place in the life histories where an act of
violence against a white is mentioned. The resulting threats which drove
the family to Green Lake may explain why such acts are so rare.
Others besides SM regard the attack as justified self defence. EW
said, "Fred Littleton still has a scar from the time Stephen Martinez cut
him with a knife. For a long time, Stephen didn't dare come back to this
place because he was afraid Fred would get him for it. But Fred never
did nothing about it at all. They say he knew it was his own fault.
Stephen wasn't trying to do anything to him, but two men came up and hit
him. So he did that with the knife. I guess they'd all been drinking.
There was lots of drinking and fighting in town that time. But Frank
never did anything to them over that. And they came back after a while.
Stephen lived over here for about three years before he died."
(79) This account of their life at Pleasant Valley was given in 1941. The
two previous years, she had merely said they had gone to Pleasant Valley
92
and then lived in Tripton County.
The interview in which this version was finally given was one in
which SM's granddaughter acted as interpreter at SM's request. The
vocabulary here is therefore that of the granddaughter rather than of SM.
SM chuckled while she spoke as though she enjoyed telling about the
woman's jealousy. The grandchild seemed somewhat distrurbed and asked
first if it were to be written down too, and then remarked with dismayed
amusement:  "What kind of a family do I have anyway?"
(80) Cf., Loeb, 216-217. Cf. also earlier account by SM of the death of her
first child after exposure to "luck."
(81) Cf., Loeb, 327, where it is said that the more one paid the doctor, the
better treatment one received. Other informants have told us that it
was useless to get the doctor if one had nothing to pay him with.
(82) In this case the taboo on the name of the dead was rigidly observed, and
SM refused to give the name even when questioned.
(83) SM was asked once if she had ever had trouble with menstruation.    She
said, "No, I never got sick from that.   I felt good when I had the month
sick.  I liked that."
(84) This was said in 1940. In 1941, when SM's granddaughter was present as
interpreter, SM said that Bernice was born three years after the move
to Fisher Rancheria. Several years after her birth, the other girl died.
Elaine Martinez, the granddaughter, said that this was sometime about 1925
or 1926. Elaine is the daughter of Bernice.
(85) It was during this period that SM made her only "sun basket", the fine
red feather basket. She kept all the taboos observed by basket makers
when they worked on such baskets: not eating meat or grease, not
drinking water while she worked, not having sexual intercourse.
(6) Her liking for Green Lake and her wish to return there were frequent
themes. Usually she emphasized the fact that there she could get many
foods that she liked. She also claimed not to like Brushville where she
then lived, and to feel uncomfortable there.
(87) With these few words, SM brushed aside her immediate family cares. Elaine
was born at Green Lake after Bernice had an affair with a Tripton County
Pomo who was married at the time. Even the other Pomo refused to regard
this affair as legitimate. Bernice left the child with her mother while
she went roaming around the cities.   She had been several times in jail.
SM had raised the child, nursed her through several sicknesses and had
attempted to adopt her legally to protect her from Bernice. None of this,
93
however, was ever mentioned by SM. Other Pomo were less reticent about
her affairs.  Cf. also Elaine's brief autobiography which appears in the
appendix.
(88) Probably they returned about 1934.
(89) Cf. EW's life history for an account of this illness. Note that EW says
she played an important part in the diagnosis of the illness and that she
also doctored SM in a small way. SM does not mention EW in connection
with this illness.
(90) Cf. Loeb, 326-327; Freeland, Pomo Doctors and Poisoners.
(9I) Ruth Post is a neighbor and distant relative of SM.   She is a sucking
or dream doctor.  Alec Mead is an outfit or singing doctor.    Such doctors
had more prestige than the sucking doctors and went through a long train-
ing period before they were qualified to practice.
(2 ) SM gave two long accounts of her illness. Not all details appear in both
accounts; but there are no contradictory elements in either. Other infor-
mants also reported the case.   Cf. the description by EW.   Walter Wood,
EW's husband, said that EW told SM's people to call an Indian doctor
because white people knew nothing about Indians. Two white doctors had
given her up for dead when Alec Mead was called.   EW thinks Mead gave her
some remedy and sang some old words. Grover Saunders, another Brushville
man, said that SM's illness was diagnosed as a tumor. After several
white doctors refused to operate, Mead was called in.    "Inside of a week
she was all right." Saunders also mentioned the rock used in the treatment.
The doctor for the Indian Service said the diagnosis was hernia followed
by an abcess, and that despite hospitalization, SM still needed treatments.
(93) This is about twenty miles from Oak City. Indian patients are not accepted
at the Oak City hospital.
(94) Rita Day of Manzanita said that the doctor said Martinez died of stomach
ulcers but that all the Indians said he was poisoned. EW of Brushville
said Martinez had been having maru dreams and had failed to obey his dream
instructions. She said that Martinez and his family thought this was
the cause of his death.
95
APPENDIX
Autobiography of Sophie Martinez
We were at Round Valley, but I don't know anything about it. We didn't
know at that time how old we were or the day we were born. We didn't know that.
But I was there about four years. Four years I think it was that we stayed
there.  And I had a dog.   I called it simi.   And I cried for it all the time.
A white man stole that dog.   It was a she dog; that's why they wanted it.    She
had pups that time, and the white man took it. I cried, and my father went to
get the dog, to get it back. My father did that. But the white fellow didn't
want him to take it.
I don't know where we were staying that time, but my mother said it was
Round Valley. We stayed there in two houses made of lumber. That time we
were with a white man. But before I was born, before that, there was some
kind of Indian house. I never saw that. And I stayed there, and I cried for
the dog, and they went to get it. They went over there to get that dog.
After about six years, I think, we came back from Round Valley. We stayed
in Oak City that time. I was just young then. When we had stayed in Oak Valley
awhile, I was a big girl already. They took me. She wanted me for her brother.
Harriet did. She wanted me to marry her brother. That was the first man I
had. They took me home, and we talked together. We talked about something,
and they take me to the house.   Then I was married already that time.    I
was about sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen years old that time.     I
was big, but I had never been married before.    We stayed there about six years,
and we had a baby.    That was a boy.   My mother helped me that time.   We didn't
know doctors then.   There was no doctor that time yet, I think.
That baby died when it was one month old.    Something was wrong.   He got
that way.  Something we Indians call that kind, some chicken hawk, old time
way, it flew around above the baby.   The baby died.   That was due to that
chicken hawk.
Then we lived around. We had no baby for a long time. Then that man
left me and took another woman, a Green Lake woman. He went to Green Lake
that time, and there was another woman.    (q).  That man was Walt Mason.
Then for a long time I lived with my mother and her man. I had no man
then.  That was about two years.   After that I went to another man.    ().
He's dead.   q).   His name was Jack Young.   We stayed together a long time.
We were together about three years.    Then I had a baby.  That time it was
a girl.  My mother took care of me.   At that time she was still young yet.
I stayed with her that time.   She had no babies, nothing.   Now all my babies
are dead.   I just have that one left, that Bernice.   That's all.   The
96
Indians claim that something is wrong. I've had nine babies, four girls and
five boys.
That tine we had a tiny baby, a girl that time. We had one child, and
he left me again. He got another woman, got married to her. He married the
other woman. And I stayed there a long time, at that place over there on the
other side of town near the white graveyard. I stayed there three or four
years, I think, with my mother. She stayed there then. I stayed with my
father (step-father) and my mothe r. Sometimes I stayed with my own father,
Tom Hill. He lived in Chiptown, He had another woman, but I stayed with him.
He wanted me to. He left me when I was about six or seven years old. I knew
that my father had another woman. I was young that time when my mother married
Tim.  I can't remember that.
That time I was staying with my mother and my father. I had no children
that time I was staying with them. Sometimes I stayed with my mother, sometimes
with my father. That time they had dances there, Indian dances. There was
dancing there all the time. Then Young's mother told him she didn't want him
to leave me. She didn't want that other woman he had. That time I was staying
with my mother. I never did nothing. Sometimes I made baskets, fine baskets,
and sold them. I always stayed with my father and mother all the time. Even
when I was married, I stayed with them sometimes. I had no children, and
that's why I stayed with them.
After that I stayed ten years with Young.    I had three children, I think
when I was with him. I had two children and my boy. One of the other children
was a boy too. He died at about eight months.     Then I had one big boy.   He
died when he was about nine years old. That time we were staying at Brushville,
and he died of something. Then there was one tiny little one., three or four
weeks old. Something troubled it. They claimed that an Indian poisoned it.
The Indians claimed that, but I don't know. My children never grew up, just
the same as my mother's children never grew up. The big boy was still living
when his father left me. Sometimes he went to see his father. I couldn't
stop his going. I wanted to, but I couldn't do it. That boy lived about
four years after Young left me. Yes, that was about four years. Somebody
stole something from him. That's why he died, they claimed. He was living
with me when he died. He never lived with his father, but he liked to go to
him. His father was living on the same rancheria. When that boy died, I
had no children left. That was the last one I had. The young one had already
died. I felt sorry for him when he died. At that time buried the dead already.
I just felt sorry for my boy, and I put in beads with him. I put in lots of
beads and lots of baskets too.   I made them.   My mother and I made them.   At
that time she was still making baskets too. After that I was alone.
I still stayed with my mother all the time. Tim was there too. That
time we had no brother. I had two brothers that time, and they died too that
97
time. And my boy was dead too. When my boy died, his father bought a suit
for him, a good suit.
I still stayed there all the time. In the summer, I picked hops and went
camping. For about three or four years I was just going around like that.
Then that time I found that old man.   (q).  Martinez.  That old man dead.   He
was a Red Bluff man. His father came from Tripton County. We stayed together
all the time, all the time, all the time. We had a boy. We stayed together
a long time, I don't know how many years.   Then he couldn't work. He just sat
down. He sat down already. Then that time he got sick, and he died. That
same year I was sick about six months, I think. We don't know why he died.
I had four babies by him, two girls and two boys. First I had two boys
and after that one girl. When she was a big girl, she died. Then I had that
Bernice, and that's all. We were living right there at Brushville. We stayed
there. They had bought that place there, and we stayed there a long time. I
stayed with my mother a long time. I stayed with that dead man a long time
up there. We stayed at a white man's ranch too. We stayed at the Post ranch.
We worked there all the time, and we lived there about four years. He worked
there.  That time I had a boy again, I think we stayea there.   I suffered about
two days I think before he was born. He died that time we picked beans over
at Green Lake. He was dead then during picking time. He hadn't walked yet.
He was just small; about two months, I think. He was dead that time we picked
beans at Green Lake.   I don't know why.  It was just like all my children..
After that I made that Bernice. He was the last baby I had. She was
born in Green Lake. A government woman, an old lady around there who taught
everything, named Bernice.
We lived forty eight years in Green Lake, I think. I was married to
Martinez then. That's the last man I was married to. After Bernice was born,
I took her and took care of her good so that she grew. i stayed there and
stayed there. We had that one girl, that's all. We lived in Green Lake until
she was big, about sixteen or seventeen. She stayed with me all the time.
She didn't go to her grandparents. They were staying ir. Oak Valley, and she
stayed in Green Lake.
I felt good at Green Lake. I felt good back there. I like it there,
and I have a big house there. I came over here because my mother's here.
That's why I came here. She stays around Oak Valley all the time. It's about
six or seven years now since I came back to Brushville. That's all I think
about. That's all, I think.
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Autobiography of Elaine Martinez
In 1939, Elaine Martinez, Sophie Martinez's granddaughter, asked why I
did not record her story. This was at a time when I was working with her
great grandmother. Elaine was picking hops nearby, listening to what was
being said. I agreed to record her story, and she gave the brief autobio-
graphy presented below.
I don't know how I was born. I don't remember anything until I was
two years old. I remember that. I remember that, but we were up over
Sacramento.   I remember we was over there.   Used to eat oranges,  Every-
thing. I was two years old then.
Then we came over here. I can hardly remember that. Only a little bit.
We had to walk from the village here, and when we get there I was just sweating
My grandmother Mabel grabbed me. I was scared of her. I didn't know her very
well that time.
That time I stayed with my granfather and grandmother and my great
grandmother. And I used to think she (grandmother) was my mother for a
while. Then somebody told me that Bernice was my mother, and then I realized
it. (L) But I still call my grandma, "Mom." I used to call my grandfather,
" Pop. "
I kept staying with them there until I about five years old that time.
I didn't exactly know my age that time. Then my grandmother got sick. She
was sick for about two or three months that time. Then she got well for a
while. One old fellow doctored her. Then she wias all right for a long time
until now again. All that time I was with my granfather and grandmother.
And I was getting a little older every year then.
I used to play with them kids up the rancheria. Then when I get old, I
was about six years old, and then I went to school and then I got broken leg.
Then I stay in cast eight months. Then I was up Jamestown Hospital. The
doctor there was taking care of me. And I was up there three months. And
they brought me down, and I was in bed four months that time. And I guess
the government nurse, she used to take me up there to change my cast, up
to Jamestown Hospital. I was seven years old that time. And I had pus on
my leg. I still got the scar. And then it burst. We went to Tripton County,
and then it burst.
We went over in August. No, I think September. And we came back in
November from Tripton County. And then we was up over here. And my leg
was bothering me for a while again, and they took me down to Lane Stanford
Hospital. And when they brought me back, I wasn't able to go to school that
99
time. So they used to take me to the doctor's.  Then my grandmother came-back
from Lane Stanford. She was operated on, and we used to have to take her into
the doctor. And the nurse said I could go to school that Monday. And I was
going to school for a while.
And then they tried to take me to Lane Stanford, but may leg didn't bother
me now. And now I pick hops, that's all.
Bernice, she left me home when I came here. Then she went some place down
below, and then later--four years ago--she came here. My grandfather passed
away three years ago. They built us that little cabin up home.
We was picking hops, but I wasn't that old. I was with my grandmother,
and we were picking hops for a white man way down. About three or four years
ago, I think. I was picking hops. About three years old, I never did pick
hops except on ground. Last year I picked hops. Year before that I never
picked much because I was in cast.  I couldn't pick hops.  I never picked for
myself last year. I helped my mother to pay a bill. Thiat was my real mother,
Bernice Martinez.
Autobiography of Mable Brown
Mable Brown, Sophie Martinez's mother, must have been about ninety years
old when I began to work with her in 1939. In that year, she gave an inco-
herent, disconnected autobiography which has been put together here as part
of the documentation on Mrs. Martinez. At that time, Mrs. Brown was already
senile, and in the following years, she reported that she was constantly
bothered with visions.  In 1939, she was already almost blind, although she
managed to mend her clothes, cook mieals for herself and her husband, and to
pick hops in the hot sun of August.
Despite her age, and her growing incoherence, Mrs. Brown was still a
dominant personality.  She was apparently respected by the other Pomo,
especially as a dancer and singer.  She could still sing, and bemoaned the
fact that she was no longer strong enough to dance. Ellen Wood said that
Mrs. Brown had been a kemanamata-- "dancing woman."  "They got that dress,
those that have that kind of dancing dress, they have to go where there is
a dance and dance there. That's their rule." From Mrs. Brown, and from
other Pomo, we learned that she had also been a matutsi, or member of the
secret society. Mrs. Martinez translated matutsi as "rattlesnake mother",
and said that as a young woman her mother had taken part in a ritual performed
over a rattlesnake. The snake was later accidentally killed, and this caused
her mother's present illness and the visions which troubled her. (2)
I was born by big rock. Up on Green Lake Road. This side of Green Lake
100
Road. This side of Green Lake Road. That where they used to live. They had
big sweat house. That when I little. My mother know it, but I don't know it.
I born there.  That rock.   In the dark, on the rock.   Look like house.
White man come here first time, Indian afraid of white man. Indian just
go some place, brush and mountain. I heard. I heard it when I get big.
My Indian name, chedokuida. My name old Indian name. Just find it. When
get little baby, when get little child, always name it. I got another Indian
name, ?habemada, "Rock Woman."   Some old woman call me that.    My people call
me when playing. My mother call me that other name too. My father call me
that too.
(Tell me about your mother and father.) My father name of Charlie.
Indian name, ek'um. My mother, name kasali. She long, long woman. Tall
woman.  When I get big, she die now.    My father died when I get big.   Over
Chiptown, my father die. He got another woman. That's all I know about my
father, my mother. My father got lots of friends. He die over there Chiptown
that time car coming. My mother got no children. I just one. My mother's
children always die. I see them I get big. Two--big boy. Play with him.
Fight. Fight all time. That the way we do. You never fight your sister?
My father's other woman, she have no children. I never see my grandma. I
don't see.  Maybe she die before I.
I got no sister. Got one over Green Lake. That all. She old now.
She go that time when I little. She go school. She know how go school. (3)
We always alone, my mother and father. Some old man make him house.
Old man, my grandfather. Name kekulum. There is no white name. He die.
He good old man, but he can' t see nothing. Blind. Man blind. He just sit
in the house, and somebody give him some pinole and some mush.
(What did your father do? Did he hunt?) He never hunted. He just hunted
fish. (i) (Did you help him?) No. Only time I fish was when they poison
fish. Then I catch the fish with a basket.
(What did your mother do?)   Make acorn mush, make pinole, make basket.
(How did you live? What did you do?) I live in some brush house.
Make brush house first time. Long time Indian got house, brush house, willow.
Good house. I don't stay this kind of house. I live in Tanner Valley in
this kind of house. That good house. When I little girl, I live in brush
house. I don't know nothing. Just sitting in the house doing nothing, just
playing. Lots of Indians just living together. Never stay long. All talk
too much.  Playing.   When I little girl, I eat pinole, mush, everything buckeye.
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Iverything. But I don't like to eat white grub. We like Indian grub. First
time I eat white grub, we don't know nothing. Acorn, sometime make bread,
everything mush.  Indian eat them up all time.
(What else did you do?) When I little girl, I see lots of things.    Indian
doing. All Indian doing.   I never do nothing when I little girl. Just stay
playing, playing. When little, walk around. Play with other children. Other
Pomo children.  Oh, everybody die.  I'm the only one, that's all.   No one.
I played everything. Just played and played. I played with other girl.
We played.  Sometimes we swim. But this time I never swim. No good water.
Water too hot.  But then I swim.  (q).  Never swim with boys.   Swim with girls.
When I young girl, I just walk around and play and do nothing. Young girl,
first time we go down and dig potatoes. And we always go down. First time
we don' t know how. (5)
(Tell me more about when you were young?) My mother tell me good all
the time. "Don't bother somebody.   Don't be hitting somebody."   That way my
mother said it.  Tell me everything. My mother hit me all the time.. When I
little. I never say nothing, but she always fight me. I don't know. She
say I mean. My father never talk. Good old man. (6) I fraid too much.
I never get sick when I little. I just play and play. But this time,
I get sick now.
(Tell me about when you learned to make baskets) I just make it for
fun first time.  I just playing and make basket.  I see somebody make it.
Long time. I make it. We living in brush house then,    Brush house good
house too. Lots of Indians stay there all together. First basket, one-
stick basket. My mother show me how.
All Indians got lots of beads first time. This ti-me never make.    (qj).
My mother, she never make beads. My father make beads. I didn't help him.
I don't know. First time I make beads, when I got two baby. After that I
make it.  I see somebody make it, My father.  Man make it.   Oh that man, my
father, made lots of beads.  Lots of beads he make.
'Working for Whites: First time white man come in, every Indian stay with a
white man. Fraid of the white man. That time we stayed over there, Tanner
Valley. I fraid white man first time. This time I don't afraid. White man
talk about it and feel sorry for Indian old ones.
When I get big girl, I stay in this kind of house. I know white man too.
I don't know how to talk. She telling me to wash dishes. I don't know how
first time. She tell me. She tell me everything. I learned speak English
when I stayed with white man. They had children younger than me. I see them
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children.   I play with them.  I can't talk.   I can't understand, but I play
with them.
When I don't know nothing she take me.    That Lulu Hill.   I fraid.  I
don't know what she say, what they doing. She watch me. She took me to watch
the baby. I live that house then. She take me in house. I got good bed,
good quilt then. She was good. That time I don't know nothing, when I little
girl. When I little girl, I iron clothes first time. I like iron when I good.
She good woman. I wash there and iron everything. Wash everything. White
woman she taught me that. Take my hand that way and show me that first time.
She had children--all die. One girl, she staying over in town. I like
see, but I hear that she die. That time got little girl, and I go home. She
grab for me.
That time I don't know nothing. I didn't know how to talk. I didn't
know how to do it.   But she had me stay there, and I stay there.    Oh, she
doing good. But I don't like stay with her. I like to go home. I go home
all the time. She wanted me to stay there. She always tell my mother. She
big woman. I feel that she my mother. She good. Just do good for me. I
like her when I know.   First time, I fraid.   I don't know how the white be.
I can't talk. I stay till I get big, get woman. Then I go home. I got old
friends on rancheria.   My father old friends, my father old sister, and some
woman stay over there Green Lake. Sometimes I go home rancheria. I staying
with my old people. Make bread. Make something. Get water.
My father get another woman. She little woman. My mother die, he get
another woman. She got something in stomach. I seen it. That time I stay
with white woman. White woman take me home that time my mother die. They
burn her.   (What did you do?)   I felt sorry all the time.   I cry.  You never
cry when your friends die? I feel sorry. I just feel lonesome. I stay with
my father. When he feel good, he get another woman. She never do nothing.
She do me good. I just play that's all. I not making baskets then.
My father got no children but me. I never stay there with him. I go
Green Lake. Big wagon. That time I go home, and that lady take me to Green
Lake, and I stay there. I never do nothing that time. What can I do? I never
cook that time. I wait. Somebody cook it. I wish I see rabbit. I make soup.
(When did you learn to cook?)   I learn.   I see somebody cook it, and I know
it. That woman make it when I get woman. My father got woman. She make it.
My mother don't.
Removal to Reservation: That time White man take every Indian over there
Tanner Valley. I stay there little while. Whiteman come there, take every-
body to Round Valley that time. That time I go to. I go little while that
time. That reason I left Green Lake. I go with my sister that time I go
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little while Round Valley. Do nothing, never eat nothing sometime. Nothing
to eat there. Never do nothing. Just give little flour. Little! Little:
That all they give us. That reason everybody don't like to stay there Round
Valley and come back. (7)
Oh, lots of Indians there. Lots of people named Yuki. I fraid wild
Indian. I don't like that place, Indian there. They Elways dance. Every
tribe, Yuki, Wilaki. I fraid. Maybe he going to kill me. Wild Indians:
Look like wild Indians. I want to come back from there, but white man always
stop it.   Indian dances going on there.   Sacramento people dance, Willits
people dance, Yuki people dance, and we dance. Every tribe. Never sleep.
Every night, every night, dance.
I run off one time. Then white man take me to Round Valley again. Round
Valley boss, I guess. I don't like stay there. Don't feel good. Too much
Indians.  Too much dances every night.    I don't like it.  Walk back from Round
Valley. I come back in the night. One fellow see me ir. the road. He said,
"Hellow mother.   Hello, mother.  You better go back."   Blodgett boy.   He
know me. Long way to walk to Round Valley.
Old Blodgett, he come there. He stay there,and he watch. He know me.
Preach every Sunday. Every woman, every woman go to church. Every woman talk
about Blodgett. Old Blodgett did christening, praying, teaching that time.
All that. Old Blodgett, he like going to talk of Jesus. Every type of woman
he got there. He put me too. I can talk, but I go. I think that long time
now. Every Indian come back. Don't like stay there. We don't stay there
long time.   I talk just one time.  That all I can stand it.   Every woman stand
up and talk one time. I talk too one time. I say, "Well, my Corinthian friend,
I do love Jesus, all with my heart. Well, my Corinthian friend, pray for me,"
Then I stop. That the way the women say that. Blodgeit taught all us. (8)
I never go to school there. One time, one day, I go school there. Then
I run off. I like go to school, but I can't do it. My sister stayed over
there Green Lake, she go to school.
Marriage: That time I got married Tom Hill. (9) I got little girl that time.
When I stay long time, I get sick that girl. I have two babies before Sophie.
Boys. Oh always die. My children always die. I don't Know what it for.
First baby, he big boy when he die. Big boy. (10)
When Sophie born, Round Valley, I stay. Big barn. Long time I stay
there. I stay with my people, my old people. That time I hoped for girl,
because maybe girl want to stay with one good.    When Sophie was born, no
mother there. Dead. My father there. Got another woman. (LI)
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Long time I stay there. Got nothing to eat. Indian don't like that,
don't like stay there. Not much grub. Run off all the time. I run off in
the night and come back Tanner Valley. We just walking. I got no baby then,
just Sophie that all. Some old people with me. We come in the night. Every-
body come. I don't see no Blodgett. Just walk around long time, long way.
All old women, Tom Hill, his father, step-father. That all that time when we
come.
Later Life: That time we come home, We stay with Jim McCreanor. We stay
there and make good house for us. I know that old man. He good man. Give
Indians lots of grub. Big orchard. Kill deer. Make everything. Give them
to us. Watch us. We do nothing, but we like eat something good. We stayed
Jim McCreanor little while. Man help the work little. That white man liked
Indians. Make house, and we stay there. We live there one year. Sophie
get big. She five, six, seven years old.
I had Tom Hill then. I came down here and separated. Then I got with
this old man.
We stay then over Squawtown. Pick hops that time. One man named Crosby.
He get every Indian to pick hops. God man. I didn't pick hops at Crosby's.
I stay with my father. My father there yet. He got another woman. We only
stayed there little over two years. We make lot of money that time. We not
yet old. Then one fellow buy that place up, Chiptown. Young fellow don't
want to stay at Tanner Valley. One fellow shot at him. That reason he bought
that place. Everybody come there. Everybody die now. Only few there. My
friends all die that stay there. Old people come there. Lots of Indians
come there. All die. But lots of children now.
I stayed at Tanner Valley when I danced first time. (q). My mother
never dance. She don't know how to dance. My father, he never dance too.
Some people don't dance. They don't know how to dance. I learn quick when
I see somebody dance. I got something pretty in my ears that time. My mother
throw beads on me that first time I danced. She got lots of beads. I like
dance them kind. Oh I dance at every Indian dance. I dance all the time every-
thing, everything. And if you want sing, I can sing. Lots of sing, lots of
sing.
And I make big basket. That white man buy it. That time he say he going
to keep it long time and get money for it now. I make three basket, just fine.
First time I make it. That time I got good eye. I never feel lazy. I do
everything. I make two baskets for this old man, Tim. He give to some woman,
some relation. That way Indians do it. Give it to some relation. Way woman
do it--we got grandfather or uncle. We give him blanket. That way Indian
do it. Makes lots of beads too. My uncle give him lots of beads. That's
the way the Indians do it. Oh, I make lots of baskets, but I can't make it
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now. Can't get root now. No place to get it. Too hard to get it. When we
got wagon, we get it.
And I always doing everything: wash clothes, iron. I stay in town. One
woman name Annie. She die now too. She good woman. She got lots of money.
Oh, lots of white men come here.   Woman come, stay in town.    She come here
all the time, government nurse.   She give me good coat, good sweater.     She
die. I don't know what matter with her. One time white people come here.
Oh he fetch lots of clothes, lots of clothes.    He fetched here.   He tell
me, "Don't die.  Don't die."   I told him, "I can't help it if I get sick,
die." Priest come here. Fetch grub all the time.
(What else did you do!) I just play cards that all I do. Then I win
money, lots of beads.   Play five cards.   Play monte too.   I always play lots
of cards, lots of money. Beads and clothes too. That's the way we do it.
We play four stick too. That's the way we play. We always play. We women
play.  Playing cards.   Playing stick game.   We bet money, beads.   They always
play right here.  Lots of women here, but they all die.     One time we play down
in the hop field. White man wanted to play. I thought we win it. I tell this
old man, "Win it'  Win it'"   But he can't do it; I can't do it.    The white
man win two dollars from us.
Mrs. Brown never completed the autobiography. Cercain subjects, however,
were mentioned again and again. She insisted, perhaps too vehemently that she
hated drinking and never drank, but also said that she had drunk beer, wine,
and whiskey, and would like to drink "a little beer".     Perhaps some of her
protestations about liquor were aimed at her granddaughter, Bernice Martinez,
of whom she thoroughly disapproved. She also said that she was afraid to stay
on the rancheria alone because drunken people came arotund all the time. She
liked to talk about dancing and singing--and while she was never very coherent
in her descriptions, she would immediately begin to demonstrate dances or to
sing whenever the subject was approached. She enjoyed dwelling on the details
of the gambling games. Her other subjects of conversation were the gifts
that the white people brought to her, the desertion of her first husband for
another woman, and her daughter's illness.
NOTES
Q) Ellen Wood said that Bernice had left the child with her mother as soon
as it was weaned.
(2) Bonny Mexican told B. Wilson that Mrs. Brown had told her that the dance
had lasted for four days. This was a dance for which they went out to
catch a rattlesnake. "She was the only lady, and about eight people.
They sang and sang, and the rattlesnake crawled out of his hold and
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coiled up. They sang. The old lady just put out her hand, and the snake
crawled on it and coiled up. On the way back to the Round House they
sang and danced about the snake-- four times on the way. There was a
man lying on the floor of the Round House. The old lady picked up the
snake again and aimed it four times at the man, and they danced four
times again. The man there was suffering, and the snake crawled out on
the blanket. They threw beads on the snake, and he ate bead, and they
danced four times. Then they took snake out of the Round House, and they
danced four times on the way. They took the snake to its hole and
danced four times, and the snake crawled into the hole. This woman must
not eat meat. She had difficulty in breathing once because she ate meat."
Mrs. Martinez said that she thought this had happened when she was a
small child, and her mother was still a young woman.
Q3) Tim Brown said that this was her mother's older sister's daughter.
(4) Hunting and fishing were two major professions among the Pomo's. The
right to become a hunter or a fisher-man was inherited in certain family
lines, and a fisherman or hunter would train his successor whom he chose
from among the children in the family.
(5) Tim Brown said that all the Pomo used to go down to Bodega Bay to pick
potatoes. "They give them, women forty cents a day to pick up. Give
men six bits a day. Little one, two bits. When get through, when get
pay up, get big panful of silver."
(6)  Brown, who was present, said, "Never try whip, but old woman pretty
well mean. Never mind, just whip him."
(7)  When asked why they were taken there, Mrs. Brown said, "All Whiteman
want to kill Indian here. That why he take them to Round Valley."
(8) Tim Brown, who had also been at Round Valley at this time said that some
of the women "talked long time." He said that Blodgett made all the
people go to church. "Teaching and praying. After that he get through
and start preaching. He stopping all the Indian ways. Just do white
man' s way. Get marry by license." Brown said he too had gone to church,
but he had not bothered to listen to what was being said.
(9)  Brown said that Mrs. Brown and Hill were married by license in Round
Valley. The agent tried to make Hill pay for the license, but he refused.
Mrs. Brown said that then Blodgett, the minister, tried to make her pay
for it, but she refused. "I won't pay for it because he left me."
(10) Mrs. Brown also said that she had only one child, a girl, by Hill. Tim
Brown said, "That woman down there, that Sophie, she her first child.     She
107
was young then. That man don't keep her long time.
(L1) Cf. introduction of Sophie Martinez's life history for further information
on the birth of Sophie.
109
CHAPTER IV
LIFE HISTORY OF ELLEN WOOD
Introduction
Ellen Wood was the head of a large family. In 194i she was living at
Brushville, which had been her home for perhaps thirty years. With her lived
her husband, her daughter, and two of her sons. In a neighboring house lived
her son and his family. She had three other living children, married and
living on nearby rancherias, perhaps twenty grandchildren, and at least two
great grandchildren.
She was fifty-nine at that time, and seemed to be in good health. She
was one of the few Pomo women to have a job in Oak City, and weekly she washed
for some of the whites. In hop-picking season, she worked in the fields, and
in 1941 was considering undertaking a hop contract the following year.
Her family was probably in fair financial condition for Pomo at that time.
Their house was one of the better ones on the rancheria, and it seemed to be
kept in good condition. Mrs. Wood was a good house keeper by Pomo standards.
However, the family complained that they were less well off than were the
Browns who received old age pensions. "They get more than we do by working
hard," was their plaint. Wood at the time was working for the W.P.A,. The sons,
two of whom were unmarried and livin-.> at home, worked in the fields for white
ranchers in the area. Mrs. Wood worked in town. The daughter, who was
deserted by her husband, merely live at home with her chi ld.
We have little information on the position of the Woods in the Pomo com-
munity. Rita Day of Manzanita said that Mrs. Wood still regarded herself as
a member of that rancheria, where she grew up, and would come to the rancheria
meetings and attempt to run things in spite of the fact that the others thought
she no longer belonged to the group. From Mrs. Wood's own account she was
entangled with feuds or lesser quarrels with most of the people of Manzanita.
At Brushville, I have known her to visit only Mrs. Martinez. She herself said
that she was afraid to have dealings with the others on that Rancheria. She
did, however, take an active part in the woman's club sponsored by the Indian
Service which had a membership including most of the women of the valley.
She had a small reputation as a dream doctor, although she was not one of
the well-known doctors in Oak Valley. Probably she had never doctored beyond
the circle of her immediate relatives save for members of the Martinez family.
Others,however, knew that she was dreaming, for Mrs. Adams mentioned it.
Otherwise, I doubt that she had much prestige among the Pomo. She was not mnen-
tioned as an exceptional basketmaker, nor was she a dancer.
My own impression of her was of an intelligent, strong-willed person.
She was a gossip, whose tongue touched everyone she was in contact with. Her
own family was not immune for within a few days of our first meeting she had
volunteered the information that one daughter-in-law was attempting to induce
an abortion, that another one had committed incest with her uncle, that a
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granddaughter had an incestuous child by her cousin, and that another grand-
daughter was running wild. She was an informant with few reticences. I
doubt that she was well liked in general.
Childhood
I'm going on fifty-nine now. September, I'll be fifty-nine. I don't
know what date though, but it was September, hop-picking time. My mother
said I was three days old when they finished the hops. That must have been
September, first week. There wasn't much hop those days, just down at
Doyle's place.  Wasn't many people that time working for one man. (1)
(Can you tell me anything about the time you were born?) No. That's
all I heard about it, and after that didn't hear nothing. Unless one time
when my mother was getting another baby, and I nearly died. No food. And
they had to feed me on pinole. Have to soak that and make it soft. And
they was feeding me on that. In those days they didn't know nothing about
cow milk, sixty years ago. They used to have cows, but Indians never
drink milk then. So I would have starved to death if they hadn't given me
pinole. They put it in my mouth. My aunt told me about that.
About a year after that, my aunt, she used to be wash woman in the
white families. And she used to take me with her in the basket. That's
the way she raised me, among the whites. And they used to take me out of
the basket and feed me milk.  I have one friend over here who remembers
me in the basket. That's how I know I'm going on to fifty-nine.    She's the
only one left.  Another white lady there too, but I never did visit her.
And that's how my aunt raised me, taking me around among white people. And
they feed me. Because she go out every day except Sunday, walk around,
carrying me around. Sometimes she stayed in a white family's place where
she was going next day. (2)
I should have stayed with my aunt, but then they told me where my
mother was, and after that I stayed with her. That's how my trouble
began.
Family Background: (Tell me about your mother and father.) I don't know my
father much. He just died lately, but anyway I never stayed around him. He
died about five years ago down in Santa Rosa. My father left me when I was
about three years old. They was on the same rancheria, and they tell me
which one was my father. So when I see him, I always go to him, go to
see him. (3)
Father and Mother: My mother had one man before my father, they say. My aunt
said my mother was like me. Her mother died when she was two or three, and
her aunt raised her. And her man started to do the way my stepfather did to
me, so she gave her away to one old man to take care of her. That's the way
they do long time ago--give it to someone they like. That's the way they did,
she said, to my mother. So she stayed with him.   Then when she got big, she
run away and got my father. That's the way lots of them are. Our way is good
ll
--no law. You stay with them as long as you feel like it and then run away
and get another man. We still got that law, piece of 4.c. (4) I don't know
how long she stayed with that old fellow. She never had a baby till she get
with my father. I'm the oldest. My brother is younger.
(Where did she meet your father?) Oh, he was down here to the rancheria.
He wasn't born here. He came from way down in Marin County. First Mexicans
that came through, they used to come through and get married to the Indian
women and take them down there. Some of them would go back and take their
children but leave the women. That's the way my father's mother was. My
father was born down there, and then his father died. They heard the news
from here, and my father's mother's brother went after her and brought her
back. She had four children. She died down in that rancheria when I was
small.
I was little, in the rags. My mother said she wanted to see me, and
they take me down there. They give me to her, and she was dying. She hold
me and say something in our Indian language that I should get old. She prayed
over me. After that she got through and was crying over me. About a week
after that she died. I don't know, but my mother told me about that.
I saw my father's aunt too--his mother's sister. And his uncle used
to be captain down there too. Captain Joe they used to call him. I was a
big girl when he died. He's the one who made that road there at Manzanita
Rancheria. The road used to be clear up where Stan Day stays. He dug this
lower road when he was old.   I used to go and watch him, and he would talk
to me. He'd say, "I do this just for you children. After I'm gone, maybe
you'll use it." He started it, just little place there, and after he died
they made a road there.
(How did your mother get your father?) I don't remember. I was little
baby that time, but they was together, I think. I don't know. I don't know
how long they stay together--maybe about three years. I was born when they
together about a year.  Another year, and my brother was born.   After that
they parted when he was still in the basket, about four or five months.
Contacts with Father: (Did you ever stay with your father after that?) I
was pretty small thst time you know.   I stayed with my father when he had
the other woman. After he left my mother, he got my mother's half-sister.
I stayed with her. They was good, the step-uiother.   That's why children
thought nothing about it. They thought they was full relations. Even if
the women parted together, the same women visited each other. They married
another one, and they never think about the old one. Never feel jealous or
nothing . (P S)
I must have been six or seven years old and staying around with her and
some other family with him.   He had two children already. The boy was big.
112
Chester Peterson's mother stayed with them. She was crippled, but she made
the bread. My aunt let her make tortillas sitting by the fire there. She
couldn't do anything else. She couldn't stand. That's the time when we eat.
Palmer Evans--he must have been about three or four years old. We didn't have
no table either, but just spread some white cloth on the floor and put this
frying pan full of gravy and meat on the floor. And Palmer was rushing
around trying to get all the gravy and meat. He want to eat the meat all he
can, you know. (6)
(g). My father had lots of children, but all of them died. The first
one was born, I don't know what year it was. I was about five or six years
old. It was born down by the river, our place over there. About a year and
a half, two years after that, my sister was born. (7) I remember her, and I
remember Palmer and this big girl that died at Sherman was pretty near the
age of my oldest daughter. After that the other three was born dead. The
last one was born about this time in the afternoon, and the old man used to
doctor her. She was suffering awful, they say. Must have been something
wrong. He had some kind of animal. I see that. He tell them to shake her
up, and after that they put her down. About five or ten minutes after that,
the child was born. About this time in the afternoon. After that she didn't
have no more, and after that she died. Looks like the baby was full grown
inside too when it died. I don't know what makes that.
They lived on Manzanita rancheria. My father works, but he don't move
around like my mother and them. They stay home on the rancheria. He works
there, walks to where he works. He never come around where I was, never even
visit me. But I always go to them some time.
(Did he ever punish you?) No, never even scold me. He think he have no
right to punish me, I guess. He didn't take care of me so he didn't even say
nothing to me. He's awful good. He's a heavy drinker, but he never did scold
me. He drinks lots, but never even have row with his woman. But he never
comes home when he drinks. He buys all the groceries and send it home. Then
he stayed and drink up all that left. He come home when he was sober. His
wife used to scold him though, but he just laugh. He never minded. Heavy
drinker. Any money left after the groceries, he drink up. Start working
next week broke.
Only time I ever used to ask money from him was when maybe there was a
circus in town. Then I ask fifty cents, maybe dollar. Rest of the time I
don't bother him.
Contacts with Mother's Fa        My aunt raised me. My mother never did.    But
still I always liked her though I had lots of trouble on her. They were
living together, staying together in the same rancheria, in the same house.
But I always sleep with my aunt. But still I always like to go to my mother
the main one. We all went together. I used to live with my aunt, sleep in
one bed with her. When I don't sleep with her, I sleep with my grandmother.
(g). She was my mother's sister, older than my mother. Her name was
Nancy Harvy. Those days when first Mexicans came up here, they just grab the
girls and take them in bushes. Have the pistol in one hand, and they do what
113
they want and then let them go. My old aunt say they take her once. They put
them in a house. One night she pried a board away and got away. And she
didn't know where she wa3, but she came out way up in a mountain and she saw a
light. It was those northern Indiaas out gathering the tan bark acorn. She
stayed with them a whole winter, and then they brought her up here. That was
up at Round Valley, I guess. That was the first place they tried to take all
the Indians from around here. That's the way they do long time ago. So lots
of white babies, and they choke them. That easy too.    The first baby born,
then squeeze the nose and don't let it breath.   That was long time ago. That's
why not many half-oreeds around here.
Oh, we used to hear lots of stories about how long time ago they treated
the people here. I know that when my aunt used to tell her story, I was sorry
for her. When she was a little girl, she used to be afraid to go around like
that. She was grabbed two times, she said. I think she must have been old--
about sixteen or seventeen--to be able to get away. I don't think a little
girl would have done that. She used to be pretty husky when she got old. She
must have been pretty husky when she was about sixteen years old.
(Tell me about your mother.)   I don't know what I could remember about he--.
She was sickly all the time, and she couldn't see very well. She used to suffer
with her eyes all the time. That's about all I know about her.
She was sick when I could remember a little. I stayed with my aunt that
time. That's old smoke house--long and they have three fires in it. Long
shed with no floor, dirt floor, four doors--two on the end and one on each
side. That was my aunt's husband's mother with some old people, and another
family with two or three old people--my father's aunt was one of them and her
man, and another was the man's sister and she had a man. Four on that fire.
And my aunt and my mother was on another fire.   My mother didn't have a man
that time. She was sick. And I sleep with one old lady because my mother was
sick, and I had to sleep with another old woman. That old lady, I call her
grandmother. She had nobody, and I generally sleep behind her. I had a grand-
mother, but she had another man.
I don't know what kind of sick my mother was, and 1 never did see anybody
doctor her. But I ubed to take care of her when everybody was gone. I don't
kniow where they go--maybe to work. But nobody there except the old blind
lady, the one I sleep with. I don't know how old I was--seven or eight maybe.
And my aunt must have taken care of my brother that time and taken him with
her. I didn't see him around that time. And long time ago, during hop work,
they used to go out early in the morning, work ttvelve hours a day that time
--seven to six they used to work. (g). No, I had to stay take care of my
mother. I never did go.
I don't know how long my mother was sick that time. Seems pretty long:
stay home, give her water, give her cold drink. Sit around and chase flies
away with willow brush. Sometimes get tired and lay down and sleep. And then
when evening came, I would get a little water, I guess. And then next day
the same thing, I guess. I know I used to be there when everybody gone, and
then in the night time they all come back. I can remember little piece, but
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after that I can't remember. (g). I don't remember what we talked about. I
don't think we talked anything. I know my mother always used to tell me to
watch out to see who was coming around the house and to find out who they
were. She told me to watch that. (8)
I don't know how long she was sick, but after a while she got a little
better. Then we move down to the river to prepare for hop-picking. But she
was still sick, stay home. I didn't pick either that time. I was small. I
used to go after water though for the old people. And from there on, we move
home, move up to the rancheria and stay there. And next, I don't know what
we done.
Early Memories:  (Where did you live as a child?)   Down there, down at Man-
zanita rancheria. That's the main place I've always been. Never did go any
place else except to the ranch down by the river. Used to camp there during
the summer and then in the winter come back. I remember that time the Indian
house was built when they move in there. (2)
Contact with Maru Cult: Some of the Indians turn into matu, so they built
that roundhouse. I don't know how old I was--six or seven years old. That
was the time Nick Carson was Maru at Manzanita. I can remember a piece of it,
and from then on I don't remember nothing. He quit when he got old. Then he
don't do that. I never did see that. He never let children come in there.
My mother went, but they used to put me in bed and lock the door before they
left. So I never did see it. But my mother used to tell me about it after-
wards. (10)
Contact with Catholicism: Then the priest came. I didn't know it was a
priest, but all the people was sitting on the platform in there.   No young
people. Only old people, forty or fifty. And I didn't know what he say, but
I listen. I used to be scared when he would raise his hands. My old grand-
mother used to have a rabbit-skin blanket over her like a shawl. And I would
crawl in there scared. They told me he stayed there a week.-
My uncle, Captain Roberto, went down to Vineland and got him. That's how
he came there. He said his name was Father Louis. He used to go around bare-
foot, they said, but I don't remember seeing him in the house.   He used to
teach the old people. He would put his hand on their head and say, "Nombre,
Nombre, Nombre." And I used to be scared. And the old people used to put
their hands every way--they didn't know how to cross themselves. I remember
that. After that my old uncle always said his prayers like that. When they
put things on the table, he always prayed himself. I don't know who all went
that time. I don't know even if my aunt go. Because I was scared. I hid
under the robe my grandmother wore. Just crawl into her arms and lay there
crosswise, I guess.
Way back as far as I can remember I used to see that old man (Captain
Roberto) go to church. And he used to pray at the table in the Spanish way.
Everytime he ate he did that.   I don't pray at the table, but I go to church,
communion, and confession and things like that.
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(You were baptised?) The Spanish people was my godfather and godmother,
they say.  I don't know his first na .i 2. They used to call him Garcia and his
wife Rosita.  I sea him before he went away from here.   But he was the same
as these others. He got married to my father' s sister and went up to Round
Valley. That was the girl they raised--the one Rosita raised, and he got
married with her.  He used to have wine, and my old man (Captain Roberto)
always used to look around where there was wine, and they always used to go
over there. And I found out they was always drinking on account of my aunt.
They used to eat dinner there and have wine.  I remember old Garcia's place.
That's the place my uncle got killed. All the Indians used to go there and
get wine. He used to make it in the barn and have a big barrel there. I
think he was the first one to plant grapes there. They used to take me there.
That was the only time they want to take me to town. They used to go there
and take me there.  Then they get all the wine they want on account of my
aunt.
(Do you remember being baptised?) No, I don't remember that, but they
used to tell me that I was baptised, that them two was my godparents.   I wasn't
very old then.  I was pretty good size girl when they want to Lake me, but I
didn'it wantL to go. And long after that when I saw one of my father's nlieces,
she wais pretty big.  She came back and talked Spanish.- She was takeii at the
same timiie.  She caine back and said I should have come, theni I would have
learned Spanish.  S;he said iniside of a month she learned Spanish.  Then I
was sorry.
Contacts with the Old Pomo Religious Life: I always tell my boys too that
long time ago when I was little girl, the headman came out in the evening cr
early in the morning and talked and prayed. I know I used to feel good when
I heard that. I understood what he said and felt good. But nowadays there's
nothing like that.  It's been pretty near twenty-five years since my old man
(Captain Rioberto) died. He used to do that down at that round house. He
stood there on the west side and preached like that. But now they don't do
that. Nobody say nothing. (11)
Mother's Remarriage:  Then my mother got married to my stepfather.   (g).  I
know my mother had another man before him. She used to tell me that. One
fellow from Chiptown. The first man she had was Will Colt. That same family
is at Chiptown yet. They used to keep relations with me till he died.    (12)
After that the Tripton County man came over. He ca3me there by way of drink-
ing. lie had a friend there on thie rancheria, Captain Don Roberts, anid he
used to come there drinking.  Captain Don used to drink lots.   lie's dead now.
He was captain of the rancheria.  Whole lots of people used to gather because
he drinks lots.
I know they used to play monte, cards, in the roundhouse there. Lots of
the men used to gather around and play cards. And that was the time my mother
used to be around watching the game. And my mother used to smoke. Hardly any
of the women did that, but she used to smoke and make these Bull Durham cigar-
ettes. I used to feel sorry for her when I see her do that. And she see this
fellow was smoking, and she asked a smoke from this fellow. The other man got
jealous over it. So she left this other fellow, the mnan from Chiptown. He
116
got mad. Oh, Indians awful jealous people about their wives. White people
aren't like that. They play with another man's wife, but Indians don't do
that.
(Did you see that fight?)  No, I didn't know that, but my mother tell me
that. And she told me not to do that because she got licked for that.
After that she got the other fellow. That was William Jones. He was a
Tripton County man. They got together about hop-picking time. He used to
tell me he used to come there in 1888, I think he used to say. I must have
been small that time, I guess; and he say my brother was still in the basket
when he came to my mother. He could read too. I don't know how he learned
that, but he used to read books and write letters that first time. (13)
First Contacts with Death: And first time when I could hardly remember, I
think, a person died and my mother was crying. And I was scared. I don't
know how old I was, but I was scared. I sure hate to see my mother cry. I
think that was the first woman I heard. (14) Maybe I was about five or six
years old that time. That was my mother'.s relation too, that old man died.
Gee, make me feel so afraid don't know what to do. I was sitting in her lap.
And she hold me and crying, and I start to cry too. I can't stop crying, and
they had to shake me up. After that I always feel funny when I heard some-
body crying. They told me not to cry, but still I cry. But mostly my cry
was scared. After that my mother didn't want me to go there any more, so I
never see what they done. Never go there after that when they bury the old
fellow. But after that, I always like to go and see it when people begin to
cry like that. But they always chase me away, chase me home.
I went there with my mother--they told the story about it, so my family
went over there in the evening. He must have died in the evening. So my
mother hold me in her lap, and I got scared. Never heard her cry before. And
my aunt started to cry too, and all the women crying. Women cry, but hardly
men cry. They have the tears, but not so loud. And that night they fix him
up and put the clothes on. But they didn't want me to see the body, so they
told me to stand to one side, not to see it. So I stand in the corner. They
put him on a board and fix him up and next day they took him up, and I never
followed him. But after that two days they took him up the hill to bury him.
I sneaked along after them. And after that I don't know what I done.
(Did you know that old man?) Yes, I see him lots of times. He's one of
the singers, dancing singers. He sing for the dances. They say that's how
he died that way. He didn't do the rule good, so he got punished. I don't
know. That's what they say. They don't dance that kind of dancing around
here now. I see that kind when he sing there in the sweat house, old-fashioned
ground house. Used to have two of them down there. He was a great singer. I
guess it was his songs that my uncle learned. They used to have dances there
at that roundhouse. They have the tuyake when one man just sings and all sit
around in the roundhouse just listening to him.  I heard that.  My uncle knew
all that, but I never did learn any of them. You just walk around, run around
the fire alone in the roundhouse, four times, and singing all them things and
shake rattle. They used that when they doctored too. When they don't dance,
they sing that kind of song. And one woman sings too, and eight or nine men
117
standing around and hum like bee. And one is to talk, say things just like
when they dancing person call out. Then stop, and that's the time the woman
stops. It's pretty hard to say things when you hear it. They have to prac-
tice to say that. My uaicle's wife, my sister-in-law, our way, used to sing
that way. I used to go every time she sing, but seems like I don't learn
nothing. Maybe I didn't care to learn.
(When this old man died, what did they do then?) They all went home.
That first evening when he died, after I don't know how long they were crying
there--maybe two hours--we all went home, my mother and my aunt and the old
man. After they fix up the body, next morning after breakfast, they went over.
But I didn't go.
(What did you do that night?) I went to bed, I guess. (Did you dream
that night?)  No, I don't think so.   I don't think I dream about it.   I don't
remember that I ever dream when I was little. Might have, but I forget it,
I guess.  (_)  I slept with my aunt that night.    I never sleep alone till I
was ten years old, I think. Just big enough to go out by myself night time.
But I used to be scared though at night time. Don't think about anything.
Just feel scared, scared of the dark. (Did they talk about his death that
night?) No, they never say nothing about it. But they was, telling each
other that way they was going tobry him next day. Have his body half a day
and then next day bury him. After that I never got scared. Just stand to
one side and watch what they doing. Those days they used to pile all the
clothes in the grave, all the blankets. If they had bedstead, pile that up
by the coffin. Nowadays, they don't do that.
Then I just forget all about it, and play around, I guess.
Then my aunt's man died.   I must have been about fGur or five or six.
I just remember that piece.   (15)   Before she got married with him, she had
another man. She had two men before that. This second one, I don't remember,.
but after they was parted they used to tell me about it. And I used to call
him grandfather.   He used to treat me good even after they parted.   But he got
another woman.  That was Stan Day's mother.   She had another man before that.
I was there, but I don't remember seeing him.
I remember this last one though. He used to be good to me. He drink
lots, but he never did bother me like my stepfather. Never did notice that.
I used to camp around along with her and him. He used to bring candy home
for me when he come. That's all I expected from him. I never was scared of
him, but I was scared of my stepfather. I see that lots in the paper yet
about stepfathers bothering girls.
He was chop wood over at Lawson's place. I remember that part, how he
got sick and died, and after that I don't know what happened.    I don't know if
he caught cold or pneumonia or nothing. But I know he died. (Did they say he
was poisoned?)   No, he died of something.   I don't know how he died. He wasn't
sick very long, and so he died. Seems like he died pretty quick. He was sick
there, and his family took him home where he stayed.    I think his mother was
living yet. They took him down there. I don't know how long they stay. And
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he died. (s). I was with my aunt in the old people's place, my aunt's sister-
in-law's place. I stay with her there.
(How did you find out he had died?) They told me. My aunt told me. You
know, they was crying, but I didn't pay much attention on that. Then in the
night time my aunt told me. In our language she said, "Your grandfather died.
Died for good now. Leave us all alone now. Mustn't call for something to eat
now. Nobody feed us. We don't know what we going to do." That was in the
night time. I was lay down with her. That was when she was teaching me. She
tell me not to call for him, but I forget about it. Sometimes in the evening
when we get ready to eat, I ask where he is. He never come home yet. Some-
times she got mad and scold me. "Can't you remember anythin.,?" she said. But
I just sit and think. My aunt told me, "He's dead and gone now. Can't see it
again." And when I used to cry, I call for him, "Grandfather" in the English
way, "ba.se" our way. I used to cry that. My    aunt saying, "When you cry,
don't call for him."  I used to forget though, and then she would scold me. I
used to think about it all the time: why did he die, and why is that. When
I was small I didn't know yet that we was all going to go that way. I used to
want to go up to where he was. I thought maybe he would come out where they
bury him, you know. I thought that was mean.
They had it there in the burial ground. (Did you take anything?) I re-
member that family do that when their own kind died. They give them lots of
things, and she change them--give different kinds of things. Some give blank-
ets, some give baskets, some put beads around her neck. And she take it.
After it all over, burn up his clothes and bedding and the things that had
belonged to him. She burned her clothes too, what he had seen, what she had
worn around him. And she cut her hair. That's the way the Indians do. Some
of them still do that. I cut my hair when my girl died two years ago. (a).
No, that was when I was too small. They didn't cut it. (16)
Since her man died, we went to our old man (Captain Roberto). I don't
remember that much what happened, but I know they all died off so my old man
must have got her. So we went over there then. He was alone, his wife and
him. Maybe he come after her. I don't know that part, but anyway we all
move in there, his place. He put up a house already. They used to have a big
old house--upstairs too. They used to have the old white people's house,
early settler's house. When they bought the ranch, the Indians told him to
live in it. Used to be a big house--five-room house and upstairs too. That's
why we all staying on there. And he had another house, and he put another old
man in that--his father-in-law, they said--in that other white man's house.
It had a kitchen with a chimney. And they had a big barn there. And another
family moved in there where they put hay. No floor there.
My aunt got married with a white fellow sometime after that. They used
to live over there, and I don't know how long she stayed with him. And after
while, long after that, when she got old, one old fellow did stay with her.
My aunt didn't like him, so he only stayed there about two months, and then
he had to move out. Our Laura (17) didn't like it either.   She used to say
to my aunt, "You old woman. You can't do nothing no more, and here you get
married!"
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(Where was your brother that time your aunt's husband died?) He was with
my mother and them. I don't know where they stay that time. They generally
always move around among white people then. Those days white men have Indian
men to work for them all the year around. That's why he never did stay home
much. Only about two months of the year, in the hard part when it's raining.
Then he never could work much, so us2d to stay home and then move off again.
We lived all together. You know, long time ago Indians lived like that.
One house, one family lived together, every one of them. That's the way we
was living down there. We had a big old house and lived all there together--
my mother and my aunt and that old man and hiS wife and us two, boy and girl.
And my aunt was married, and my mother was married. We all eat together at
one table. And when they bought groceries, they put in whatever they could:
four bits, dollar, whatever they can to buy groceries. And the old lady, my
aunt, used to have the smokehouse and she used to cook everything Indian in
there. (To whom did the food belong?) Belonged to the company. Nobody did
say anything about it--they all buy together. When there was something short,
they tell it around when theyeat, and then somebody go out and go to town and
get it. And then, whoever going, they always give the money or something to
buy it with. All put in. And cooking time, it's just the same. Whoever gets
up early, start in. Supper time just the same. Whoever feels like starting
in early, start to cook.
(Did your grandmother live with you then?) I guess so. Some grand-
mothers, I guess'.  I never see my real grandmother, but my grandmother s
sisters I see. Three of them I see. I just see my aunt and my uncle's woman,
that old Laura. They got married when my mother was young, they say, Old
Laura and my uncle. She must be pretty close to a hundred years old. She
must have been over fifty years old when I was born. But my mother was young
when she got married to my uncle, and she was married twice before my uncle
to a white man and another fellow.
(q). I had six grandmothers. There were six girls and one boy, and so
I had six grandmothers, and her brother is my grandfather. They used to name
my boy after him. His name was shishna. My oldest boy, they gave him that
name. He was a good man. He married once, and after that he told his family
he don't get married again. "I feel mad all the time when married," he said.
"After woman is gone, I feel good." So he didn't get married after that, but
all the women want to come to him. That's why the men poisoned him.
(q). They were my mother's mother's sisters. And from there you know,
one of their daughters is Tomas Mexican's mother. That's how Tomas is my
uncle by my mother's oldest cousin. We call it brother like that if the sis-
ters have children, but the whites call it cousin. We always say cousin now,
but I always say the same old way. That's the same family as that May Green.
Her mother is one of them. That's how I call her, May', my sister. And her
children call me aunt.  (18) The rest of them ain't got no children. These
the only two out of six ladies. Some of them lost all, and some of them
raised one. I didn't know much about it. They never tell me their names.
They did tell me the Indian names. I don't think they had white names.
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These old people had their own smoke house. That's the kind they used to
have for old people--just dirt floor and fire in the middle of the house. They
used to have two places to put fire. And in the night time, my eyes just burn
with the smoke. Sometimes I used to sleep there with one old lady, my grand-
mother.
Illness:  (Were you ever sick as a child?)  I don't remember. That's only once
I remember long time ago, when I was little, about seven or eight. We used to
play in the water all the time, winter time. And that time I got sick. My
aunt wasn't around that time. This was with my mother in another family house,
the one I call my sister. We was living there with them. I don't know where
these others was, but anyway we was staying with them that time. (i). I don't
know why we went there. We stayed there about one or two years, I guess. They
had a house staying there right near there. That's the way they used to live.
When they close relation, they used to live close to each other, not far apart,
long time ago. One family you can tell they family. Not like nowadays when
they live way off, daughters and sons. (a). I was following my mother around
that time. She had no house, so she always was with some other family, her
brothers and sisters. Never have a house of her own. Staying with the old
man and old lady and my aunt.
(Tell me more about your being sick.) Well, that was at night, in the
evening. That was in winter time. I was just about little bigger than eight
or nine years old. I'd been playing around in the water, got wet. That's how
I got headache. I was laying in bed, and my bones hurt all the time. I was
just crying all the time, and my mother scolded me. She said that when I got
well I would be back in the water again. (What did you do?) I tell her where
I'm hurt and call her, "Mama," and tell her, "Mamas hurt! My bones all aching."
(g). No, she didn't say nothing. She only felt mad, I guess. One thing only
she was saying: "As soon as you get well, you'll be doing the same thing."
That's the only thing she used to say. She got mad when I was crying and said,
"You'll be doing the same thing." I don't say nothing to that.
I was sleeping alone, I think, that time under my mother's bed. I had a
little place there, just a little straw mattress. That's why they put me on
the fireplace. They had the fireplace that time. They took the little bed
out and put me there. That's the only kind of mattress we used to have. Have
a tick and put the straw in it. And they made home-made bedstead out of board.
I couldn't sleep. Keep me awake all night. Next morning I was crying.
(What did your mother do?) She tried to do what she can. She got up and
put me by the fireplace and warm up the rocks and things like that. She helped
me a lot every time I get that. I got that every winter, I guess. I catch
cold in the bones, I guess, playing in the water. Yes, she helped me lots.
Warm up rocks so hot I couldn't stand it. And she put pepperwood leaves on
the coals, and then put it on where it ached. The strong stuff goes into the
bone and drives the pain out.
And I got grippe too, I think, that last time I had it. And when I got
that way, my mother always used to put me by the fire. We always used to
have camp fire, never had a stove. And one time I got that--it was spring
time, working time. And I couldn't lie still, hurt so much. Have to roll
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around. So she took all the things off me and put me by the fire and took
pepperwood leaves and rubbed my body all over with pepperwood leaves. After
that felt good. Then she did it once again, and after that I felt fine. I
sit up and tell her, "I feel good now." After my mother died, I never get
that way. I guess I got old, and nobody take care of me anymore. I get old
and take care of myself.
That time, that winter, my grandfather doctored me that time too. She
didn't hire anybody, but this man was matu something ar.d that's why he came.
Q9) He was doctoring me. He said I got cold and that's how I got sick.
That was my oldest grandfather. He steamed me with something. I remember the
things he steamed me with: Manzanita leaves it was. He didn't boil it. The
way Indians do old times, they don't boil things. Get four rocks, heat it up
red hot, put it in pan or can, and put the rocks in--two of them, one after
the other. Put it in and make it boil; make the steam come out. And put
your face over that with mouth wide open and breathe in all that steam. Then
put in fourth rock and breathe all that until the steamn is all gone. And my
grandfather used to put it in a cup and strain it and give it to me to drink.
They steam some others with other stuff. I don't know what it's for though.
(What did the other people in the house do that time?) They all went
different rooms. That's two old people, and they sleep in the fireplace on
the other side; and this side they put me. Men and women sleeping in the
living room. They had some kind of beds of blankets, and when they get up,
they roll it up and sit around on that. They don't keep no bedrooms for those
old people. They just sleep in the fireplace. They just lhad two bedrooms,
four-room house: living room, kitchen, and two bedrooms. (What did they do
when the doctor came?) They don't do nothing. They all go in another room,
in the kitchen. Some of them go out.
I and my mother and the Indian matu only ones left in the room.    Some of
the Indian ,t.atu people don't allow people to stay, just so many. They know
that, and that's why they go out or into the other room.   Only the doctor and
nurse left. Like that.    These matu people have certain things to do.   Some of
them doctor in the night; some of them doctor before sun up; some of them
doctor before noon.
(s). He doctored me morning and evening. In the evening and before
breakfast. After he finished, he eat breakfast with us and same in the evening.
And he didn't charge. They don't. But they give him what they think is right.
That's the way all the Indian doctors are. Even nowadays they don't charge.
They just give them what they feel like, what they think is right. (a). My
mother gave him little beads and blanket and hantdkerchief, new handkerchief.
That's old-fashioned. (20) (g). "This your pay for your doctoring," she say.
Then the old person said, "All right."   And he say, our language, "e., e., e."
That's "Thank you," I guess.   (g).  Yes, I was there.  He came to visit me.
Have to see how I was getting along. See I'm all right, so then have to pay
him.
Indians are like that. They come and see you when they think about you,
see how you getting along. (Did any of your friends come around that time?)
No, only one girl that used to come around was May's little sister. Of course,
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May came too, but they was in the same house. They were afraid of disease.
Indians pretty particular about that kind. They don't come around where sick
person is unless you real relative. But they all come and see you after you
die, just ready to bury. That the time everybody come to see. They don't try
to visit you when you sick.
That was only about four or five days I had that cold.   I laid in bed for
two or three days and then get up. But I don't play in the water then. Little
bit scared, I guess* Watch out a little bit. After that I don't remember.
I guess I was playing like I used to.
(What happened after that?) I don't know. Nothing, I guess. I got up.
When you get up, that's the way our people do--have to take all your stuff out
and let it hang out two or three nights and sweep the floor and clean up every-
thing. Sometimes they burn all the clothes and put clean things on or wash
them. I don't feel very good right after I got over it. I stayed around the
house about three or four days before I could go around, feel kind of sick.
Lay around some place where it shade.
(g). No, nobody came to play with me. I play with the two girls I stayed
with, that's all. They came up and sat around there playing rag dolls. That's
the kind we played. Make real pretty dolls out of rags. We played that.      (q).
She was younger than me, but one was older. This one, Hay, was older than we
were--four or five years. Her sister is younger, about a year.
Relations with Brother:  My little brother was sick all the time.   That's why
he didn't play around. He was sick all the time when he was little. Just sit
and lay around like a fat hog. Can't play. But he growed up to be fifty
when he died. His name was Alfred Evans. He died about five years ago.
(Did you like him?) I used to take care of him all the time. But you know,
one time I didn't know--we was together and he was about five. He was small.
And he had money. I didn't know where he got it. And I went and told my mother.
He went around and looked in her purse, and seems he got it from there. Then
she came down and licked that little fellow. Gee, I felt sorry. I didn't know
what to do. He had money. He was playing down by the river. He had made a big
pile of sand, and he said, "Sister, let's do this way."   He brushed it away with
his hands. He'd put the money in there. Then he said, "I find money!" I run
home and told my mother, and then she looked in her purse and came down and
licked him good. I felt bad about that. But that's the only time I ever see
him do that. He never did it again.
I used to feel sorry for him long time ago. He used to be sick all the
time, have sores. I don't know what kind of sores. Doctor used to say he would
grow out of it. And sure enough, when he got to be a big man, he grow out of it.
They tried all kinds of medicine, but that didn't do no good. Then he grow out
of it without medicine.
(Which one did your mother like best?) I think she liked the boy best be-
cause that the one she always take care of, take around. I hardly never stay
with her when I was little. But anyway, I stay around with her when I get to be
a big girl. That's the only two she had. After that she didn't have no more
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babies. She miscarried one time after both of us. She was riding horse when
she was carrying three months. They were coming across here the time they got
the bad news that her sister died. She was with a Tripton County man that time.
They phone over to her that her sister died, and they come over on horseback.
She miscarried. tsfter that she didn't have any more children. That must I-ve
been bad, riding horse when she was that way.
Daily Life: (What did you do when you were a little girl?) I don't know what
I could remember on that kind days. I know when we we:e small, little bigger
than five, we generally ao out and look around for someThing to eat, these
wild stuff. Go round, way out in the fields down by the river. Play around
till sundown. Then after sundown, go home. That's about all we generally do
when we small like that. That is, not alone.
We had two or three or maybe four--all girls--going around together. We
never did play with boys. I know I never did. But sometimes go down to the
river, and all swim together. Didn't have no bathing suit those days though.
All naked. But the boys used to be good to us. Never say nothing to us; never
notice nothing. All used to play together, swim around, come out on the sand
and lay around. Then go in again. That's about all we generally do. Play,
run around--run clear out on the road.
PltiyAvities:     This time of year (July), we used to play some kind of game
with arrows, and 1going along on a good place we would play that all day. When
we play down in the fields, we take long sticks and lmake arrows. We inalke them--
peel the bark off and make a fire and smoke them and make them-all colors,
black and white. We used to play that on the road there and see whose stick
goes Long way. That's the only kind of game we used to play when I was young.
(21)
One thing I tried to do--it wasn't my fault.   My girl friends picked me
up and put me on the camps and told me to steal some rags that were lying
around in there. I guess they wanted it for doll rags. It was my grand-
mother's camp.  I didn't want to do it, but they were going to beat me so I
had to.  I went in and gave them the stuff. Then they didn't help me down.
They ran off and left me in there. But I found a way out. After that, they
had a garden there. They had green muskmelons, and I always like that. I
steal that. I always steal that from the gardens. I rememiber that, but I
don't remember what I did after that.
(What else did you play?) We used to play that rock dolls and have a
house. Sometimes we went down to the Oak River. We take rocks, flat rocks.
We play that lady. And a longer one, we play that man. And make bed and
play that.  That's all we played.   We liked to play baby with blankets and
make bed. We had those Indian baby baskets for dolls. That's the way we
play. In my days, of course, we didn't have dolls. We didn't have much. But
my aunt made some kind of rag doll out of straw. Make a face and hair out of
straw, and on a board they make it. And they put Indian beads for eyes.
(Did you have any pets when you were small?) No, I never did like pets.
My mother, she liked dogs and cats. But I never did like dogs and cats when
I was small. My mother used to scold me for that. I didn't like her dog and-
used to hit him. She had a dog when she died. One of these fuzzy ones, just
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a small one. When she died, that dog ran away and maybe it died. I don't know
where it went. Maybe we were too mean to yt.i    . at was like that too.    When
she found a cat inside, she used to just twist it around like this and throw it
outside.  I never did like pets.  I didn t even like chickens. Walter always
wanted to keep them, but I didn't. When I getwm at them, I just want to kill
them.  So we don't have them.  Onll pets I ever had we just babies.    I guess
that's what made me mean.  (Were you ever bitten by your mother's dog?) No,
she used to have nice dogs. She used to have lot* of dogs. I never notice
anyone bite me.
(What else did you do?) Long tiRe ago, they made little baskets to gather
manzanita berries in. They make thedt sm&11, and we used to go out and gather
manzanita berries with them. They make it for us, little ones. And I used to
go out like that with my old people And hunt for mushwoom.    Then spring time,
we got clover down by the creek- and take ,It home. Then the old people eat it.
That's my time. Now we don't go after the clover because the place we used to
go is all full of cattle.
Long time ago Indians make these cooking tools. They make them for little
girls. You know them pounding baskets4 They ake then small and make the
pounding rock, small one. And she can pound. They start to teach them when
they are about four or five years old tQ make pouqding. And make little sifter.
We used to play. Never think abiut eating. Well--we Indians, when we
don't work, never did eat three meals a day. And I got used to that. Even
yet, when I don't work, never coeek sne.   Rat cold lunch though. We used to
that, so we never do want something warm noon in *aer. (jg)
(When you were hungry, what did you do?) When I was young and wanted food,
I-go to my aunt--my aunt and my grandmother. I ould hang around with my mother,
but I never did bother her. Grandmother and aunt never did whip you like mother
did. But my uncle used to give me hell for eating with my grandmother and aunt.
Used to whip me. But still I always did pneak in there. Tasted different the
way they cooked. They cooked on the soal and tamp fire. I don't like fried
food and onions. I liked the old way of cooking. Have to pick stuff clean of
the coals, but taste good. Whenever I felt hungry, I always go to grandmother.
She give me piece of bread. They used to have corn and cook it under the ashes.
Stick one or two pieces in there cooking with the steam. That used to taste
good. When you open it, just look like it raw. But it taste good though.
That's my dinner. Everytime I got hungry, I used to call for things, and they
uscd to pull the corn out from under the ashes, cl4an it off, and put salt on,
and give it to me. That was different corn than thery ave now--squaw corn.    It
was all speckled. They don't raise that kind any more.
(At night what did you do?) At night wq eat what they left from something.
I eat, fill up with it. They generally put something away for me when I not
around.  When I come home, my aunt dish something out for me on the table or
on the floor.
Learning: And then I lay down. I sleep with her until I married. And then
they teach us something--what not to do, what to do next day. When we're young,
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our parents teach us, scare us so we won't be friends with anybody or go
around with anybody, especially girls. They teach us like that. They used
to watch me pretty close so that I never did go around like that. Even when
I was big girl, I was afraid to go to town. When I went to town, the whites
would come around and ask, "Is that your girl?" Lots of times white people
ask my mother if I belonged to her. My mother was dark looking.    I'm not
different from her, but they always used to say that. When we went home, my
mother would say not to talk to them, they might take me away. So I was
scared, especially of men. I never did go to town either when I was a little
girl. Long time ago lots of whites used to come around and give money to us:
maybe five cents, maybe ten cents. Guess they just wanted to talk to us.
But the old people didn't like it.
Oh, they teach children all the time. Every night. My grandmother used
to tell me. I used to sleep with my grandmother. Everytime they sleep, they
put me on their arm and hold me there and tell me that, that it's wrong. But
nowadays they don't do that. That's why children are like that--just wild.
(What did they tell you?) Oh, some story. Some stories all the time.
"Don't want to make fun of old crippled people. You might get old like that
some day so you don't want to say things or make fun of them. Be good to
people. Give them something to eat." You know, long time ago, some people
were just like--you know whenever they get mad at young people, they want to
do something to them, want to make them suffer, to make them sick. I know one
case like that.  He must be my age. He made fun of old people, and he spit on
them. Then he got blind. They said the old people did that to him. He was a
nice-looking man too with curly hair. He was blind all his life. But nowadays,
I don't think these young people know about that. But that man over there,
Paul Clinton, he's like that, they say. His uncle was a poison man, and he
learned from him. They say he still does that. (23)
(What other things did they teach?) First off, they teach us how to
call our relation.  "This is your aunt. This is your grandmotherr. "  They
taught us lots of things what we should do when we're big. They teach us,
when the boy goes out you shouldn't follow him. They don't want us to see
how he is. And when the boy goes out, we don't follow him and see how he
does it. That's what they used to teach me. "When your man, your relation,
is, you never want to watch what he do when he go out. That's a shame," they
say. But I did when I was small. He take his pants off, and tell me not to
look at him close.  He used to do that, take his pants off.   (24)  I think
that's a good way.  I know when they don't stop you from that, you think it's
all right, and when you get big you might do that way. So that's the best way,
I think. Lots of families with big children, they do that to them. Even little
boys, eight or nine years old, they do that to sisters. If they don't teach
them, that's why they do that. We got big stories like that right now. They
play with their relation. (25)
(Were you warned against that when you were small?) I don't have no
family--no family close together. They were older and already taught, and so
they never played with me. And I was taught right too. That was awful bad.
They always say not to play with your relatives before anyone who could see you.
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They talk about it, and make you shame. I never did like to play like that.
I feel shame yet. I never did like to come to men.
(When they taught you, did they warn you about animals, about owls?)
That's the main thing at night time. That's what they said to us. That's
what we tell my grandchildren too. They don't know what it is, and we didn't
know what it is. But we always say makuga--that's owl. These children don't
see it, but they hear it. And they always scared of makuga too. We always
make them scared in a dark place. That's why they always afraid to go into
the dark house. I was scared of maku&a that way. (Q). My grandmother say
that, and my aunt and my mother. My grandmother was the first one to say
that to me. "Iakuga will grab you by the hair," they say. You know, long
time ago Indian people had big hole in their ear. My grandmother used to
have it.  She'd say, "See!  MakuRa did that!"  I believed and was scared.
But that wasn't true though. It was just for earrings. All the Indians have
that long time ago, they say.
(Did they teach you about snakes?) Yes, they teach that. That's the only
thing I'm awful sorry nowadays. Long ago the rattlesnake used to bil people,
they didn't let him move. Just make him lie there and doctor him. They cure
him too. They told me about it, but I never learned it. Once an old man was
picking berries down by Old Laura's house. A rattlesnake bit him, my grand-
mother's husband. Big fat person. They didn't let him move--just make him
lie there, and they got somebody who knows how to doctor that. And next morn-
ing he walked home.
They used to warn us about going near blackberry bushes because there
were lots of snakes there. That's what they used to say. Long time ago lots
of blackberry bushes there. You got to have stick around when you go there.
So we went there, we always took some kind of pepperwood stick for cane. That
strong smell. You have to have cane when you go out blackberrying. And you
take angelica root, chew it up, and rub it around the ankles. So he smell
that. That strong smell too, that angelica.
Yes, rattlesnake or snake anything, they tell us to be careful, take care.
My uncle said ever since he could remember lots of rattlesnakes here, but the
rattlesnakes never did hurt anybody from this place. He never did hear of
that happening. One time he got lazy and lie down under tree. And he felt
something on his chest and look there. There was a rattlesnake. He never
moved and then it went. He jumped up and talked to the snake. He said, "Now
you can go now. I won't hurt you," he said. He said his stepfather told him
that. "If they don't bother you, let them alone." So he never did kill snake.
But me, I always want to kill snake. They always tell me to. (26)
(Did they ever scare you?) They scared children with the stick, and with
something like a snake. They put that something like a snake on a stick and
have that dragging around. That's why I guess long time ago the children were
scared and minded. Nowadays they don't scare them. I know I was raised like
that all the time: scared of things, scared of persons. Sometimes when they
tell you some old man coming, they tell you not to go close to him because they
say he has poison. Especially an old man with a cane. I used to be awfully
afraid of that.
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Once when I was a little girl, my cousin and I were playing on a road:
the road down there at the rancheria. We was playing this side where the gate
So out. And they was having a big time there. Indians come from everywhere.
Middle afternoon the people came. Just like old Indians when they do some-
thing, they call the tribes: the people from Vineland and Chiptown. And there
was dancing. So they called these Chiptown Indians, and.they all came there
the way they do long time ago. They gather down there. Some of them come in
wagons, some ride horseback. They wait for each other there. They all bunch
up there. And we was standing there watching them. From there, everyone walked
to the roundhouse. Maybe forty or fifty walking togetlher. Maybe some wait and
take the wagons up, after they all go into the roundhouse and sit on the straw
they had ready for them. After it was all over and everything quiet, they have
to give them supper. After it was all over, way sundown, it was cold already.
And we was sitting there making a dirt house, I guess. Last came an old man
with a cane.
I looked down there and see this man coming. I don't know what made me
say it, but I said, "Come! This is poison man!" And he was coming. So I
jump up and ran away and went inside the gate and turned to look. She was
still sitting there, never move. This old fellow come and ask her what she was
doing there. She never answer. Then he grab her head and shake it, and then
he went on. I know the man, so I tell my aunt and my mother about it. They
always tell me he was that kind. They always tell us that, which one's poison,
and which one not to stand on the shadow side. You can poison that way--that's
the same as poison. That's why I know. That's why I told my aunt.
That girl got sick that night. She said her head was burning, feel like
fire in her head. So my aunt told that to the mother. (27) After that she
cried all the time. So two or three days after eveiythingwas over, they hired
Indian doctor to doctor her. My grandfather was doctoring her with fire. She
stopped suffering, but she died.
That's the one I saw. That's the Clinton's uncle, Captain Sam. That's
the way they teach us. They say when lots of people gather around, some one
is like that. They used to teach me, "Never go around--always hang around on
one side, on the shadow side."  So when lots of people around, I never did go
around. They always used to be awful scared for me. I was the only one.
They used to say that when everybody together, the poison man poison somebody
he hate or the richest or the prettiest.  So that's why in a familv, if they
had good young people, they used to watch them pretty close. That's why they
told me to watch pretty close because they might do that to me because I was,
the only one in the family. I don't know if he do that, or how she got sick.
But anyhow, it looks like that. (28)
My aunt told me when she had a baby, she left the baby with her father.
They were inside, and he was sleeping. Somebody came along and picked the
baby up and put it right on where red ants come out of the ground. And they
were biting her, and the baby was hollering and screaming. The old man jumped
up. They told me that in their family, whenever they had children something
always happened to them. That's why they didn't want me to go around. They
said I was different. They called me "queen." They said I was different from
the other children. That's why I was awful scared. (29)
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And my grandmother said that she left her baby just starting to walk with
her father too while she went out to get manzanita berries. And I guess that
old fellow went to sleep again, and somebody throw the baby in the water. When
they found it, it was drowned. And the next grandmother said she was making
something. The baby was about two or three years old. She was pounding some-
thing somewhere, and the baby was playing on the other side of the house. And
somebody put fire on it. That baby burned. That's why they used to scare me.
I'm still like that. I never go to visit these families. FeelaEraid. I go
to see Sophie Martinez sometimes. I think that nowadays they don't have that
poison stuff like they used to have. But some of them still have it.
This woman, Bess Clinton, she has it. (30) She had an old grandfather
like that, and he teach her that. I know they teach me that too, but I never
did try it. I never think about it. They even teach me how to make person
crazy, and that I never tried to do even when I was a young woman. I'd like
to have, but I never did do it. Have man I want to have. (31)
(Were any of your people like that?) I don't know. Before I was born, I
guess, I did have some people like that. I had a grandfather they said knew
how to poison. I had a grandfather who used to teach me like that. I was
the only child, so they taught me. My mother had only two children: my
brother and I and then a miscarriage. He used to tell me about it all. He
used to say that Indian woman just like a bird, just easy. Anything they do,
they get sick on it.
I know one old fellow, he just died a few years ago here. That was after
my uncle died. He had lots of family. He was like that, and they all died.
That's the way the Indians have. If you dope somebody, the one you dope, for
him one of your family is going to die. That's payment for him. He had a big
family, thirteen.  They say he did that, and his family all died. None of them
growed. He had only one granddaughter and one grandson. (q). That was Ed Bear.
He's.my mother's relation.
(Did they ever punish you when you were a child?) I never did notice. My
mother never did whip me. I always obey what they said. I never did argue
with my family. I was good. I was scared. Only once, my aunt did whip me.
She pinched my ear hard till it bled. She got mad at my uncle and pinched me.
As soon as I saw that blood on my dress, I was scared. And my mother whipped
me once. It was when they were drinking. They wanted me to do something, and
I didn't. And my old woman got mad. She knocked me down, and I guess she was
going to kick me. But I jumped up. I was pretty big that time, about nine. I
know how to harness up horse that time. Must have been pretty big girl--knew
how to harness up horse and do all that work.
Oh yes, they used to whip me just like white people. Get stick. I know
that's the way they whip me. My uncle used to have long old-fashioned black-
snake whip. They say that "Spanish style" when they do that. They say the
Spanish people used to whip people long time ago when they wanted them to work.
He was raised with the Spanish, and he'd chase us around with the blacksnake
whip when he wanted us to do something. That's why when they say something, I
used to be afraid and want to do it right away. (Your uncle was mean to you?)
Oh yes, used to beat me up. Sometimes him and the woman used to fight over me.
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He used to be awful mean to me, mean to both of us. Sometimes my brother used
to stay with us, but I guess he scared of him and used to go home to his mother.
That's why I went around so much, don't have no good place to stay. He's mean
to me, and then when I go to sleep, my stepfather don't let me sleep good.
That's how I was.  I had lots of places to stay, but I can't get away from my
mother seems like.
(Who did you go to when you felt bad about sonething?) I always go to my
grandmother's. You know I had three old ladies in one house.    I always used to
go to them. My uncle used to give me hell.    Chase me out with a blacksnake whip.
But still I used to go to them.   Qj). Oh, I don't know.   He always used to do
that.  I don't know why. Oh, sometimes I used to go there when they scold me.
When I don't do what I supposed to do.   So I go there. Sometimes I used to eat
with them, and he used to chase me out with a whip. Just sting my feet and legs.
They used to drink lots too. That's why I run away from them. They want
me to do everything for them. They used to hunt me up late at night when they
got home,want me to unhitch the horses. I used to do it, and be crying around.
My  aunt used to say, "You treat her just like boy." They never miss a week.
Every Saturday night they used to be drunk. And when they came home, I had to
get up and unhitch the horse. They both of them never mniss a week getting drunk.
I thinkc I used to have a hard life all the time.
And still I can' t go anyplace. Still have a boss and be tied up. Just
like now I'm tied to the children, can't go anyplace.
(Who was your main teacher when you were little?) My grandmother was my
main teacher, and my grandmother's man, my grandfather. I had old grandmother,
and she used to teach me how to sing. She was the last one I saw of the grand-
mothers I had. Grandfathers don't teach much. Only, "Don't run around with
another man or married man. Be good to people. Be kind to people. Don't run
around in the night time." That's what my grandfather said to me. Not to go
to different houses; not to visit people. That's what my grandfather said, my
mother's grandfather. They don't teach much. But they tell you lots of stories,
lots of old kinds of stories. How things happen, and hcw a person do long
time ago. Sing some kind of song.
He was a great hunter, that old fellow. One time I saw him, he made traps
for birds--all kinds of birds,for larks and quails and cottontails. He used to
make old time traps. He used to put lots of them out in the evening. He used
to have baskets and used to fill them up with the game:   rabbits, cottontails,
birds. He used to have all of them in the baske t, and next morning early he
would go out to get them. And when he bring them home in the morning, he used
to build a fire, and he take all the feathers off. He cleaned all the birds,
and he cooked it. He was the only one got to cook it.- None of us helped with
that. And when we ate the bird, we never bite it or break the bone. We just
pull the meat off with the fingernails. It would have made him have bad luck
if we bite it and break the bones. That's the way we did things. He used to
cook it on the coals. He hadacorn mush and acorn bread too. Tastes good with
acorn mush--cold acorn mush cooked last night and left to set over night. That's
the way he used to kill that kind. He had bow and arrows too, but he always
trapped them.
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(Did you go along ever?) No, I never did go. He didn't want anybody to
go with him. He wanted to go alone. I see him fix it in the evening--he had
long basket made out of willows, and he laid them by the brush where there are
lots of birds and cottontails around. He knew the trails. If quail around,
put the basketthere and seeds in there. Make the birds go in. And put all
the brush on top and covered that basket because they might be scared to go in.
And then they all go in there. Sometimes he catch about ten or twelve in that
basket. Then he killed them one by one. Choke them.
And fish basket, they fix like that too. Man have to do that. Some man
do that--fisherman do that. I see my uncle do that. They make net too, lk e
they have over to the coast. They have it on the bank and feel along with the
feet. One time my uncle and another fellow fixed it like that down at Lucerne.
They had lots of fish--could hardly lift it out. They scared the fish making
all kinds of noise over the water, and those three men could hardly lift it up.
And one old lady, she lives down at Vineland, made a hole and cleaned the fish.
And we all helped. We cleaned them good there, and then she piled them in
there.  And then she covered them up with the wild grape vine leaves and put
sack around it and hot rocks on top.   Next morning we came there and dug it
out all steaming.   It looked just like raw.  We do that one time down at
Lucerne.
Another time we poison fish. All the families--all our families down at
Manzanita Rancheria did it. The young women, they dig that soap root with iron
rods--sometimes two or three baskets full. They take it down to the place
where they going to catch the fish. They pick the spot and right there they
dump that soap root. And all the women and children have rocks, and they
pound the root. It makes like soap. They pound all of it. They have long
sticks and pound it and pound it. And when they take rest, two or three fel-
lows put water on it and make soap. And some of then down river watching fish.
With no dress. Nothing on their bodies. Just like diapers only. Both men
and women. If the fish get dizzy, they all ready and they all follow down,
following the soapy water, following the fish. With some basket to get the
fish. I was swinming around too. I don't know how old I was. We stayed over
night there. I stayed with my grandmother. They had lots of lttle eels, and
they cooked that too. I didn't like to eat that--look like snake.
But I eat them army worms. Twice I think I see them kind of worm come.
They don't come on all the trees--just on one kind of tree. I think I was
about ten or eleven years old then, and my aunt, she dried lots of them with
the Indian basket. She had lots of them--about four baskets full. And when
they good and dry, I used to grab them and eat them. Gee, that was good.
My grandfather was a great hunter. He was a bear hunter, too. He killed
bear, he said, just because one killed his father. He pounded the teeth out
every time he killed the bear.   He would say, "With this teeth you killed my
father. That's why I do this to you," he would say. And he would open the
mouth and pound the teeth out with a rock. He killed lots of bears with
arrows. Those days he had bow and arrows. (There were bears here?) My uncle
when he used to tell us said bear just like sheep around lhere when the white
people came. Sometimes they don't care for people, but sometimes they try to
bite people. He used to show us two trees where lots of bears used to play.
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That's up there by the road to Manzanita. There was two trees all together,
and he used to say bear used to play on it when he was young. I seen them
trees. He used to te 11 me about it. (32)
(Did they tell you about people dressed as bears?) No, I don't see that.
They dress up like bears, most of the time they want to kill somebody. So
they dress up like bear.  (X2)
I knowuy grandfather said he put the deer head on when he want to go out
hunting. He used to go out among the deer. The deer just want to smell his
behind. He always just turn around and sit around, he say. It used to make
me laugh when he tell that story. He used to stuff the head.
Oh, I hear all kinds of stories because I was raised among old people.
And lots of them, I didn't pay any attention. The time this Christ and Joseph
and Mary--but I don't remember that much. They used to call that story uyukaya,
Joseph and Mary and the boy from Heaven. And they used to tell that story from
beginning to end. I used to listen, but halfway some parts I would go to sleep
and not listen. But I kind of think it was them too--they used to say the boy
was as good as his old man. (s). My old man, my uncle, used to tell that.
Oh, he had lots of stories. He tell lots of stories, and he sing lots too.
That's why they take long time. He would stop and sing. I thought that was
him when he sing that.
He used to tell that story to all of us sitting around in the night time
by the fire: my mother and me and my grandmother. He used to tell us all sorts
of stories. Stories he know from before the white people came. He say this
place used to be all wild before the white people and the Spanish people came.
He say he see eagles around here, but I never saw them in here. And some other
kind of bird, just like ostrich. They called it kuksu. Way back in the hills
over here, lots of them. But we never see it. I never see it. It's one he
sees, he said.
And he used to tell that like when young people get married, men and boys,
if woman get moon sick, men told the boy not to go out hunting when woman got
like that. If you do, you see deer turn into something, turn into human, or
laugh or something.
Broken Taboos: I know I see one like that, my father's sister's husband.
I was about nine years old then. (q). That was way after my aunt's husband
died. Maybe two or three summers after. We was down at Big Rock. He used to
have a big garden down there.  (34) Melons, corn, everything. Right there it
was. That was my stepfather's half-brother. We call that brother-in-law
because it was my father's sister's husband. But anyway, my father wasn't
there. But he was my stepfather's half-brother. They got one father and two
mothers. Their mothers was there too. They call each other sister because
they have one man. That's the way with the old timers. When they had one
man, they were the same as relatives. Friendly relation too.
He wanted--it was this time of year and there was deer. He was going out
hunting. I guess there were no laws about it then. He told his family, I
guess; and then his wife told him that she was sick, menstruating. She told
that to his mother, her mother-in-law. So she told him about it and not to go.
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He didn't believe it. He was one of those who don't believe in Indian things.
He said, "How can those wild things way off know about it?" This was toward
evening, and everybody was bunched up together going to eat. And he said that.
And that old lady said, "Well, that's our way. You know, sometimes deer turn
into person, man or woman." He said, "That happened long time ago before the
white people came here, when everything wild."
So next morning, early, before nobody was up, he got up and went. And
my aunt was saying he did go. That evening when everything late, they miss
him. They ask that woman if he go to stay over night.    She didn't know.   She
said, "He went out hunting." They know what was wrong. They say deer take
them home when they go out hunting like that. Then my stepfather got excited
and wanted to follow him, but nobody to go with him. So next morning, he went
out and hunted for him.
He found him sitting around where the deer was, half crazy. (35) He
came up to him and ask him if he kill anything. He didn't say nothing. Don't
know what to do, I guess. So he brought him home that night, and nobody say
nothing. He just lay down. Next morning they was asking him, but he said
nothing. So they thought he got scared old-fashioned way. So they got this
old fellow who know what to do, that old Captain Sam.
First t.:.me he doctor him, he never move, never say anything. Just lie
sleep, like sleep. So two days later he doctor him again. Know what it was.
So third day, he made a place like water. I watch him that time. My mother
told me not to run around, to watch and sit clear when they doctor someone.
He made a place like a pond and set up willow for brush around it. And he
make something just naturally look like deer head out of rabbit skin and horns
out of sticks. And he put white and black all over his body, paint himself up.
Make anybody get scared to see him. He told the fellow to look at it. So he
got scared and fainted. He was shaking there, but they don't pay no attention.
They hold him so he don't fall off the bed. He was shaking long time while
the man make the deer move around in the bushes. Then the man quiet down and
go to sleep. Then he stopped. Then next day he do it again, and he didn't
care that time. Just sit up and watch.
After that he told about it. They had to wash him all over with medicines,
and after that he told what they do to him. He say the deer lead him in some
place, the deer sweat house, where deer living so many bunched together. He
went in there and watched all the deer there. Never even shoot one. And from
there on, he tell all the story, and from there on he believe all the Indian
stories. He used to tell that to the young people and say, "That's what hap-
pens to me for not believing." He tell that when he got old. Tell it to my
brother and to his step-son. "And don't gamble when the woman like that and
you married.  That's bad," he said.
After he got well, they put up big dinner and dance, American dance there.
(36) They had that American dancing for two nights and then the dinner on the
fourth of July day. That morning they was dancing, And I was there, and my
brother-in-law asked me to dance. I didn't know how to dance, but he grabbed
me and pulled me in there. I cried on the platform, and my mother chased me
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out and told me not to come in there. I didn't know how to dance quadrille.
After that I learned to dance, and I wanted to dance all the time. And my
mother used to growl at me for that.   (37)
And then the man got all right. He was cooking the meat for dinner
that day. That's the way they tell the boys. And when your wife have a baby,
even until a month after the baby. After that it's all right to go hunting.
The deer, they say, tell them kind when you go out hunting like that. That
hard to believe. That why the young boys don't believe it maybe. Maybe it
don't happen like that now that there aren't many deer.
(What happened after the dance that time?)   I don't know what happmned
after that. Because my mother licked me that time, and after that T don' t
go there.  I don't know whether they danced and after that I don't know what
they did. After that I don't remenmber.  (What happened after they got all
through at Big Rock?) Nothing.
I don't remember where we went that time. I guess we must have went to
the rancheria. After that I think they come from Dean's place, his hop field,
and we was together in our camp. That's all I remember because I and my aunt
came there that time. We was working hops there. They was working hops, but
I didn't work that time. Just play down by the river playing with rocks.
(a). I play alone. There was nobody with me. And his mother, that old lady,
my stepfather's mother and her husband was there too. They didn't have no
family, just myself and my brother. He was there, but he's not feeling good
and that's why he didn't hardly play with me. Just lay around with the mother
all the time. We never thought he would live. He had sores all around his
head so he could hardly move his head. I guess that's why he always lay
around.
That old lady used to lay by me sometimes, my step-father's mother, when
I used to play around in the creek. She talk different language too, and she
used to teach me that. She talk Tripton County language. (Could she speak
yours?) No, but she know how to say little in our language. That the kind
she teach me. So I remember few words. She's a good old woman. She's a nice
old woman, talk low. Some old women talk sassy and loud. But she was good.
She used to like me. (Did she teach you anything else?) No, just teach me
the words, talk, name the things in Tripton County. That's all I could
remember.
You know I used to go round and look for r6cks, shaped flat, sharp and
like that.  I used to play they ladies, and slim long ones, we used to play
that was man. Build rock house and play with that. That's the way I used to
play around. And one time, I found one big rock all white, and it ring like
flint rock. He took that. He said that good rock, good for doctoring people.
So my grandfather took that. He used to tell me that. I don't know how he
used it. (38) That's the way I used to play with the rocks every day. Make
family out of rocks.
(Did your mother come down too?) Yes, she used to look for me. She rever
say nothing though. Find out what I was doing, and then she go back and work in
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the hops. (Was your stepfather around then?) No, that time he was never
bother me. He never bother me daytimes. But when I sleep, crawl around.
(Where was your aunt?) She wasn't with us that time.
Learning Experiences of Late Childhood: (Did you pick hops then too?) No, I
never did work in the hops till I was married woman, I guess. And before
that, I pick hops twice. That's all. One time made five dollars, and the
other time ten dollars. I remember that because my aunt told me that. I
didn't know how to count money, but she told me that. My aunt used to keep
the money for me winter time. I don't know I made money anyhow. Didn't pick
much, only early in the morning. Otherwise go down to the river and swim.
And next time I made ten dollars, and she kept it for me. I didn't know I
had money. Then Christmas time, she brought it out and scattered it on the
floor. She said, "This is your money. What are you going tobuy with it?"
I didn't know about it. I didn't say anything. Then after that, I guess
she took it and bought what I needed with it: shoes, dress. I didn't know
what to buy or how to buy them.
I used to feel pretty lazy long time ago. I remember that. That's why
when I had children I never made them work in the hops. Just let them pick
in the morning if they feel like it.
School: (Was there any school there yet that time?) No, no kind of school
yet that time. And I don't speak any of the English language that time, I
think. But I understand Spanish that time. But I forgot that already. Just
a few words I remember. I never go to school that time, but we used to go to
church. Never go to school, but when the priest came we used to go up there,
I only went to school one winter, two winters. I didn't go to school.
much. Just quit the third grade. But I pick up lots after that. Kept on
reading. But my cousin said she forgot all of hers. She was a big girl too,
but she didn't have much school. I don't know what year it was here that school
house was built down at Manzanita rancheria. Maybe they have that on record
in town. First time that school house was built, there was lots of young chil-
dren in there. And then we was eleven and twelve years old, they didn't allow
us in there. No room for us in there. The grown-ups were all going in there.
So we all had to stay out, the little ones. All the old people was going to
school: Sarah down there, and my mother, and Tomas too. They were all going.
And next year they didn't all go, so we had room so we could get in. That
was when I was about nine or ten years old. I never went much. After that
when school begin, my aunt never let me go there. She always took me along
when she go out washing. So I never had the chance to go to school
Woman's Work: (When did you learn to do things about the house?) We started
to know how to cook. We start to pound acorn about Elaine's age (eleven). We
pound acorn, go out to get seeds with mother and grandmother. But just like
all girls, some of then was good and helped. Some of them was lazy and just
wanted to sit around and eat. (How were you?) I was good, I think.
And my sister and I always went around. That was my mother's sister's
daughter, but I called her sister olden time way. She's the one taking us
around always. She was good. One time she took us down long time ago. We
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We got stuff under the ground. It grows under the ground. I don't know what
the whites call it.  It's bitter. We call it amac?   It looks good, but it
tastes bitter, sour. She took us down to get it one time. I guess I was about
eight or nine. That's the time the sun got dark. We all hollered. That was
about three or four of us girls that time. And I was running--running and
hollering and calling for my mother. I don't know how far I run, but up at
the top of the hill the sun came out again before I got home. (L9)
(Did you have to take care of little children?) Yes, we used to lead
them around, take care of them, pack them around. That has to be teached too.
That's what they taught me. I had a brother. And when it fell down, they
tell you to pick it up and wipe off the tears. (s). Yes, lots of times older
children they don't like to have the little ones follow them around. They
get stubborn. That's why they don't like the little ones. They don' t mind,
and Lhat's why they always chase them away. I know we used to play like that
lots of times among all girls. But sometimes we play like man and get mar-
ried. But we never did play with boys. (40) I was scared. There were lots
of us girls, three or four. Sometimes take rags and pretend to be cooking
something to eat. And take lard cans and make plates.
(Did the boys come and break up your playhouses?) No, I never remember
they did that. We always play by the house, not long ways away. Just right
by the house. We never go long way off. But I guess boys would destroy things
and fight. I know I remember when I was about nine years old, I used to foot-
race with the boys. And I used to beat some of them. And once my father's
nephew, when I beat them running, he hit me with a rock and knock me down.
But that's the only time I remember. I guess they would have fought if they
played together.
Girls fight all the time, fight together. Grab the hair and scratch.
That's the way girls fight.  Jealous of something, playing something. There
was lots of those. I know my cousin, my sister, fight me one time. She threw
me on the manzanita stump and cut my elbow. I think I remember that was the
last time she ever fight with me. She was a big girl then. I don't think I
ever fight with anybody. I was scared, a coward. But I used to see lots of
fights when we swim down by the river. Throw each other in the water; throw
sand in the eyes. Children always fight over something, especially boys.
They always fight.
Big people fight too. I know one time ladies fight jealous fight. They
catch their hair and wrastle around. Jealous over a man. I know one woman
fight my mother. I didn't see it, but I heard it. And next day I see where
they fight. Lots of hair lying around where they pull it out.
Learning to Make Baskets: (Tell me about how you learned to make a basket?)
When I first made a basket, I was about nine years old. When I made that
basket, I didn't clean that stick good and some places you could see the bark
still on. I finished it, and the boys used to take it around and make fun at
me.
I used to be with my grandmother. She made baskets all the time. We
just sat around then. I never went to school. There was no school here till
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I was about twelve. Then I went for a year, and after that I got married. So
I never got much school--anyway I was telling you, then I started to make that
kind with willows. Old people always make that kind. I make a small one like
a plate, but I didn't make the edges right. I only broke off the ends. And
they made fun .of me. I didn't know how to turn it in. And next time, I made
good baskets. My mother made it, and when she went out, then I made it. My
aunt always used to make the other work baskets down at the river this time of
the year. When she left, I always finished it. She got mad. She said I didn't
make it good, but she didn't say nothing after that so I made it. And my grand-
mother used to make the big packing baskets, and she teach me. Tell me how to
tighten it. That's how I learn. After that I just make it for myself. I know
all kinds of baskets--I make all kinds of baskets. (I heard someplace one had
to give away the first basket)   Yes, that's why I gave mine away. They told
me not to keep it. That's why the young fellow got it. He used to pack it
around in his vest pocket. He used to laugh at it. (Why give it to him?) He
was a lively young man, got no disease or nothing, and single. That's the
way you have to give it. Give it to the lively man, no sickness, no diseas.
(41) That's the way when Indians do things. I don't know what he done with
it. I think he sold it. Two bits, I think he said they gave him for it. It
was ugly. The sticks were good, but the rods weren't. It wasn't even, and
the designs wasn't very good either.
(Did they teach you to make beads?) Well, long time ago, men the only ones
to make that beads. But nowadays they buy little pinchers, and women make beads.
My aunt made the beads. She makes beads and makes baskets, and she do all the
things.  This kind basket, men only makes that one.   But my aunt used to make
that basket and the great big basket to put acorns away in for the winter. She
was--I don't know what you call her. She's all kinds. She can do man's work
and cook. She used to fell trees. I used to go with her. She was an all
round lady too. And she go around among white people to wash. And that's how
I learn to wash. I used to travel with her all the time, going out to get
wild seeds and berries and acorns too acorn time. Have a little basket and
carry them too.
Dancing: (Did you learn to dance?) I don't know how. I didn't learn how to
dance. I tried it when I was about eleven years old, but they was making fun
of me, laugh at me. That's why I didn't dance any more. My mother danced.
She used to have a headdress. When my mother died, I kept it for my daughter.
She was a dancer too, but when she died, I put it in her grave.
But I danced a little that time in the first World War when they took
all of our boys. They had a big time there, and they told me to dance because
my boy was in the army and one was in the navy.    So I danced that time.  I had
my mother's stuff that time. So I danced with that. And they promised to
have a good time when all the soldier boys came back alive. They all came
back. Some of them went across the ocean. They made that promise, but still
they didn't do it. But still that was a good rule--you know long time ago
when they gave that dance, in the morning make some prayers. That time they
said that. All the Indian women who danced, all the people who danced, they
say they would. They take the dancing stuff in their hands and talk to some-
thing saying wish that all the boys come back safe and then they would dance
again. But all the boys came back safe, but nobody put up. And when they
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finished that, all used to say, "Whoosh." They say that everyone of them. Put
their hand up and say that. Some people we Indians believe in superior. I
think our Indian way of believing is the best yet.
Adult Life
One time I lived with my mother way up here with one white man, Matthew
Henry. He's still living. My mother used to work for him and wash for white
families. I used to go around with her. That time we went to school. We
went to school from long ways. We used to walk, and sometimes we went on horse-
back in the winter time.
That time he had my stepfather working for him. Those days no work for
Indian women. But when grapes begin--that's just lately here. Then only hop
picking work for ladies: picking hops eight or nine or ten days sometimes.
And rest of the time we don't do nothing. I always look back--how did we
use to live anyway?  Don't do nothing. Don't work.    Sometime men only used
to work, chop wood a little. Women don't do nothing. Oh some of them used
to gather little of what they used to eat long time ago. But nowadays we all
work. When the Japanese people came over here, that's how we Indian women
learned to work in the hop fields. We saw them all working together. I don't
know how long ago that is.
(What did you do up there at Henry's place?)   We don't do nothing till
summer times, we work the hops. I didn't work the hops that time. My mother
and them worked, but I stayed home. Just summer time, that all we work. From
March on, I think till July.   Then rest till the middle of August. That's all
the work we did long time ago. Till next year. come. Next year just over, and
then start in again working the hops:   hilling them, training them. Nowadays
we do all the work. Before that men only ones who used to do that. I think
next year I might work hops.
(What did your mother do when you lived up at Henry's?) She used to make
baskets--before meals, you know. She used to make fine baskets. She made
feather baskets too. That's how I learned to make feather baskets. That's
the first place I learned that.   I told my brother to shoot the birds with
the kind of feathers we used. He made an arrow and shot two or three birds.
So I made the basket for him.   I don't know what he done with the basket, but
I made it pretty good. I was telling him when I started that I was making it
for him. He used to play with it. I think he lost it. Somebody steal it.
He used to play with it, fill it up with dirt. And my mother never stopped
him.  Seems like she should have taken care of it for him, but she didn't.
After that I never made baskets for a long time till after I was married.
Then I made baskets pretty near every day in winter tirmie. Soon as finish
breakfast, sit down and make basket. That's all we used to do long ago.
(Did you have any rules to keep that time?) No, I didn't have no rules
to keep because I was young yet that time. After you married, or before when
you go with a man, or when you get woman sick, that the time they don't touch
the feather basket. They put them away and hide it. Then bring them out again
when they over that. I didn't do like that because I wasn't old enough.
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(Could you eat anything?) Yes, you can't eat meat they say when you make
feather basket. That is real feather basket. You know that feather basket I
make wasn't old-fashioned real feather basket. The real feather basket is all
woodpecker red top, but this was lark feather. The real one is all woodpecker.
Some of them uses the little white in the neck for design. Some don't use
that--just all red. And put beads on it and abalone shells. That's the real
feather basket. That's the time they don't eat meat or go with man when they
make it. I made two of those: one for Mrs. Gordon--she gave me the feathers
and the shell, and I made it for her--and one I made for Walter. That was a
real one, real shape too. He sold it down in the city.
Early Sex Experiences:  (How long did you live up at Henry's) We stayed there
after that long time. We work the hops, my mother and my stepfather. I don't
know how long we living there, five years, I think. From there he start to
bother me.
Another family used to come in there, and I told them what he did to me
night times. I told them to keep watch, listen. And one man told me he tried
to listen, and he fall asleep. I don't know how old I was. That was the time
I used to stay home and get dinner for them all. My mother used to get the
other meals, but she told me what to do for this. So I used to stay home and
warm things up. We stayed there that-time, and from there I go to school. And
when I get so mad about that old fellow, I go home for a month--stay there.
Then I come back. I always say that no matter what trouble I get in, I always
have to come back to my mother.
(What would she say when you came back?) Oh, she don't say nothing. She
always get ready, fix my bed some other place where I should sleep good. Even
upstairs. We didn't have good stairway, but we had some kind of ladder. She
used to put me up there sometimes. But still that old fellow would crawl up
there. Not a night miss his bothering me. (42)
I don't know what kind of man he is. Must have been devil. I don't know
how he get away from my mother. I guess he must know when she's sound asleep.
And then he sneak away from her. I used to try not to sleep, but then I would
fall asleep, and he would crawl around. And I don't wake up till he pinch me.
That last time, he pinched me or something and made me bleed. And that way,
when I move, always jump way one side and sneak away. You couldn't hear him.
Just like a cat he was. Sometimes I used to wish that I could get big and
kill him. That's when I used to hate him. Next morning he used to be just
like he sleep all night. Never show nothing. I didn't have sense enough to
grab him and bite him that time. Grab his arm and bite him.
I always tell my younger brother about that too. He was with them that
time. He say if he notices anything he going to hit him with something, boots.
But he never notice nothing, go to sleep. I never could go to sleep, maybe
only toward morning. Then he always--and I always had some kind of diapers
on. But still he always some way took the pins out. I always notice that in
the morning. Still I never say nothing. Just feel worry for my mother. May-
be when I was little, three or four years old, he do that kind, but I don't
know. I never notice that till I get big. (Who told you to put the diapers
on?) Nobody.   I just done that myself. He always monkey around like that
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when I sleep, so I thought that if he don't stop bothering me when he find
that. But still he always feel around when it fastened and take the pins
off. I never told my mother about it, what I do. But still I do that. I
thought that was safe, put big diaper on. But that wasn't safe. I pin it
tight. He used to take it out on one side where he could put his hand in
between my legs.  I don't know what he do. I guess he squeeze me or pinch
me. That's why I wake up, hurt so bad. He must have pinched something.
I don't know what they do, but next morning they used to talk mad, talk
mean to him. When my mother not around, they always say something to him.
Some woman ask him, "What's wrong with your wife? We're just the same as
your woman. Why you want to sneak around, feel around in the night time when
we sleep!" One woman used to say that to him. She was kind of my relation.
He never used to answer. Just make believe he didn't hear it.
(You said there was another family up at Henry's?) They went home.
They from Manzanita Rancheria down there. But this fellow stayed there work-
ing for Henry all year round, plowing and things like that. And then when
hop work began, he work in the hops.
I stayed there not all the time. Only three months, about summer time.
(43) As soon as that other family go, I don't stay there much. Go home.
After three years, they move another place, that Dean ranch. They used to
stay there. And right there in that place we was staying when my mother
brought that man and we got married.
Two ladies were there and want me to go with them. My stepfather got
mad and didn't want me to go with them. Then I know what he was going to
do. I was big that time so I didn't cry.   But gee, I felt bad when those
two ladies left. And they were drinking, three men and one woman. My
mother was there, but she never drink much.
I was in the back room there where we sleep. I sleep with this single
woman from Sandy Point. About 12:00 they run out of wine, I guess. Don was
going to bed, and this other fellow was going to sleep behind the stove. He
was drunk. They were all drunk. My mother was there too, but she hadn't
drunk much. I never slept much. I tried to stay awake. Then I must have
slept.  Then I felt somebody feeling my feet and pulling my legs apart,
spreading them apart.  Then he put his hand over my mouth. Anyhow I hollsed.
And he jumped out. He had everything ready, the door open. My mother knew
what happened, but she never said nothing. And this Don sit up and ask,
"What the matter?" But I never said nothing. Then I told my mother, "I know
what he was trying to do. He wants to do that to me. That's why he never
want me to go to the dance."
And these two ladies, they was coming home, they said, by the open
field there where they heard somebody holler. They come in, and they ask me
what the matter. I told the coast woman about it. "He come in and try to
bother me, try to choke me." She said that was what he wanted to do. "That's
why he never want you to go," she said loud. Then he got mad and wanted to
fight my mother.. The old one behind the stove never did nothing.  He was laid
up. But the other man got scared and went home early in the morning when it
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was just getting light. We never sleep. And next morning, I went up to my
aunt and stay there two weeks. Then I come home the way I always did. Always
hope he won't do that this time, but he always did.
Lots of times he used to tell me not to look around, not to play with
boys. He used to be jealous, I guess. He used to comb my hair. I had long
thick hair. And fix my eyebrows. He used to comb my hair and put ribbons
on it. And he would tell me not to smile at boys. Maybe he didn't have
anything to make me crazy, to dope me. Maybe he didn't want to do that. (44)
That year, I and my mother picked hops alone. And after that we move
home. And then next year is the time he run around with the other woman.
After that they didn't live good. After he tried to do that to me. He do
that to every woman who sleep near him--crawl around, feel around. That other
coast woman said that.
One time we were in the camp, and May and another girl came and sleep
with me. They put me in the middle. I told them, "You girls better not to
sleep too sound, and you better put diapers on. But if you do, he'll take
them off anyway." We had a sack around the bed. And do you know what he did?
He cut through just big enough for his hand where their feet was. Next morn-
ing that sack was like that. They was asking if that man didn't have no shame.
But he didn't care. When they talked about him, they never mentioned his name
or anything. They just gave a hint, but he didn't care.
One time when it was raining--when it rained lots down in the camps, they
used to take just a blanket and go to the hop kiln and just lay around there.
That's the time he used to crawl around all over, they used to say. Feel
around for the women's legs. I don't know what kind he is. I used to feel
bad for my mother though when they used to make fun of him. I feel that if I
had man like that I'd feel shame. That's all I know about him.
But they say this man do that to his daughter too. He brought his daughter
over here to stay with us. And every time he got drunk, he take that girl out.
She was little older than me. I saw her just lately at the carnival here.
They said he do that to her. She was telling that. That's why she didn't want
to stay with her father. We kind of noticed it. That's why he get crazy and
want to run around with another woman. He tried to marry me, but I never marry
him. I guess that Tripton County style. They used to say that. He was Tripton
County style. (Was that different from you people?) They have different way
in Tripton County. They say Sandy Point tribe is different too from these
people around here. They say that tribe ain't many men around here, so they
say that why they marry own uncle. That what I used to hear.
Marriage: Then after a while my mother found a man, and she gave me to him.
Sometimes they do that. Sometimes they still do it for granddaughter or step-
daughter. Like Bess Clinton. She was ten years old, and she was married.
That was to Walt Mason, Sophie Martinez's first man.   (45)  He was a big tall
fellow, I remember. And one day I see them in town, and he was just leading
her around by the arm. I thought he was her father, but my mother said they
were married. They said she had started to bother her    aunt' s husband, and
so they married her to him. They say she never had menstruated yet.
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(How old were you?) I don't know how old it was, but they go according
to their breasts. They don't know their ages those days.   But they always
watch that. When they begin to show, they beginning to be lady, they say.
My mother was kind of old-fashioned. She did that. She got the man, and
she took me home when I ran away from him and licked me for it. She wanted
me to stay with the man.
You know, young girls--they always afraid that when you not married, you
might get family way. The Indians didn't like that. They used to talk awful.
"If you go with a man before you married, before you know it you will be
carrying a baby," they would say. They didn't like that. That's what they
always used to say when they were teaching you. "Look out! Before you're
married you'll be having a baby. That's shame!" They not like that. That's
why some mothers when the girl gets to running around like that, they want
her to get married right away because they don't want her to have a baby
without a father. That's two things that used to be the main things they used
to teach me: about having a baby without father, and you might get disease
from a man. That's what they told me. They never wanted them to run around
with lots of people because they had diseases, they said. The Spaniards came
first, and they were all diseased up. And from them, all the young people
got diseased. All the young women got it, and they didn't know what to do
with it. Just lie around and rot and die. That was before my time, before
my mother's. But she saw one young woman like that.   She said that the
woman had beautiful long hair. But nobody wanted to go near her, and they
just put her off on the hill somewhere. It was awful pitiful, my mother said.
Nobody wanted to take care of her. They used to tell that to me. "Nobody
like that kind, diseased," they said.  "If you get it, nobody will take care
of you." But I never paid much attention to what they told me. Night time
was the main time they always tell us things. They tell stories. Then we
sit down in the night time and study it. Then you sleep, and next morning
you never even think of it.
When I was a girl, I see three young fellows have that kind disease,
and one old fellow--he was my father's stepfather--was doctoring the three of
them together. My brother and another fellow who died. Another one was Stan
Day. He doctored those three men. They got it from one woman. He steamed
them every night--got the roots from up the Red Mountain. He got up there
and dig the roots and steam those fellows.  He cured those fellows inside of
a week. And with the same medicine he doctored that woman they got the dis-
ease from. I saw her once when we was hop picking, and gee she was suffer-
ing when she was going to pee. She was just hanging on the bushes and holler-
ing. Gee, I feel sorry for her; I feel bad. But that old man cured it.
After they heard the news--it spread around--they came after him for her.  He
doctored her, and she got all right.
(What happened if you had a baby before you married?) Nothing happened
if they had a baby, but still they don't want it. Because if girl not run-
ning around have a baby, they blame it on the family. Some outsiders talk
about it and blame it on the family. Gives the family a bad name. They
don't like it. (46)
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The old timers used to say girls pretty hard to take care of--not like
boys. Boys take care of themselves when they get to be twelve or fourteen,
but girls not like that. They have to be watched. (What age did they start
to warn you?) From ten on you have to be awful careful. From ten on, the
girls like to play with the men. They feel kind of funny, I guess. That's
the time they watch you pretty close. That's the time you always think
about some man and which one and who. You always have one though, but some-
times he don't like you and you have to think about somebody else. Have to
look around, think about looking around, and fix up pretty as you can. That s
the way I used to feel. When you begin to go around like that; you never did
think about going home or eating.
(Stan Day must be about your age.) You know, he was the first man I ever
wanted. I used to run around after him all the time, but he never would have
me. He told somebody it was because I was too Indian--looked too much like
an Indian. They told me that. Well, I don't see that that Rita (47) loole
any more white than I do.   But that's what he said.  Yes, I used to chase him
a lot when I was a kid, about twelve years old. From then on, I used to run
around a lot, and my mother picked out a man for me. He (Stan) didn't like
me, that's why.   One fellow do that way to him too.   He had a daughter.  That's
how they drunk together all the time. And he take Stan Day home when he was
drunk and lay him by his daughter. He wanted him to get married with her,
but he wouldn't. He was from Manzanita rancheria too. She was younger than
I was. Yes, I never could get him to like me. My mother didn't like him
though. That's why she didn't like it. They wasn't friends with his family,
and that why she didn't like it when I run around after him. So she got this
other fellow. (48) (How did you know Day didn't like you?) He never did say
nothing; but he act, you know, as though he never like to play with me, don't
want to go around with nim. I used to chase him, hunt round for him. He
would talk good, but anyway he didn't want to be in love with me. I try to
make fun at him, but he wouldn't answer. That's the first.
(Where did you see the man your mother got first?) Down in the hop
field. He was picking hops in the same field, in Roberts' field. They was
working hops, and we was working hops in the same place. He was a Tripton
County man, but he understand our language.   He used to stay down on the
Manzanita rancheria when he was a boy, they say.    He had some grandparents
over there. And he talked to me, and I talked to him. That's how I got
acquainted with him. Made a friend of each other working hops there. Used
to be all different kinds of people gathered around hop-picking time. Used
to be big hop picking, and Indians came from all over. Not many Indians
now this time. It's all white people now. Guess all Indians die off, or
else get old and not travel for work any more. Hardly see them anymore.
He used to have one young woman who couldn't see good. Her eyes were
all white all over. Look like something just spread over the eyes. I guess
it was cataract. (g). Yes, I know her. They was living together. But
after he had been living over here some time, his wife died. But his baby
died that first year he was living with me. He had a letter that the baby
died. And he had a picture, and he threw the picture away. (49)
(Tell me more about getting married that time.) That was just about
August, I  think, down here in the hop fields at Fred Littleton's place.
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They was all camping there. We stayed in the house, just two room-house,
but four of us stayed there together. My father and his wife, and two other
old people, and two young families and my sister and I. My sister and I was
playing in one bed. And one family--the man had just married a woman from
Tripton County. We were all there together camping under the pepperwood
tree. But we sleep in the house.
That man came in to visit his family. And this girl--she was big too,
about ten or eleven years old, my sister was. We were playing in our bed.
Then everybody blow the light off. Then everybody was still in there.
That's the way that old people do when they want their young people to get
acquainted. Then this fellow came to our place where we sleep. He came there
and lay down with us. They call that girl over, her father and mother. They
called her to their bed. And I followed her, and we all sleep together.
Next time, next Sunday, we went to another place. Visit another family
in the hop field. My aunt was there. Then we visit another family, and they
cook lunch for us there. The Tripton County family cooked lunch for us.
This man, Tripton County man, came there. And this girl was playing with
him, making fun of him. And gee! I got mad. Didn't know what to do. But I
was going home alone at sundown. My aunt was staying there. I start to go
home, and then she followed me. We went and went. Then this man, he followed
us too. He followed us and caught up with us and grabbed me by the hand. We
sit down in the shade. And this girl was there just playing around. And gee.
I got mad. And just sit around. Then I said, "Let's go home!" So we did.
He wanted to stay with us, but I told him no. He was good, went home, never
bother me that time. After that never bother us for long time.
Then we was camping, my mother and them. I eat with them, but never
sleep with them. I eat with them sometimes and eat with my father and them.
There was another family there too. That year, after Sunday, he always come
to visit us. When I and her go around, he always follow us. And after that,
after hop picking time, I went home without my mother knowing. Then he told
my mother he wanted to get married with me. So my mother came down where I
was. And I stayed there with my mother and them for about three days after
he left. Then my mother and my stepfather came. They had a buggy that time.
I was with my aunt and them, and they took me home. My mother told me she
wanted me to stay with the man. She say she had the man already. I never
say nothing. Just went home with them. Then we went home, and I saw this
man in my bed.  So I didn't know what to do.   I was just sitting there.
He told me to lie down, grab me, pull me in the bed. We lay around there.
(50)
We stay two or three weeks before I ran away again. Didn't even tell
him where I was going, just sneak away to the rancheria again. After that
I was going around with some single women. They was drinking and they give
me wine. That was the first time I drink that. Lily Harris and another
woman--I found them down by the river drinking. I join them, and I get dizzy
thaL time. That time the first time I got drunk.    I couldn't stand.  They
had to hold me by the hand and lead me around. That time my mother and them
come again. And that time my mother gave me good licking and good scolding
and tell me lots of things. So I think about it and think I will stay with
him.  Jhe had a big stick ready and switch me on the back. Her man never
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said nothing. He was sitting in the wagon and say nothing. My mother hit
me hard. I never said nothing. I was a little bit drunk, I guess. She
handled me the way she want. After that I never go away. Stay like a
married woman then.
(What did your husband say?) He didn't say nothing. He was big man
already that time. He didn't say nothing. After that he teach me, teach
me not to run around and things like that. I stayed with him six years until
my sister cut me out.  (Was he good to you?) Yes, I was scared, but he was
good to me that time. Never was rough. Just easy. He was good to me for
a week before he tried to do anything. After that it was all right. Never
do nothing. Never try to run away. I got all right. He wasn't mean after
we got together. Never try to whip me.
I stay there about a month with that man, then move home to my family.
And work done, the man and them move home too. And winter time, we was all
bunch up in the house.
(What did your aunt and the others say when you married?) I don't think
they know, because we was out in the camp before hop-picking time camping
around. They only just find out when we move home, but they never said
nothing. Seems like they were glad. My aunt was single too that time. She
didn't have no man. (51)
Pubertv:  (When did you first menstruate?)  I never had that when I got mar-
ried. That's why I thought I was about twelve or thirteen years old. They
say the Indians never get that until they go with a man. Indians never
open their girls like white people do. That's why when they get about
fourteen years, fifteen years old, they like to go with the men and then they
get that way. I know it was about a month after I got with a man that I got
that way. After that I stopped that again. (52)
They used to teach us when you get that way you ready for men. That's
why you don't want anybody to see you. When men find that out, they always
try to catch you. That's what the old people used to say. When they teach
us like that, they say, "Man is just like a dog on the women. Just like a
dog they getting, get out of mind, get out of sense." That's how my people
used to teach me. Not to get close to man like that. That's what I always
teach this little girl (a five-year-old granddaughter). She always like to
play with men and boys, but I stop her. That's why she doesn't play with
her uncles or her grandfather. She's just afraid.   (53)
I was going with the man. I guess that's why it come. That's what the
Indians say. If you go with a man, that why it happen. If you don't go
with a man, you don't get it that way. I know I never had it before I was
married. Just one week I was with him, and then I had that. And I only
stay with him two weeks before I start carrying baby. Two months I had it.
After that no more till the child born.
(Where were you that time?) We was camping that time out in the fields.
It was hop-pole pulling time. It was night time when I was asleep. I didntt
know what's wrong. Feel like it's all wet. Then when I move around, feel
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like something runs. Next day I tell my mother about it. I tell her, "Some-
thing wrong with me, Mama, " in our language.  She ask me what.  I didn't
mention. I just show her my underskirt. She told me every woman got that
way. Every month women get that way. And she told me I mustn't eat meat or
wash my face or comb my hair for four days. You're not going to get sick
over it, but it 's protecting your face so you don't get wrinkled.  That's
the way they say. I do that not to get wrinkled before I get old. Just
this year I'm beginning to get wrinkled some. If you eat meat then, you
going to get TB, they say. Maybe that's why lots of young people got TB
now. When you get that way, that time you shouldn't run around. You might
find something or step on something. They used to be awful particular about
that.  You mustn't go near swamup then. That's what they afraid of. Where
there's a swamp place, something is there--snake--something under the ground.
Something living there, and that's why the swampy place is there. That's
what they were afraid of. She might see it and get scared. Some of them
don't get scared, but when they get old they think about it and get sick
over it and maybe die. Just like you have a man kill csomebody. Something
bother him, and he get crazy.  (54)
Jo I just lay around house in the shade for five days. And next time
I know how to act, and I don't have to tell her. I don't get that way now
I'm old. Everything stop on me. Never get that way fcr about ten years now.
(Where was your man that time?)   He was with me, and he had to do the
same too, the way I do. Don't wash the face. And I don't even cook either
that time. When you got mother or father, when you that way, you don't cook.
That's our way, Indian way, old-time rule. We don't eat meat, at least deer
meat when we get that way. (q). My mother told him. Said he have to do
the same way I do. Well, he was older. I guess his mother had told him
about it before. I guess he know all about it. He was married before me.
Had two children before he married me. The first woman he had was that way
too, he told me one time. Never had that sickness before he got with her.
(What had they told you about the month-sickness before you got it first?)
They used to--you know when you get about ten years or twelve years old, they
used to tell us not to climb on trees and jump down on the bank. The blood
would come out. They used to say to me, scare me. They didn't say that was
the natural thing for women. After it come, they say that shows you was
young woman ready to get married.
Formal Marriage: After I got married, I ran away from my first man and ran
around with two or three different men. But my mother made me go back again.
But still I wanted' to play with the other girls. I never thought about being
married. But they gave a little stuff to my mother and them too when I was--
not real married, just half-way. Shell beads and blankets. I don't know how
many strings of beads it was. Nine strings, I think, they gave to my mother
and about two or three good baskets. His mother brought the beads, and we
got married Indian way. His mother brought beads and blankets and some food.
She heard about it, I guess. I don't know whether they pay her back or not.
We didn't know they was coming. They sent no word, but they come. We
saw them coming with the wagon. They came in the evening, pretty close to
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supper time. We didn't notice first, but they drive in to the place where
we stay. I don't know who saw them first. I guess it was my stepfather.
Then he came in. We didn't know her. He told my mother. My mother was
sitting down making a basket. I was inside too, but I don't know what I
was doing. He say, "Look like people coming. I don't know who." So my
mother stopped, put things away and started cleaning up around. They got
a little closer, and he recognized them. I guess he know the man. He said
that was my man's mother and his stepfather. So they was on the porch wait-
ing for them. My mother was standing there, and I was inside. My mother
stood by the door. And the lady got out, and the man got off and tied the
horse on the picket fence. My mother went out, and my man went out to meet
his mother. They brought in the things she was going to give my mother.
My mother put the things on the table. Then they give her the blankets
and beads inside the house.  And I go in the other room, in the kitchen, and
sit down there listening to what was said.   She gave it to my mother.  I
guess my mother know what that mean. She give the beads to my mother, and
the blankets, and the meat, and the acorn mush soaked, and *the baskets. (55)
I wasn't there.  I was in the other room. I didn't want to show my face.
I was shame.  Shame at my mother. o  j).  Shamed at my mother-in-law.  Shame
to go near my mother-in-law. She didn't say nothing to me anyway. (56)
After that, my mother started in cooking, and I went outside and sat
down in the shade there back of the kitchen. I don't know what to do. I
was nothing but a child then. (q). That was just about three or four
months after we got together.
They stay there all night and had breakfast. And next day they leave.
That was the time she told her they would be along sometime to see her place.
She didn't tell her when though. Just that sometime they would be along to
their place.  (57)
After that he took me to town, and we was married in some white fellow's
house. Methodist priest, fellow by the name of Blodgett. He know this man.
He used to preach over there in Tripton County. My man used to work under
him, just like altar boy. So we walk to town one day, and he took me in this
house. I don't know what he do. He didn't tell me for what we went in town.
He didn't tell mne what it was about. He told this preacher about it, and
then he got ready. He have paper and write it out. They he say something.
Told us to stand up there and had two white people. One of them was his wife,
I think. Then he had us stand there and say a few words. Then he write solne-
thing on the paper, and he charge him seventy-five cents. hifter that we went
to town and stay around a little bit. After that we went home. A year after
that we got married by the Catholics after my baby was born and baptised. We
was married again by the priest that time.
(When you got home, did you tell your family about being married in
town?) No, I didn't tell nothing about it. I don,'t know--I never did tell
anything to my mother and them. I don't know why, but I never did tell what
I do. And they never ask me either. Oh, sometimes they used to ask, and I
would tell them a few things what I do.
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(Qq). Way after that we went over to Tripton County to see his people.
We went over, and it was pretty near spring over. Long time ago, they go
over fishing to Tripton County from here. That's the time they went over.
And they got load of fish and dry them up for winter. That was pretty
close to spring time then, maybe in March. That was the time in Tripton
County, you know, long time ago they used to have a boat and get fish for
themselves. They have a net, and they get fish. They used to dry lots of
fish, and sometimes they bring fish over to us, some of his family. I
guess black fish, they call them little fish.
(Tell me about your going over that time.) We went over. Not my
mother--my old uncle, his wife, and my aunt. We went over there, and this
man in the spring wagon. It held five passengers and the baskets. Start
early in the morning and get there in the evening. Stay there all night,
and next morning went to get fish there. They had a little lake. I went
there too, and we all get in the water catch fish.   Four or five get in
the water and catch all the fish.  They had long net, and they dragged that
in the water and drag the fish out in a shallow place. That where the
women--put on an old dress and get in there and catch She fish in a basket.
(g). I didn't say nothing, but my family talk.    I didn't say nothing.
They had lots of baskets. I think maybe that was the return trade, but
they didn't tell me. They don't bother me, the old people. I can't under-
stand the language that time. But my aunt talk the kind of language like
Chiptown. (58) That's the kind of language some of them over there talk.
My aunt know that language, and so she the only one talk. I don't talk.
My man understand our language, and so he talk to me in my language.
And I think we stay there two nights. Next morning we came over with
load of fish, little white fish. And they give it all away to their friends
and relations. They pretty near give it all out. That same evening they
give some fish out to the rancheria. That the way the old timers do. When
they get something to eat, they always give that to other people. They don't
sell it; they don't get no pay for it. Sometimes they give you something to
eat for it; little bread or else a little basket of pinole. (Who gave it out?)
My aunt and the old man take it to the houses. They give some to my mother
too.,
Birth of Children: (What had you done that year before that?) Oh, that
year I wasn't doing much. Just carrying the baby, I guess. First baby.
I was carrying it when I went over there, and that same winter, November
he was born. (59)
(g). You know, we never let baby know where baby comes from. That's
funny too. They ought to teach that too. But I never did tell that either,
and they never did tell that to me either. But my grandmother used to teach
me about that. She said, "When you get married, you get that way. You going
to suffer, suffer," she would say. But I never thought about it. "That's
hard,'" she used to say. And that sure is hard sometimes. Some women suffer
awful, but when Joy was born, I only suffer two hours. (s). I used to
wonder how the baby came, where the baby came from. But they never tell meo
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I never did tell my children either. I just tell them, "Your mother had a
baby." But I never tell them where they come, how they come. (Q). I find
out by myself how they come. I was scared after I had one baby. (60)
(g). First child didn't bother me much, but the second one was bad
though. The first one wasn't bad because I did what was said to me: never
eat mush, never sit down, just walk around and play around. So it didn't
hurt at all. It was just numb, like when your leg goes to sleep. That's
the way I had the first baby. They say it was because my bone not close
together hard. That's what the Indians say too. I kind of believe it.
Sometimes when women get to be twenty or thirty, close hard together. I
believe that. I never had much trouble when I had baby. It pain some,
just enough to stand it. That's why I kind of believe it too myself. You
know nowadays sometimes they have to cut the woman to take the baby out.
That's why lots of young Indians get married. They stay together as long
as they feel like it. Then they want somebody else, and they leave each
other. All of them are that way. They never mind. Nowadays they get
married by whites, and that makes them mean like the whites are--they get
married, and sometimes they kill each other instead of just leaving. I
told that to some young people--the sewing machine people (at WPA workshop
in Oak City). They say that Pomo law is awful good law: no trouble, no
killing, nothing. "I wish we had that kind of law," they said. "Well,
that's the way our people was," I said, "Indians." And they have children,
they raise it up and next half-sister take it for full sister. They was
good. But now they're like the whites.
(Q). Beginning to carry baby, I didn't know. Then you get sick in
two months. Can't eat nothing. Want to eat, but vomit. I get sick like
that. After that get all right, and then feel like eating all the time.
And then they tell you not to eat too much or the baby will be outgrown,
grow too fast. That's true too. When grow too fast and get too big in-
side, then can't come out. That why they told me not to eat too much salt.
Sometime they feel like eating the plain salt. Drink lots of water on top
of that, baby swell up. Some babies die on ground of that. From five
months on, just eat about two meals a day, and not too much. Then when
you're about seven months, you get up at sunrise. If you sleep late, they
said--I don't know. I do that. When they teach me, I do what they say.
And you feel better when you get up early. When you get up and the sun is
up, you just feel lazy. And between eight and nine months pretty near close,
you have to walk around to make the stomach loose, they said. If you just
lie around, the baby, they said, over grown in there. You can't get it out,
and it might stick to something. I obeyed all the rules. And eight months,
you run around little bit. Just trot along little bit down the hill. Do
that every morning. No, not every morning--about every four mornings, and
then after a bit then four mornings again. If the baby doesn't come you do
that again. That way they make the child birth easy, not hard.
My aunt used to tell me how the pain began, and they always ask me how
I felt.  I didn't know the date it would begin, but I know the months and
the week. They told me how long they carry it, and that was it. November,
pretty near the last, November 19 he was born. They watched me pretty close.
149
And they say to me, "First pain you going to have is in your back." And
then they watch me. Every morning they asked me how I felt.
One evening I felt that way. But they didn't think the baby was coming.
They went off some place. To town, I guess, and I was all alone. Still I
didn't lie down. I was about five or six hours, that time first. I didn't
have the pains when they put me on the bed. I said, "I don't have pain any
more." They thought it was all right, and everybody went to sleep. But I
felt funny, like leg going to sleep. So I woke my aunt up and told her, "My
leg feels funny.  I can't move it."  So she got up and fixed things.   She
fixed me, laying me on my back, and my stomach she tied lots of big rags.
Tied it tight so the baby don't come up. And within half an hour I know I
had the baby. But I didn't tell her. Then she heard the baby holler. It
was easy when I was about fourteen years old. Only one kind of pain is
that child birth pain.  It's just in your back--no other place.   In the
bone. That's all.
And when after the baby is born, you know, the old people put up sack
of ashes, wood ashes. It's warm. (61) They put it on back here. You
keep that on here till all the pain is gone. They afraid you might catch
cold, and they always want to keep you warm when you in that shape. Well,
Indians say that they want the blood in there to get rotten and all come
out.  (62)  If it gets cold, it don't come out. That's what they afraid.
Sometimes it stay in there, and you get some kind of sickness. That's why
when we have babies, they always have to put hot ashes, hot brick on that.
I always want to do that to the people I take care of. Only way to stop
the pain is with the heat. We Indians want the blood all to come out.
That's the way Dr. Orman says--when you put something warm on that, too
much blood comes out. Well, that's what we want. We want it all to stay
out. One Indian woman was telling me that when she went to the hospital for
her baby, they put on cold clothes. That's not good.    I think the doctors
don't know how women feel after that.
I never did have doctor for that.   Only that old lady down there
(Laura Roberto).  She was my nurse.  I only had one doctor, Dr. Orman.
I had him when Robert was born. He charged me fifty dollars.
And after the baby was born, you stayed three weeks in the bed for the
first baby. I stayed three weeks in the bed, never get up. Just stayed in-
side in the old way. We had a smoke house. Put rock on the ground and
make the fire until it burned out, no wood. Then spread all of the coals on
the ground and put water on top--spread it all over. Then put on over it
long grass--put that on the steam. Then they made me stand on that in the
steam. They steamed me up, covering me with an old blanket, made me stand
there till all the steam go out. Then they spread some straw and put a sack
over it and made a bed there. I laid there all night. For the second child
they did that too. When you got mother, father, or grandmother living they
do that. I had my mother there, and my two aunts living there when I had
my first three children. After that I take care of myself and only stay in
bed three days. I had too many children and no one to take care of me, so
I did that.
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And we don't eat meat either when we have baby for a month.   Well, some
of them eat this town meat. They say that not wild meat, not our meat like
deer meat, they used to say. I kind of believe that, but still I never did
eat meat before my time come. I always fast month after baby, and always
fast four days. I got used to doing that, the way I got used to now not
eating meat on Friday. That's the Catholic way. And I don't let my family
eat it. Of course, I cook it, so they have to fast like I do.
And when you have the first child, you daren't to touch your hair or
scratch your head, they used to say. And I think that true. If you do,
your hair all falls out. They want to have it nice and thick. That's why
when you have baby, they don't want you to comb your hair or touch your
hair. (63)
After three weeks, they boil up water and clean me and take that old
bedding out and burn it. Take everything out and cover the hole in the
ground up. They wash you with wild soap roots. And sometimes if they know
how to make a basket, they make a basket and put the baby in the basket be-
fore you get up. At the same time. They don't put the little baby in the
basket. But after it month old, they do that.
(What did they do about nursing the baby?) They bathe them with warm
water if their milk don't come. You have to have warm stuff, salt water.
The first baby, hard time. Six or seven days before the milk comes. After
that, not so long. But first time, hard time. Have to rub the breast,
put your breasts in the warm water. Mine never come quick, but then my
breasts hadn't filled out yet. Still small. But then when it did come, I
had lots of milk.
(What did your man do that time?) He wasn't there. He was to his
mother's in Tripton County. The baby was born after him. He went over
the trail, across over the trail the other side of the rancheria. He walked.
They say it used not to take very long by the trail. He was over there,
and he didn't know about it, I guess.
(How old was the baby when he came back?) Three days old. I was in
the smokehouse then. My aunt was smoking me. He was three days old when
he came back. That wasn't new baby for him. He'd had two before that.
Q(). I didn't say nothing. I know I told him the month that it was going
to come, but even so that month he went over to his mother's and stay there
pretty near two weeks over there. After that boy was three days old, he
came back. (64) We heard that he was going with a woman over there. There
were two single women over where his mother stayed. Lind one asked him, he
sid, to sell her baskets. So he took her down to Green City. That's the
news they were spreading, he said. Then she died. And after that he never
did care to go visit there. So that's why we thought that was true.
(q). Twenty days or maybe a month you're supposed to stay away from
the man. That's the way they say to me. Stay a month if you can. When you
got mother or grandmother, they care for you. When you have a baby, they
used to sleep with you all the time, watch you. My aunt used to do that.
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Keep you in different room, sleep with you until the baby a month old. The
old people, they can tell from the baby when it's small. If you go with the
man when maybe it's two weeks old, the foam comes out of the mouth. That
shows that the mother and father have been going together. I stayed without
the man three weeks. I always keep that up twenty days. Oh, sometimes man
get awful mad. But the man don't like that for very long. They don't fig-
ure how the woman suffers. And when woman get out of it, they get awful
mad. I used to say that to Walt sometimes when he got mad about it.   "I
wish you suffer like the woman does when babies born. Then you'd know about
that,'1 I used to say. Walter used to get mad and run out and sleep in the
barn. Sometimes he used to get mad and jerk me around and tear my under-
skirt off.
(Did your first man mrind?) He was all right, lie's old man, that's
why. lie don't care much. Young man is pretty hard. I guess that's why
some of these white people they divorce each other quick. He never was
like that. I never was like that. I never had hard time to keep away from
them. Lots of times we used to fight over that. I used to get nothing but
boys first timne. One old lady used to make fun of me, "shy is it that you
have nothing but boys?  You must hate man every tiine he try to love you."
I said, "Yes." She say, "You mustn't do that.   You must start in first and
then you have girls."  I had five girls last.  She had lots of girls too,
that old woman. Some women have one girl and boy and girl and boy. She
had that.  That's what she was telling me. "I can't help it," I say.    "Some-
timlb2s I don't liice it.  Sometimes I hate it," I used to say.
(Did you mind the first time?) No, I didn't care much. You know that
man, my stepfather, always bother me night time. He was the one doing
something, I guess. That's why I didn't have hard time.
(Did you take care of that first baby?) When you got mother or grand-
mother or aunt, they usually be with you all the time taking care of the
baby.
That same summer after he was born, sumner time, during the hop-picking
time, my husband's people come over. The way the old Indians do, they come
over and bring baby blanket and baby stuff for the baby. After that we have
to pay for that baby baskets and stuff whatever we think it worth. So after
that we didn't go there no more. I just went over there twice after that.
We went once for a funeral, I and the man. I brought two baskets for the
old lady, I think; and she gave me two new baskets for it. (65) We went
over there for the funeral because one of his relations died. We only
stayed one night and next day we came back. And af ter that I never go over
there. After that we separate, and so no more going over.
(What did you do after the child was born?) I never stayed home when
I first married. I run away from him twice. I just feel like playing. When
I see my girl friends play, I used to go and play with them. Never think I
was married. Same when I first had the baby. I used to go out and take the
baby out in the basket and just leave it there and play with the girls. That
was down at MAnzanita Rancheria. When the girls played marbles, they used to
152
have holes. I used to play marbles with them. And this man didn't say
nothing to me either when he came home. Never even think about cooking
supper for him. I guess he know I just little kid, and that why he didn't
feel jealous or nothitng. And I never even think about going with another
man when I play around like that. I was pretty good. (66) Even when I
had David, I played around like that. When there was dancing, he used to
stay home. And when he cried, he used to bring the baby down there in the
basket. He know how to take care of it, open up and change the diapers.
If it didn't stop crying, he'd bring it down there and have me nurse it.
Then if I felt like it, I would go home. If not, I stayed there till it
finished. He was pretty good till my sister made him crazy for her.
After I was married, I stayed with my old uncle most of the time. Long
time ago, we don't cook like they do now; but mother and grandmother had to
help the young woman cook. Bring it to her and get ready for the young man
to come home, son-in-law. I never did cook for long time until we were
moving away from my family. Only thing I did was to wash dishes and some-
times sweep up the floor till I was seventeen years old. Then I bought an
old second-hand house, tear it down and build it over. But still I didn't
know how to cook. The man I married used to cook and show me how. That's
how I learned, when I was seventeen years old.
Even if you married when you young, mother has to watch you all the
time. Have to tell her where you going, what you doing. Even when you mar-
ried, you not your own boss our way. That's the way, even after I was
twenty they watched me all the time so my husband don't get jealous.   (.5)
Oh, you know, we awful jealous we Indians. If you look at another man, they
jealous. So they don't even talk to another man. We're still that way.
We don't talk to our boy friend. And we women just the same. Our old
fellows don't even talk to another woman in front of our face. They might
do it if we don't know about it. We jealous-hearted people, we Indians.
(Were you like that?) Oh yes. I was awful that first time. Of course,
I was young that first time. And he had to watch me pretty close. Train me
up good. It used to make me mad. When I wasn't thinking of anything like
that, when he used to say things, made me mad. Sometimes he used to be
pretty good. He allowed me to go to dances, and he used to watch the chil-
dren at home. But I was pretty good. Never wanted to break my rule. Never
did. I never did do that yet--never go with another man when you have a
man. Oh, mother scold you for it. I know lots of times my mother scolded me
for it, my aunt, my uncle, and everyone. And I never did answer my family
back when they scold me. But some of them, they just answer back.
Desertion of Stepfather: My mother was staying with my uncle and us that
time. After she got left, she stayed with them. Nobody to take care of
her, I guess. That time I got sick first time--first time hop-picking time
when I had one baby already--my stepfather got mad that time and left my
mother.
It was this time of year. I had typhoid-pneumonia and was in bed three
months. They doctored me twice. Last time they had a big dinner. I could
153
hardly walk, but they brought me out. Just skin and bones. It was after
hop picking when they had that there in the brush house. I was getting
better, so they had that dinner in the brush house. I got sick June. I
don't know how I lived. Just maybe on wind, I guess. I had Indian doctor
that time, and I had white doctor, Dr. Lesser. He came every other day
and then he got tired, I guess, so he quit. Then my grandfather doctored
me. First time he doctored me, and then let up month and then started in
again. I never got well. That's why he started in again. Doctored me four
days, then laid off four days, and then come back two days. And after that
finished up. I lay in bed three months that time until after hop picking.
Then I was a little better and I got up. And they put up a big dinner.
They had all the Indian things and corn. Lots of everything. It was
September when everything was ready. They put that on the ground, old-
fashioned way. No table. All the food there.     And then everybody came and
helped themselves, just as much as they wanted. That old-fashioned way of
putting up dinner. That's all I got sick ever since I got big.    I get sick
sometimes, but just two or three days, catch cold. That's all. But I'm
never sick in bed.
Right after hop-picking time, they take me home. They weren't home but
camping down by the river. And my mother had to follow me, and her man was
with her, and his daughter. But she went home. He didn't treat her good.
Then we sleep pretty close together. Even when I was sick, he always come
around and feel around. Even with the family all around us, he still do
that to me. And I told my mother about it. After that they spread the
news all around.  After that he got shame.   Spread the news all around, and
he went off. He never said nothing, just disappeared. Went off and never
say nothing.  But he stayed off about a month, and then he came back. But
they didn't get along together good. And next year, they parted.     (g) . I
don't know how that happened. They'd been together long time. I don't know
what made them leave each other.
Oh, he was running around with another woman, I guess. He was going
with another woman from the same rancheria. And she did have a child by him,
but he didn't marry her. From there he went back to Tripton County and didn't
come back any more. This woman was a married woman too. Qj). That was
Sarah Gray, Sonia Gray's mother. She had Grant Gray. This Grant Gray was
an old fellow already. She had some children, but none of them was his.
She just stayed with him, and they said she had all her children by different
men.
So he went back to Tripton County. I heard he died over there all alone.
He was dead inside the house for three days before anybody knew about it.
But before that, he was married to the woman now living with George Brinton.
(Your mother must have liked him.) Yes, she just liked him. That's why she
thought he would stay with her after I got married. That's why she told me
to get married.
After that my mother stayed with her family. And she stayed there till
my father came back to her after I was old. He didn't stay with her long
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though. She died after two years. The other woman died, and my father was
alone so he came back to my mother. Then my mother died, and he went away
down below. He died down there. The county buried him. We never had money
enough to bring him up here, so he's buried down there.
Later Children:  After I was sick that time, I had the second boy. The
first baby was nine months old when I got sick. They raised him on the
bottle. Some kind of baby food--some kind of powder they got. No canned
milk yet that time, but one white man told my aunt that he had raised one
girl like that. He put it on the paper, and she went into town and got it.
When he was about ten months old, then I start another baby, so they take
it from me and raise it. Then next baby came, and my mother had him. So
I just take care of the last one. So I didn't have much trouble taking care
of the baby.
Second time I was suffering long time, about five or six hours. That
was day time. They was picking hops that time. I had hard time that time.
I had two boys together--they just a year and a little over apart. About
a year and a half apart. The third baby was a girl. My aunt made a small
basket for her. She was small. She looked awful cute in that basket. A
white man took her picture in it, and it sure was cute.
Illness from Poisoning. When this oldest girl was in the basket, three or
four months old, I got sick.  I had three that time, so I must have been
seventeen or eighteen years old that time. That used to be funny sick too.
I get sick in the morning, just like I was going to have baby. Pain came
just like that in my back. They didn't know what to do. That time Dr. East-
brook was around, but he didn't know what to do either. But after that, I
was all right until just about sun going down. Then I get like that again.
For a whole week I was like that, and I didn't think I could stand it any
more. Could hardly nurse the baby.
That time the old lady (Laura Roberto), she had an old father that
time. She ask him what he could do for me. She tell him I have funny sick.
I was suffering like that when she was talking to him about sundown. The
pain was there about two hours, three hours. I think he study over it, and
then he told my aunt and he said to get ready tomorrow morning and then we
take her out. That was before my pain started, they take me out--about two
or three o'clock.
The old man went, and I followed him, and my aunt came then bringing
the baby. We walk way up to Al Jackson's place, and the old man was singing
as we went out. Four times he stopped before he got to the place where he
was going to doctor me. Stop and sit down. And he was singing all the time,
singing by himself. We find the place where we was going, and we stop there.
He fix the place by the little tree, little black oak tree. My aunt fixed
the baby, opened it, and let it lay there. And I was sitting there watching
it. He was digging a hole, I guess. He dug down, little bit, about a foot
and a half under the tree. And he singing and singing and doing something.
And then I was getting sick the way I get. I told my aunt. I couldn't keep
my head up, and I got dizzy--world going around. I fainted, I guess. Don't
know nothing. After that I don't know nothing of what they doing. I guess
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they put me in the hole. And pretty soon I was sleeping or something in
that place.  I know I was sitting in there, in that hole.  It was pretty
tiear sundown. I must have been there all day.
And at home, my mother and that old man and lady, they was getting
excited because we'd never come home yet. They thought maybe I had died
over there. They was looking for us. After sundown we came home. And
that place they steam me was the place where they buried the body of a man
that got shot long time ago. That the place they say they steam sick per-
sons long time ago. (67) That the place they steam me on his bones. That
.old man got four big long bones out of that place there. He kept it and
used them for doctoring people. Now I know what they doing. My aunt had
water. I guess she pack it from somewhere. And she gave me bath, and then
put my clothes on. And that old man was doctoring the hole and then cover
it up. And we was going home. We rest that way, just same, four times on
the way to the house. And we got home, and my mother was crying. Not cry-
ing, but she had tears in her eyes. They asked what the matter was. My
aunt was telling them that I pass out. After that I got all right.
That was sure good medicine for me. That pain was just as bad as
when you have baby. I couldn't stand it.   I stood it oi-.e week, but I was
getting weak. After that I got cured.
(How did you get sick?) They say they done something on my underskirt,
they say. You know, where I go out and pee, they do something right there.
They say that the way you get when they do that. That the way the old
people do. When you go on other rancheria, you never want to let other people
see where you go. You just sit down and pee. If they see you, right away
the men come and pick up the wet place, and pretty soon your behind all
swell up. Maybe you can' t make water. They used that to make their medicines
with. I know another case like that. A girl down at Vineland said she saw
the man come right where she had been and pick that wet place up. That was
Ferdinand Jose's younger sister. She was up here at Wilderness Valley that
time, and she saw the man come. That was Sam Moon. Ferdinand had stayed
with his daughter, and one time he got drunk and kicked her in the stomach
when she was carrying a child. That family always blamed Ferdinand for that.
So they did that to his sister.  When she was dying, she toldl What she had
seen--that old man coming there after her. (68)
That's the kind of stuff I think I was that time.   I didn't hiave Lno
swellinig, but it was paining just like child coming down. That's the way
IndCianl poisoll stuff is.  You feel burning like.
(Who did it to you?) I don't know. I couldn't find out. They never
even say that.  They just don't know. You know, they thought down at the
rancheria, they thought they was all our friends, our relations. But when
I got like that, they awful surprised. That must have been--I don't know
who. But so after that I always watch out, everything, everything. And they
used to gather cigarette stubs and when you sew your clothes, always pick
up the bits and burn them. If they poison you on them, you get paralyzed
and can't do nothing.
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Separation from Husband: For eight years I stayed with this man. Then he
left me for my sister. My sister got big, like Elaine, and got crazy for
him. That was my half-sister, Mable Evans. Got crazy for him and got
playing with him all the time. That's how he got crazy for her. I didn't
care.  I didn't love him. I guess that's what the whites would call it.   I
let him go, but he always tried to come around and boss me. He said nobody
would have me because I got so many children and they wouldn't want to take
care of them. I had three or four, but I didn't take care of them. My
mother took care of them. They didn't have any other children, so they take
care of them. But he always come around and tried to boss me. I guess he
wanted us both.
You know that the Indian way. If you have a sister-in-law, you. just
play like own wife. Some of them don't like that, but some of them do that
like my sister did. They say when you play with your brother-in-law, you
get to love him. That's why they say never want to play with your brother-
in-law too much, they say. My aunt and my grandmother. In case he might
fall in love with you and want to marry you. That's why I never did like
to play with my men relatives. My sister's man, Mark Bailey, used to want
to play with me, but I never did want to do that. (69) (q). Oh, they just
play funny. One time I went to get water. Just right there by the new
house, he used to have a well. He dug a well, and he had good water. And
I went there to get water toward evening. I had an old shawl on, and he put
it over my head and just grab me, playing. And I hollered and was kicking
him. After that he took it off and said, "What's the matter?   You scared?"
"Yes," I said, "I'm scared of you." And I took my water home and told my
old man, and he laughed. He used to do that to May too. But we never
cared, never feel jealous. And second time he grab me by the arm and just
joking me around. Grab me by the wrist and pull me way down to Leroy's
house, just playing. My aunt used to live in a house that stood there.
That used to be Captain Roberto's house. After he died they tore it down.
After that, he don't bother me any more. Used to talk funny and play with
me, but he never handled me like that any more. After that he moved to
Wilderness Valley.  That's where he died and he's buried up there.  (70)
When my man went with my sister, that was the time he was mean. Want
me to go away all the time, I guess. Whip me, want to make me mad, I guess.
lHe used to take her around with him all the time. That's why she wasn't
scared of him. Used to take her swimming and to town. And then one night
they was that way. That was in my house too. We was living alone then in
my house. She stayed with us. One night they had a time in the roundhouse,
and I left them alone in the house. I went there. There was dancing there.
Then I came home and found this girl crying. So I ask her what the matter.
She didn't tell me. So I know.  Then I ask the man, but he didn't tell me.
Then I got mad and told them, "Why don't you tell me? I know what you do
to her." "Oh, I step on her foot," he say. (71)
After that, they were together all the time. Everybody know it.
Whenever they went down by the river together, somebody say something. I
never care. They were doing that the whole summer. And next summer start
in again plain. So I told him, "You want that girl, stay with her. I'm
going to look for a man myself. And I don't want you to bother me if I go
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around like that."
(What did your sister say that time?)   She didn't say nothing.   I didn't
say nothing to her either. But I always say something to the man, always
tell him not to do like that. But he didn't mind. He was doing that three
or four months. Ever since hops began. And they had a camp across the river,
her mother and father. He made chances to go across there every morning,
stay there all day. And he never work, they say; just take the girl around
swimming. And he didn't want me to help him work either. He'd rather be
alone with her. That was down at Big Rock. And one time early in the summer,
clover time, I told him I was going down there to get clover. They used to
have lots of good clover down there. He told me not to go there; he was
going to tell her to get it for me, he said. So he didn't come back all day.
And he brought it home late--at twelve o'clock, all wilted. Next morning I
found it there. I asked him, "Who could eat this? You have to have it fresh
when you eat the clover!" So I threw it out. And he said he paid two bits
for that little bunch of clover to have her pick that for me. So after that
I [lever go there, never talk about no clover no more.
After that, lots of other people find out what they doing. One old
fellow, he came up and told me in Indian, "Young woman, you know what your
man doing?"  And I study little bit and say, "No."   I just said that.   I
already know it. He said, "You must be awful good-hearted wonili."    "Why?`"
I say.  "Well, your lhusband is going with your ownI sister." And 1 say,
"Well., that's all right. She can have him.   I'll look for another man."
I was joking with him, and he told me they was down swimming together way
under the brush. And next time he come around there, and he tell  ne, "I
feel pretty bad." I ask him why he feel bad. He say, "I feel sorry for
you."  I say, "That not hurting me. I'll do the same thing some time, " I
say to him. And after that he never say nothing to me no more. Never tell
me news no more. (Was he a relative?) No, .he's just friendly old man, I
guess'. Talk to me.
(What did your mother and aunt say about it?) They didn't say nothing
about it. They said not to try to look for them or else decide to whip the
girl.  "But no," I say, "I don't feel like that.   I never feel angry about
it."
But one time she came to me and told me to go to town with her on the
railroad track.  So I went with her. On the way we take a rest. Too hot,
so we take a rest.  Sat down under the tree.   She say, "Sister, I hear you
going to cut me up."  I say, "Why do that?   Who told you that?"   She mentioned
that Chester Peterson's mother. I told her, "She just made that up. I never
said nothing to her. I'm not going to bother you.    I'm not going to bother
the man either." And that was all. We went to town, stay around town awhile,
and then we come back about ten or eleven o'clock. She crossed the river and
went to her camp, and I went on home. We stayed home, down to the rancheria.
I had children, but I left them all of them with my mother and them and
go around alone. And after that she never say nothing to me, and I never say
nothing to her either.  She never came to me after that.   Her mother used to
come and tell me about her going with the man. I say, "I know it. I'm not
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going to bother her. I know about it, but I don't care."
So the same year after hop-picking time they got together, sleep
together. And after they was together just about month, I think, her mother
died. And I went there to see her day after they get married. Feel kind of
funny though.  (What did you say to her?) I never talk to her. We talk to
my father, that's all. Feel funny when they together there, and me around
there. But after awhile I didn't care, and I used to visit her. She didn't
care. She used to talk to me, joke with me after that.
I don't know what was wrong with me. When my sister took my man away
from me, I drank for two weeks steady. I didn't feel bad, but I couldn't
sleep. And I drink. And I had a friend from Lucerne. She had been mar-
ried too. Now nobody wanted to marry her.   She had two children, and she
drank too much. My old man (72) stayed with her three weeks once, but he
didn't want to marry her. I started in drinking when I was about nineteen
years old--that was the time. I started in drinking because I didn't feel
good something. Couldn't sleep. I drank two weeks steady. I would sober
up and start in again after eating. Start in drinking again, not much, but
just enough to keep you dizzy. But I got drunk with whiskey last time when
I was with this old man. I don't like to drink too much. Next day it makes
me feel bad.
I was carrying baby that time. I must have been carrying him three
months when we parted. So I was single all year. During that time I used
to drink with parties all the time, but I used to take care of myself and
never get too drunk. Someone told me, "When you carrying baby, after one
or two months if you drink too much, you miscarry." That was why I was
drinking like that. And I never eat too. That's not true I find out. Some
days I hardly eat two or three days, just drinking. (q). I don't know why
I did that. I guess I was single and didn't want it. That the only way it
is--too much bother. I had the rest of them, but my mother and them was
all living so I left all to them. But I didn't do nothing though after he
was born. I just take care of him and raised him. Some of his grandmothers
wanted him after he quit nursing, but I never give him away. I guess I
thought it would be in the way when I wanted to run around. (73)
After I left that Tripton County man, I got acquainted with that woman
from Lucerne, and we used to go around together, drink together, and sleep
with me. We used to sing songs. When they drink, you know, they mention
the wine and stuff like that. They want more drink, and they mention that.
I used to sing that when I drink a little. Just the same I guess as white
people. Maybe they learned from the Indians. And them songs I know, but
I don't know the meanings. When they drinking, the old men sing those songs
all the time, so I can't help but learn it. But I don't know the meanings.
Some of them are from Geyserville. In that language down there. And some
from Iona over here. And some from here but not many.
I don't know how long I stay single--about a year. That the time I
was running around with her. She used to come around where I stayed and
take me around with her. We used to go buy our own wine, and go down where
other people were and have a drinking party there. We was doing that for
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two whole weeks. Go to some place, people who drink, and take our own,
maybe half a gallon, maybe two quart bottles, for a drinking party. She
had two children too and a mother and father living. Her father drinks
heavy too. That's how we used to drink all the time.
Sometimes we gather three or four different people again and go buy
some more wine and go way off in the brush and sit down there and have a
little lunch with wine. One time when we was like that we built a little
fire and was going to have a little meat, bread and wine. One old man was
going to make a fire. He (EW's first husband) always chased me around. So
when I did go around, I always watched out. So when we was just ready to
eat, something spread on the ground already, I was standing around by the
fire and they were all together there. And I see somebody peeping around
in the brush. And I tell that old man I think somebody in the brush. My
first man. He was the one. I don't really know who was the one, but I
know it. After a while I ran away, and ran, and ran. It was about seven
in the evening. That's how I see it.   That why I ran away. Didn't tell no-
body except that old man I think I know who that is. So I ran home. Two
days after that, the old man says he come there, and he was growling at
him. He say, "You the one making her run around." Anyway he gave him the
blame. And he tell me I just run like a deer on the tops of the bushes--
fly like something. He saw me running.
I see lots of people that time. They talked to me, but I didn't talk
to them. Didn't like the person, the man. Didn't care to play or nothing
after that. That's all I think. I was going around with her.
(That time, after I was parted from my first man)(74) I tried to go
around with Stan Day, but he didn't like me either. After we parted I went
away with him and I and him stayed out three days one time without eating.
Way out in the brush. But one time, in the evening, he used to go home
lone and get bottle of water and sandwich and bring it to me. Then on the
fourth day, I say, "Gee, I'm starved." So I wanted to go home. He wanted
to take me home, but I didn't want him to. I was carrying baby four months
that time, but still I did that. I don't know why I did. We lay around,
sleep.  Lay around sleeping together.  Sometime talk and sing something .
(Did you have something to drink along?) No. First time we did. We had
wine, but after that gone we didn't have any more. Nothing to eat either.
He went home though, not let anyone know what he was doing. Sneak into
the kitchen, take what he wanted, and then bring me a bottle of water and
sandwich. But that wasn't enough for me, so I went home. They miss us
that time, though, my mother say. They miss us and ask each other where we
went.
Marriage to Wood: (How did you meet Wood?) Let's see. How was that? I
used to, when we first parted you know, I used to go around with that woman.
You heard about old Katie Sharpe? I used to go around with her. She was
married to a man from up here, Tillie Harris's brother. They used to drink
lots, and Katie's man was brother-in-law to this Walter (Wood). His name
was Tom Stanley. I used to go around with them when they gamble. Katie
used to travel lots among men with this man, and I used to go around with
her.
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Then this woman from Lucerne, she was going with this fellow (Wood)
before I was. Next time, after that, I don't know it, but she was drinking
and she told me. She came after me and brought me down to the camp, and
she told me that she was going to do that. She say she was going to get
married with this fellow, my old man, and she wanted to have a good time
before that. This man didn't drink, and she wanted to have a good time
before she married him, wanted to have all the fun she can. And after that,
about a week, we was drinking in our place, old Roberto's house. And two
families came there--young families--that was drinking too. We all get
together. And this fellow, this man's brother-in-law, was there with Katie.
They came with the others. And she was there too, my Lucerne sister-in-law.
She was telling me she was going to get married next month with a good man.
And this man, Tom Stanley, didn't like it. He said, "You're not going to
get married! I'll see to that! I'll tell him not to get married to you."
And from then on that man bosses me, don't want me to go with the
others. Just want me to go with them. He (Tom Stanley) used to tell Walter
that he wanted him to marry me. He was going to talk for me, he said. He
told me that too. "I want you for him," he would say. And he always watch
me. When drunk men camne around, he would chase them away. They used to
say, "You going to have two women."
Then we all separate; all the parties go away next morning. I was
stay at home. That same week, I went to town alone on the railroad track.
And I saw these fellows: this woman and the other fellow. This woman came
to me and say she want a little lunch. I bought little crackers and a can
of salmon. We ate that. Toward evening this fellow came to me. And he
say, "I think we better go home."   So I said, "All right.  I'll go."   So I
left this woman in town and followed them home.   Next week, Saturday, I went
to town again, and then we bought the wine down here at Silone's before we
went to town. We bought about half a gallon and took a little drink before
we went to town. Then that night they went down to another place there
where there were men gambling, playing cards. That's the way I got to talk
to this man. He was watching them. And this fellow, this Walter, he offered
me a drink. He had a quart bottle. So I took it, I and this woman. And I
didn't give it back to him. I said, "I'm going to keep it." He said, "All
right." They were gambling there all night.
Next morning I went home alone. And next morning they came after me
again, and that night they had a game down at our place in the roundhouse
down there. Men were playing in there. I went to this man's wife's house
and stayed there that night.  And this man (Tom Stanley) went down to the
place.  He told his wife what he was going to do, but he didn't tell me.
So we stayed there alone.  He came back and brought this Walter back.   So
we were together, four of us, drinking.   And from there on we got acquainted
with each other.
We went outside, and we went back of the house. We sit down there and
talk. Some kind of talking, made a plan. He told me not to run around with
everybody. Tell me to take care of myself. That he wanted me. I told him
all right, but not right way to get married. I was carrying a baby for this
other man (her first husband). I told him we would have to wait until this
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baby was born. I told him I wasn't fit to get another man yet for awhile.
If he could only wait one or two years.  He say, "That's all right.   I know
who the father is," he say. You know that the old time Indian way. They
-say that kind of woman no good, and they tell their children not to get
married with them. He was taught that way so he say, "That's all right.    I
know who the father is.1" So I told him to wait until the baby born. Anyway
we was that way there, and he give me a little money.
We stay there for three or four days. Then before the baby born, he
would come down and stay awhile and then go away. From there on, we were
just friends of each other. Everytime we see each other, just come to each
other and go wherever we want. Come to one side.
And my first man, he was always looking for me all the time--look for
me all the time wherever I go. And one night this old man (Wood) and I were
together, and he caught us. He wanted me to go home with him. I did. I
must have been crazy, but I did. He had a horse there. We were down at
Silone's and had had a couple of drinks.  He wanted me to ride the horse,
but I didn't want to. So we walked down toward Manzanita leading the horse
that night. And then he hit me. I don't know what it was with, but he must
have struck me on the head with something and knocked me out. He must have
pulled me to one side of the road, and there was a little ditch there with
water in it. He went down and got water in his hat, and he was washing my
face. I come to, feel it. And he was washing my face, washing my face.
And then I come to, and I was just lying there. And he was sitting there.
"You ought to wake up. You're drunk. This is Silone's place," he said.
But I told him, "It isn't Silone's place.  I know that, and I know what you
done." He wanted me to get on the horse again, but I wouldn't. So we started
to walk again. When we got to Manzanita, we went to our house, and I called.
My mother came to the door.  I went in alone.   I didn't say anything to them,
but went right to my bed, to my place. He knocked on the door, and the old
man opened for him. He came in and told them the story, that he found me
drunk lying in the road. My family believed it. Then I got mad and came out
and told them it was a lie.  I said, "I know what you did to me, but I didn't
say anything, ancd then you came telling lies.  And my family believe you!" I
chased him out.  I got a big iron bar and chased him out.
Next morning, one lady came to see me. I was sitting outside.    She camile
to tiie anid asked Lmie what he had done to me. I told her that he had hit me,
but I didn'lt know what with. She looked at me, and O01 iiiy head, she said, as
a knife mark. And my hair--I have long hair way down--was all blood. There
was blood all through it. iAifter that she took me down to the creek and took
everything off me and washed my hair. After that I wouldn't talk to him.
And next time, I and my mother was going home from the river, way down
there in Manzanita Rancheria. And he came along with a wagon, drunk, and
another fellow. They stopped us, and he wanted me to make it up with him.
But I told him, "No! What became of my sister? Stay with her. Don't
bother me any more."  After that he didn't bother me for a long time. And
then when we were in our place, I and lay aunt, we were alone sitting there
on the porch after sundown, and here he came along.   He want to stay with
me a6ain. Anid so I told him, "No, I don't think so. You stay with her and
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make a good living, and I'll try to do the same thing and find another man."
Then he said no man would have me. And I said, "That's all right. That's
my lookout." And he had brought fifty dollars in silver with him, and he
put it here in my apron. I was sitting there. Gee, it looks lots, fifty
dollars in silver.  I asked him, "What's this for?" I didn't want it, but
he wouldn't take it back. So I stood up, and they fell all over. He was
picking it up and crying. Then I felt bad. He was crying and picking up
the silver. Then I went in the house, and I was feeling sorry for him
little bit. Then I heard him talking to my aunt, and I heard her say, "I
can' t do anything with her.  She's spoiled now." And I heard her say, "Don't
bother her anymore. Go on and do what you want." I could hear them because
I was inside, and they were on the porch.
And after that, I was living with this old man (Wood), and still he
tried to come and talk  to me. Before the baby born, he (Wood) would come
down and stay awhile and then go away. And after the baby was born, we
stayed together for good.
(Did they tease you about Wood that time?) No, they never tease me
nothing about him. But Walter used to tell me that when he talk to other
girls, after we plan to get married, the girls would say, "Youd rather
have a whole bunch of children than have me. " Then fight and scratch him.
They say things like that all the time. You know they want to get married
with him, but he don't take them. They used to call me "sow." They say
that to him. "You better go home and take care of your sow." That the way
they used to say to him, he used to say. He used to te'll me that.
(Did you feel jealous of him?) Yes, I feel mad, but I never say nothing.
You know what's the main thing my old people used to teach me. "If you feel
jealous and say that, that's the last thing. Then goodbye. If you say it,
you get habit of being jealous." That's true. With my first husband I used
to say that just to tease him. And then it got to be habit and he got mad.
So with this man I never said nothing. I told that to one old man from
Tripton County. He asked me if I didn't feel jealous. I said, "Yes, but I
keep it to myself. Let it wear out.' He said, "You must be brave woman."
Before he got me he had an awful ugly woman. That's why I never said
nothing. I thought, "What's the use of my talking jealous after her?" She
was black, awful ugly. I asked him once, "What you want to get married to
her for?" He said, "Oh, she was just crazy for me so I got sorry for her."
He said when she was young, she used to stay around his house all the time
crying for him to come out. Stay there winter time too. So he got sorry
for her and took her in# They only stayed together year and a half. The
baby was three months old. He was awful light for that dark woman. He
died five years ago when he got burned with gas.
(a). That's the only step-son I had. He used to be good to us too.
(g). No, he don't live with us ever. He was a big man when he died, mar-
ried to a woman from Tripton County.
(How long after Wood left that woman before he came with you?) I don't
know how long it was. He said he was going with another woman five years.
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This must have been five or six years. That boy was big already that time.
He was shamed to come to his father that time. I asked him if he talked to
his father. He said, "No." I always feel sorry for him. He must have been
six or seven when we first got together.
Oh, he (Wood) used to be crazy man. Women get crazy for him. Married
women used to go with him. I don't know who to blame. Man must have had
more sense than to bother all the married women. But the women had no
business to talk to another young fellow. (Was that after you got with him?)
That was way before. He was doing that long before me. After me, he never
do nothing. He was getting middle-aged when he was with me. He was over
thirty. I was twenty-one years old when I got with him and had five chil-
dren. Yes, after I was with him, he never chase around no more.
He came to our place after my boy was born. In December, I think he
came down there. That was after grape-picking time. I was ready to go down
below. I went to town, and I told some friend of mine---another friend of
mine--to look for Walter. They was having court that time, and he was in
there, he said. I told him to go tell him I wanted to see him. I told him I
was getting ready to go down to Lucerne. He told me not to go. He took me
home in the buggy. So I said, "All right." My mother and another woman,
Katie Sharpe, went down. That the time she married to another man down be-
low there, and left him. Left Tom Stanley. I think that was about the last
we was chasing each other. After that we settle down that fall, that winter.
When 1 come to this fellow, I stayed in this rancheria maybe year.   His
old mother-in-law and them used to come around all the time and try to chase
me away. Gee, I used to be scared when he went away. Used to lock myself
up in the house scared. She used to come around and give me dirty language.
He'd had her daughter. That's the way Indians are.    Jealous of their son-in-
law. And she had another man, but still she used to come around and give me
bad name. But I didn't say anything. That's why I don't have no friends on
this rancheria. Just go round by myself, fraid to talk to anybody. (75)
Liiyajrsvlle:          (Did your mother and the others like Wood?) Yes,
they all like hint because he don't drink or go around like the other men,
they said. But he gambled. The first five years we was together, he gambled
lot. He always got to go wherever they gambling. Never stay home weekends.
First time, I did try to stop him. Sometimes he lost every cent he make.
Leave us with nothing.  So I told him that, and he got mad. He said he worked
hard for that money and it belonged to him so he had a right to spend it. So
I said all right. After that I never said nothing-.
But I never followed him.  Gee, he was cranky. So I never want to go
around with him. Never even go to town with him. Sometimes I go to town
alone, take three or four of the children. I knew how to hitch up the
horses so I'd hitch it up and go into town by myself. When Albert was small,
I start in washing around among these families. That's how I made my own
money. I still do that yet. I don't know how old Albert was. I used to
take him along down to the village. (76) I used to wash for two or three
fami lies there. I still do that job--wash by hand.
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We was together three years when Albert was born. I miscarried one
before him, when I was carrying five months. I was sick like that whole
week. Child birth, just four or five hours, when you feeling pain. But
this was whole week I was sick in bed. And the only thing that stopped pain
was the heat. Walter's grandmother was living then, and she took the hot
ashes and put them in a sack and wet it and put it on my back. That was the
only thing that stop that pain. Gee, it just pains in the back here.
(How did it happen?) I think--the way I thought to myself was that I
was out walking one night in the evening, and I got scared of something in
the night time. And I run with all my might. I was running and running.
Sound like somebody coming with boots on when I was in the bushes. And so
I run back home. That night I got sick. So I thought it was running all
like that, scared of something. I was five months already that. That was
old fellow, drunk man, coming. I got scared of him. It was winter time
too. That way it sound funny here when walking. I didn't see him,but I
heard him. That was the cause of it, I think. I hadn't done any heavy
lifting.
(You said Onceyour first boy died. Was that before this?)    That was
after I was with him three years, I think. Andrew wasn't born yet. I was
carrying him, I think. I guess that was why when I used to come to the
boy, he would say, "You don't want to cry, Mama. You got another boy coming.'"
After he died, I don't know how he know it. Maybe somebody tell him. "You
going to get another boy, Mama," he would say. He used to be smart little
fellow. He was twelve years old when he died. We was together three years
when he died, but his father and his mother and aunt all came there and
stayed together one week when he died. That's the way we do. We don't keep
enemies when we parted. Some of them call each other brother, sister, even
if they parted.
(How did that boy get sick?) I don't know how he got sick. You know
he was sick for two years. He was failing, failing for two years. Maybe
he had TB. And after he died, one old fellow said he doped him. He told
Stan Day one time, and Stan told me. That old man was drunk that time and
told it. (i). He's an old man from Manzanita rancheria. Bear, they used
to call him. His Indian name means "Bear Heart." And t4hite people call him
Bear. (q). Oh, they say he do that--these people who do that, poison
people, they get the habit of doing that. He was that kind. He did that to
young people, children, and young women and young men. They tell me that.
He knew how to make poison. He claimed he gave him candy and wine. He told
Stan first he give him candy and then wine. Both of them doped, I guess. (77)
(Was the boy staying with you then?) No, he was staying with the old
man, Old Roberto and Laura and my aunt. He was lying in bed, not sick, but
just not feeling good. He suffered and was failing every day for two years.
His flesh, you could just see it.   Sometimes he coughed a little, a little
dry. I suppose that's how he died.
He died on January 12. That day I remember. I don' t know the year, but
that must hlave beeni about 1908 he died.  I was there when he was sick pretty
165
bad. I stayed. I was going to have baby that time so that's why I stayed
down there. (Were you there when he died?) Yes, I was up there.     I was up
there all the ti:ne.  i didnf't feel sick, didn't feel ncthing. We was all up
there. He died in the night time, nine o'clock. Those old people come home
from town, and this sick boy say he don't like themn to come in his room. He
smell the wine on them. He say to the old lady, "Stay away from me. You
stink!"  He don't suffer much when he die.   He talk loud.  fie say, "That old
lady can't leave wine: alone. "  We told him not to say that.  From then on,
he ju, t pass away. Pass away asleep.
I saw one woman do that too. That was Bess' s aunt. I was down there
to see her, and the others were working around. She was just talking to me,
but she didn't want to lay still.   She just move this way and this way.   so
I said, "Seems like the old lady is dead." Bess got up from her chair and
went to look at that. And she said, "Yes, she is." Some people just suffer,
trying to get their breath.
(What did you do the time the boy died?) We was all there, my aunt,
my mother. We was all there. He noticed my aunt and my mother was crying,
and he told them not to cry.   "Don't cry, Mother. Don't cry, Grandmother."
He used to call my aunt gagamatul, old grandmother. There were three of
them, and so he called them grandmother in different ways so they know which
he mean. My aunt and my mother was there too, and they told me not to watch
when he was drawing his last breath because I was family way. That the way
they teach us. When you pretty close, you daren' t see anything that's dying.
Baby might get sick or something--after it born not funny. So they chase me
away. I didn't see it. After he was dead, I was there. (9). When they
cried, I -came back. They didn't come to tell me, bu% I come back myself.
Began to cry. And that old woman who was half-shot, she came back too. And
the old man started in crying.
Gee, that time when he died, snowed and snowed.    Snowed for four days
and four nights. We had to keep the body inside. And I don't know how
many people we had to feed that time. I think twelve with our own family.
And that the time we cut that eucalyptus tree down there at Manzanita Ranch-
eria. After that they had suckers and grow big again. That time they cut
them down. Had to have fire. Snowing all the time and cold.
Everybody spread the news around, and some people come in and see. Some
of them come, and then they go out and spread the news to the families, to
his father and grandfather. They come that evening and stay there till after
they buried him. After that they go home. We kept him for four days after
he died. Beginning five days, sun come out little bit. There were lots of
men there, so they went up and dug the grave. And that afternoon they bury
him. And they stayed there that night, and next day everybody go home.
(What did you do?) I helped with the cooking, get two meals a day. And
rest of the time, just sit around by the dead person. Sometimes they cry.
The rest of them just sit there. Winter time short days you know.
(Q). Two days after he was buried, Albert was born. Day and a half
maybe. One whole day and next half a day. Used to have the birth months
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on a paper, but they got burned up I guess the time we move. I guess the
priest would have them all. And my mother and them burn up clothes--all
the things they had. So there was nothing to wrap the baby in when he was
born. And my father had a work shirt. He was staying with us that time.
So he tear that up and tell my mother to use that.  And another woman was
there, and she took off her underskirt and told her to use that. Yes, they
burn up everything they had. My mother said she never thought about it.
If she had thought about it, she would have kept something for him.
Albert was born in the daytime, Friday afternoon. (Who was there then?)
My mother and another old lady was there. She's from there. She used to be
married to my uncle. They was living with us too because they know the boy
is sick, not going to get well. That's the way the relation are. All get
together and watch. I got sick in the morning, and I was sick there I don't
know how many hours. And then I had the baby born at two o'clock that
afternoon. When the baby came, my mother take it. Then she took it away
and washed him and dressed him and put him away with a little bundle. And
after that they fix me up and clean me, and let me lay one-side by the
fireplace. They put a little warm fire ashes on my back.   Keep me warm.
Make me drink warm tea. That time I don't wash my face, I don't know for
how long. They wash my face for me. I don't even comb my hair. Somebody
else do that for about ten or twelve days till I get up.
I think I was in bed about fourteen or fifteen days that time. And
the old man stayed up here that time because our place was so full. So he
stayed up here with his grandmother. After a month, his grandmother and
another lady and him came down to visit us. Then I came up here with him
after the boy was month old. Stay up here with him this other rancheria.
We should have given Albert a name, my father's name. But we didn't give
him my father's name because he drinks too much. But now he drinks lots
anyway. (78)
(Did they bring anything to Andrew that time?) No, we don't do that
unless--well, he hasn't got no family. That the time nobody bring blankets
or nothing. He's a poor boy, Albert is. Nobody give nothing to him. All
the rest is like that too. But I always take things down to my grand-
children. Always visit the newborn baby with blanket and presents like
that. That the old time Indian way, but nowadays they don't do that. About
a month after he was born, Walter's grandmother brought mush and meat.
That's what she brought, I guess. But no blanket to wrap him up with.
When Albert was four months old, I got sick and the doctor told me not
to nurse that baby. If my mother hadii't been around, that baby would have
died. She took that baby and took flour mush and made it like milk and feed
it with that until I get well. He live and he was nice and fat. That was
Albert. The doctor said he was going to die, but I told them to give him
castor oil. And that's why he live. Two doctors gave him up. Said he was
going to die tonight. I hadnt had no milk, and he hadn't had nothing to
eat.  I heard it, and so I said, "He going to die anyway, so give him big
spoon of castor oil."' My mother did that, and he pull through. I guess he
was botwund up atnd that's what wva wrong.  (3j)
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(What happened after that?) Nothing happened. Just living together
good after we got acquainted with each other.   I don't know what time that
was. Never even thiak about the years or nothing those days. Even yet,
don't keep track.
When we was first together, we separate one time. We was together about
five years, and after we had the oldest boy--he was about two years old--we
separate about eight months I think.
(i). I don't know why we was get mad. I don't know. Oh, he heard
too many news, bad news about me. That time my mother was sick, and I was
up there, and they spread too many bad news. That I was having drinking
in my house, in my little house. There was drinking there. My old people
was drinking, and I was going around with them. And I never drank. And
they said I was drinking all the time. Never take care of my mother. I
stay there long time, and he go over to the coast for about a month and
take my father over to the coast baling hay or something. When they get
through, come back. And he didn't come down visit me. And that's why I
didn't go back.
Once I saw something in my own family.   (80)  lt was Sonia Gray's
little sister, the one that died. She was about nine or ten then, and they
were down by the river. Chester Peterson was with her. He was about fifteen
or sixteen then, a big man. I was staying over there then. My boy was with
them. I started to hunt for him because I hadn't seen him for a while. And
I was going all through the bushes looking for him. That's when I saw them.
There was a hole there, and I stuck my head over the bushes, and there they
were down in there. The girl was lying on her back there, and he was sit-
ting there with his pants off. I pulled my head back. It made me feel just
sick. They were relations, and both of them were my relations. It wasn't
an awful close relation, but still it was pretty close. Too close for that.
I went on home and just went in and lay down. I felt funniy, sick all
over. I didn' t even hunt for the boy anymore. But when I got home, he was
there. Maybe they sent him away. After I had been lying there awhile, I
heard somebody talking to my mother and asking about me.. My mother said I
was feeling sick. I got up and came out. It was that girl's mother. She
was asking for me. I guess that girl must have seen me when I stuck my head
out through the bushes. I didn't think she had, but shc-. must have and gone
home and told her mother. Her mother asked me if something had happened. I
told her nothing happened to me. I never did tell her what I saw. I never
told anybody about it. But it sure made me feel bad. They were relations.
Another time-.-Rena was living with her own uncle. (81) I sure felt
bad when I heard that. People were saying that, but I said that no, it
couldni't be.  It was too close.  Hle was her mother's own brother.  But then
I saw it with my own eyes. That's how I know, and I believe it.    It was
hop-picking time, and we were camping down by the river. They were there
too, Rena and her uncle. They were camping there together alone.    But still
I didni't believe it.  I felt funny, but still I didn't think it could be true.
But one nmorniing early--must be about six--another woman and I were getting up
and -oing off.  We went by that place where Rena was camping. They had a
168
big double bed there right by the stove. Rena was getting breakfast, and
he was lying there on the bed. She bent over for something, and I saw him
reach over with his hand, just bring it up under her. Gee, I felt bad.
That was her own uncle, and I saw him do that to her. That feels funny even
when your own husband does it. When he saw me, he lay back on the bed there,
just lying there. But I saw it. I said to the woman, Clinton's mother, "Did
you see anything?" She said, "No, I didn't see anything." So then I told her
what I saw.  She said people were saying that about them. It's a bad thing.
Later Years with Wood: We got together again. He came down to our place,
ovr rancheria. He visited his friend down there. I was down to the river.
I had the little boy with me, down at the river. I was under the shade.
I was washing out clothes. My mother was sick that time. I had the boy
there under the tree in the shade. He came down there to see the boy. He
was a little over two years. Never see him for eight months, I think.    He
came downi there to talk to the boy, and was laying there. And he had a
little pair of shoes and there was a crack on the toe. And he was p'laying
with that, and he say, "I see you need new shoes again." The boy didn't
know how to talk.  He laid there by him long time, and pretty soon he began
to talk to me. And I answered him. I wasn't mad.
And he asked me if I would swim with him. I said, "Yes." We went down
to a deep place, had the boy with us, and went swimming. I don't know how
long we was swimming. About twenty minutes. Another girl was watching the
baby, friend of mine. And we came out. From there on, we talk together,
and he tell me to come back. He come down there with horse and buggy. And
I say, "How I'm to get there? No way to get back." That was up to Silone's
place, about three miles.
That night I walk up there with the baby on my back. Tie him up with
the shawl the way the Japs do. And I come up there, night time, about ten,
eleven o'clock. I got to the house. He know I was coming, and he was wait-
ing for me. From there on we live together. Never fight no more.
We got together about a month, I guess, and then my mother died. My
mother died during hop-picking time. We already pick about three or four
days when she died. Albert was just small yet, just about two years old.
He used to sleep with my mother all the time till she got sick. After that
I take him down to our place. But we went over there, and she died. This
baby thought she was sleeping and called her "Grandmother." And run up on
top of her and lay on her when she was dead. But I never said nothing.
One woman told me not to.  He might get scared and cry for her and get sick.
So I grabbed him and took him out. After she was buried, he always used to
ask for her, and then I told him about it. Gee, it used to make me feel
bad. She was dead, and he would be out playing and run in and call for his
grandmother.
After we buried her, I move home and never go there any more. You know,
long ago our people told us not to marry outside the rancheria, but to marry
on the same rancheria. That was a good rule. I know when I came up here,
I couldn't get used to it up here.  Everytime he got mad at me, I thought
about going home. Sometimes I did run away and stay down there two or three
169
days. Since they all died though down there, I never do go down there. May
be that's why God took them off because I was bad running off all the time.
Even now though I dodt feel right here. If I had a house down there, I think
I would go back. But James (82) tore down my house and used it to build
another one. And now I have no house. I'd rather have a house down on Man-
zanita Rancheria--the houses up here all belong to thie government. They tell'
you you can build them and live in them as long as you live. But after
you're gone, who do the houses belong to?   The government!
Another Poison Attempt: Once I was sick for a long time. Something was wrong
with my legs--somebody had poisoned me. They had taken my shoes and put them
in a poison place. The old matu told me that and it was true too.
It was when Albert was a baby, and he was pulling one of my shoes around
in the yard like a cart. That was when we had high shoes. We come home from
town. You know when the shoes new, they feel hot. So I took them off and
threw them in a corner. And he take it and drag it outside. I was cooking
supper and don't know it. And somebody came and picked it up and took it
away and threw it in there. That was Ed Bear I was telling you about. He
was our relation, but he did that because his wife didn't like me. Maybe
week after, when we was going to town again, I hunt for it, the shoes, and
only find one. Then I think about it, the way he must have done that. So
that's what we thought.
I never did get really sick, but the pains on my foot started, so we
guess that. Someone, we say, must have done something on my foot. You
know, that's the way this Indian poison is. The time they first begin that,
the way Indian poison is, that time the next year the same thing you feel
the same pain again just like new, they say. That 's the way Indian poison
is. That's the way my feet were.
And then this old lady came to see me, and I told her about it. I told
her ilbert was dragging my shoe around here, and I think somebody pick it
up. She said, "Yes, I think so." And she said, "I saw some new shoe in his
wagon." She said her man went there every week drinking. She said one
night they went there, and she saw little bundle under the seat. She went
out when they were drinking. And she went there and opened it. She saw
the shoe there. If she had known it was mine, she would have taken it. But
she thought it was that big fat woman's down there at the rancheria. He
was her grandfather. So she didn't pay no attention to it, and just went home
and left it there.
After that I had that foot trouble all the time. My feet swell up all
the time, have to take the shoe off. Just feel like something bite or sting
me all around my feet. I used to feel like that all the time. Then finally,
after he died, when I was up here already, I think right around here I dream
about it. This old matu, he was a real good one, Louis White. After he
was dead, I dream he was going to doctor my foot. He was going to suck it,
and just about the time he was going to suck my foot, tickle. And I push
it against his face and just laugh. After I dream that, my foot didn't
feel so funny. After that I told that old Laura, "I dream that old fellow
doctor my foot."  She said, "That's a good dream. That means he's going
170
to doctor your foot. They say when you dream dead person doctoring you,
that's good dream. You going to get over with it. You'll see," she said.
And sure enough, I got better from it. After I dream about that old fellow
doctor me, then I forget and never notice that pain any more. Never swell
up no more. (,)
And this woman down here, you know--this new maru (Bess Clinton), she
say she dream about it too, she say. "The shoe's down here," she said.
"You know that?"  "Yes," I say.  "I dream about it too."  It's in a lake
back here. I dream about it. I never know about a lake back here, but I
dream about it. I see my shoe is there, under a log there. It's under
there.  If I wasn't afraid, I'd go down there and get it.  And Bess says
the same thing. Everything growing on it now. And this year, my boy
Frederick was suckering grapes there for one Italian, and he said he saw
that lake. My boy said little tule sprouts were already on the edge. The
Italian told him that water's not very good, that that's the old Indian
story. So my boy never drink there. I told him about it. That water no
good. It's old, old water. Don't get dry; don't overflow either. Stand-
ing there all the time.
After that I don't have the pain much, but anyway I don't wear shoes
much. Feels good without them. (84)
(Did you do anything about the man that took it?) No, didn't even
say nothing to him. I know who take it, but I never say nothing. But
Walter said if I died of it, he would have him arrested and have this woman
for witness. I guess she must have told him that, and that's why he didn't
do much on it. Just left it sitting in the lake there. Just first shot.
That's why it only affect me little bit. They say they start in, and next
year start in over again. And then they die if they don't doctor him. Some
people like to see some people suffer. That why they do that.
(What happened after that?) Nothing done after that. Just we let it
die off. Never say a word about it no more. We never say nothing about it
no more.
(Was Albert the only child you had that time?) Yes, he was the only
one, the first one. The other one, the one who died in San quentin was about
three years old then. He was around, but he never play with him. That's why
he didn't find that, I guess. He always went around with Walter's old grand-
mother. She was almost blind, and he used to lead her. He hardly stay home.
When she go out, she always tell him to lead her around. (85)
(a). Oh, I don't know. Next baby, a girl, ain't it. He was pretty
near three years and a half when she was born. She was born on May the four-
teenth, and I don't know the year either. I forget all about that. The
time they both died here, about ten days apart, I forget all about it. For
about two years couldn't think about nothing. (Q). She was born down at
Manzanita rancheria too. My mother, she died already, but my aunt was still
living. She was kind of blind. Could hardly see very good when she was
born.
171
She was born suimmer time, May. That same summer we move up to Roberts,
place. We pick hops up there when she was baby. We was one week picking
hops down there. And then I get all the baby basket stuff down there by the
river, and I scrape it and make the basket at night in a hurry. It was in-
convenient to have her on a pillow. Then the next Sunday, I had her down at
Manzanita Rancheria, and one old lady came there and bought that basket from
me. I felt bad, but still our old way you have to sell it. I feel awful
bad on it, but my old lady told me, "Take it out and give it to her." I got
only two hundred beads for it. So I had to sell it to her, and I made
another basket after that but not right away. There wasn't much of the
sticks down there. So I didn't make it till we move up here, and then I cut
the basket willow down by the creek here. I always get mine there. That's
good luck.
Then about two years after my mother died, my aunt died. She got sick,
got paralyzed. She was suffering with that for seven years, and after that
she died. We was over at the bean field in Tripton County that time. And
I heard the news and came over, and she was already buried. They buried
her the same day. I came over about one o'clock on the bus, and she was
already buried. So we went back the same day. And we stayed over at Trip-
ton County all that summer. I don't know how long we was picking beans
there.  After that we came over here.
That's about all I remember that's bad, I guess. After that we all
together. Now I don't get mad or nothing anymore. Get old, I guess. (86)
My boy went to prison. That was for stealing money from that old
lady (Laura Roberto). When the trial came, I never did go and say anything.
I said they wouldn't believe anything a mother told them anyway. So I never
said anything, and they sent him down to San Quentin. I don't think that
boy really meant to steal her money. I was around then, but old Laura was
drunk--like she always was, and my boy and some of his friends came to the
house there. The old lady gave him some money and told him to go to town
to buy her some meat and potatoes and things like that because she was
hungry and didn't have anything in the house. So he went to town with it.
And he was scared of one of the men with him, so he hid the money in his
shoe. When he didn't come back, the old lady got excited, and she was call-
ing all over trying to find him and telling everybody he'd taken her money.
Finally they got the sheriff out after him, and he picked him up and found
the money. It was on him. They wouldn't believe what he told them about it,
and they sent him down to San quentin for five years. He died down there.
That was the second time he did that. He stole a check book from us
one time, and he was making checks out against us. He made out two fifty
dollar checks each. The first one went to pay for a coffin for his wife's
brother. That was after he shot himself when he was out hunting. The other
he used to get his wife a fur coat. He didn't have any money himself, so he
did that. We didn't know anything about that till the time we went to Nevada
to see the big girl in the San over there. We gave a check to the doctor
for her, and it came back, no funds. That was the first we knew anything
about it at all. He was sent to prison for a year that time. He was always
like that. He would take money from us, a few dollars here and there. He
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thought I never knew about it, but I just didn't say anything. I knew all
the time. Sometimes I saw him come in when he thought nobody was around
and sneak around looking for money. But I never said nothing. Some people
are like that, and you just can't do anything to stop them. (87)
When he died down San Quentin, his two brothers--that was James and
David--went down and got his body and brought it back home. I gave them
money, and they took a truck and went down and got it. Hie died just a few
weeks before he was going to be released.   Some people say he was killed
down there. Some of the guards killed him because he was going to get out.
That's what Bess Clinton says. She came over and told me she'd dreamed
about it and that boy was killed. Still, when his body was brought home,
we didn't examine it for any marks.
He was the only one of my oldest children I take care of. I had him
and Albert with me. And when they get big I sent them down to Sherman to
school. First time they was up at Round Valley to boarding school one
winter. And I sent this other fellow (Robert) too, one winter when he was
nine years old. They didn't have schools for Indians when my children were
small. There weren't any schools for them around here. So I had to send
them down to Riverside to Sherman. Now they have schools here, and the
children get lunches and clothes. When my children were young, there wasn't
anybody to help me like that. I had to take care of my family myself. The
on'ly ones ever help me were some white women in the village. They give me
food and clothing sometimes. I've always worked and earned money, never do
depend on the government or anybody. I never did go to the SERA or any
surplus commodity things for help. I always work and help myself. Only
this last year, the Sisters have begun to help me with my family: clothes
and a little money and food. That's the first help I got. It was because
this last year was a hard one.
Friendships: There was a friend relation too. Sometimes they keep that
relation better than real relation. (Q). We used to have one, but now
it's all young people. We used to have relation, my uncle's friend. I
called that uncle. Only one left out of that relation.
(i). I never had one like that. I never even had a friend. But I got
one friend, but we didn't keep like old people used to. That's Mary Kenny,
Mrs. Kenny, up Wilderness Valley. She's the only friend I got here. My best
friend died. That was Frank Hewitt's wife. (Q). We came friends about--I
had another friend from Lucerne. She was down here camping. We was down
there together digging potatoes together. We cook on one fire. So that's
how we made friends. We like each other just like relation. And from then
on, we keep relation, friends. From then on, they stay down there this
valley. And they--she got trouble. Her boy got sick. And I used to go
there and see the boy. When he died, she didn't have no place to bury him.
So I told her to bury him on Manzanita Rancheria. From there on, we got
friend with Frank Hewitt's wife. She was kind of relation with this other
woman. From then on, we all kept friends. When we got trouble, when my
babies died, they come see me, bring me blankets and beads. And I return
beads. And from then on, it's that way. And when Frank's wife died, I took
my best things and put on her. Maybe the best dress I got. We watch each
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other like that. When see trouble, we always come visit and bring best things
we got. Bring blanket and pretty handkerchief and maybe food.
Jecomina a Dream Doctor: ifter that, I had a boy. That was down Grubville
yet. We only lived here twenty-four years. (88) Oh, the Indian people used
to be bad. They dope little baby on the basket. They say when you hang up
baby outside, they take some of the poison oak and rub it on the diaper.
When it pee on it, that's awful. It burns him something awful. When they
don't like somebody, they don't like them to have baby. And they say baby
is easy. I know I lost the baby like that. One matu told me that. He was
a little baby boy. And you ought to see his back.   It all swell up, and back
all swell up, and his behind! The doctor told me to bathe it with something,
and the matu did too. But still he died. Can't make water. It was only a
little over a month old. Oh, yes, Indians mean people some of them. (Who
did it?) Nobody knows, nobody see it. They have to sneak around. That kind
of people don't let nobody see them. Have to sneak around night time, early
in the morning, maybe when everybody is gone.
Flu Epidemic: That time the flu I was talking about, I had that flu. I had
a little baby that time. So I hired Indian doctor, Dan Carey. He's still
living yet. He cut me through with little bit of bottle he make like a razor
blade. He hit it with a rock so it came out just like that. He cut four
times on my forehead and four times on my temple. He sucked the bad blood
out, and spit the blood out on the ashes. It foam right up, the fever blood
he suck out--ferment like. And he suck eight times. He suck the pain out.
After that I felt good. Next morning I felt better.. Every day I felt better
than time.
I had all my family had the flu, but none of them died. A matu came
to our place, and he told us we should take angelica root, cut it up fine,
dry it like tobacco and make a cigarette out of it. We should smoke it, and
we wouldn't get that flu. I did that for my boys. They were just small
then, but I made little cigarettes for them out of it and had them smoke it.
That's real medicine for Indians.
And wormwood is good for pain in stomach. You make that, and it's good
for bowels too. You can eat it raw if you got no time to cook it when you
get that way. Some fellow was telling somebody. After I heard him telling
that, I got that way. Something was wrong with my stomach. I thought I was
going to wear it out, but it got worse. And I went to the fence--we were
working in the fields picking hops then. And I went to the shade alongside
the fence and lay down in the field on my belly. Then I look around and see
wormwood, and I pull off four leaves--that's our Indian rule--and chew that
and chew that like tobacco and swallow the spit from it. Gee, it was strong.
And then I swallow the whole business, and about ten minutes after that the
whole business was gone. And after that I don't think I had that pain any-
more. That man was telling that to somebody and I heard it from a distance
--so I thought about it.
After a while ago, I was telling you--when my oldest boy had a bad cold,
his father was getting lots of different kinds of medicine. He finished it
and still no good. Then his father said,"I'm not going to buy any more medi-
cine. If you going to die, you going to die." So I look around and saw that
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kind of weed. And I find the weed and took it home and boiled it and
strained it, and I told the boy--he was about nine years old--"If you cough,
you better take your cup and drink that. If you feel like a drink, you drink
that." I don't know how many gallons he drank. About three gallons in a
month. And that cured him. Hoarhound weed, I think that is. They grow
around in the field here somewhere. That good for cough medicine too.
Death of ler Daughters: None of my family died from the flu, but one of them
got pretty bad from then on though. And year after that she died, little
girl--not year after that. She was seven years old when she died. She lived
five years after that.  Both those girls died at the same time.
Some one poisoned my big daughter. Ruth Post claimed they done it on
her chewing gum.   () Indians say that when you chew gum    you mustn't stick
it on where people can get at it. This was sticking on the wall, and she
took it and chewed it.  This woman said that Bess Clinton did it to her.
It was just the way Sophie Martinez was poisoned this time she was sick so
long. She found the gum on the car door and thought that Bernice put it
there. And she chewed it and pretty near died of that. She didn't know
what had caused it. We don't know who did it, but looks like somebody was
trying to poison Bernice.
That's the way my girl do. She was big fat girl. She never went out
at all.  But she went down to the city for a while, and after a while she
came home and got sick. We sent her to Nevada to the sanitorium there, but
she died anyway. This woman down here, Ruth, said that Bess Clinton was the
one who did that to her. When she told me that, I said, "Well, let the one
who is in charge of us all take care of them."   So we never did nothing, but
pretty soon two of their children died from TB just like ours. That shows
something.
One of them wasn't sick, but when we were away she got hurt on the
school grounds.  Some girls put her on the swings they had in the chool
yards. She was seven years old, and some girls put her on it. She fell off
and hurt herself. Some rock, she sit on it. And I guess she hurt her
spine.  From then on she died.  And we don't know it.   And doctor don't
know it. Can't make the water. And we were in Nevada with the other girl.
That was doctor's orders. They said she would get better over there. Then
they sent the news, and we went over to get the body. And we get back, and
that same day she died. And I was sick that time too. I wasn't really well
yet that time this happened. I was sick in bed for three weeks that time,
and I was feeling better when this trouble came. (2j)
(What was the matter with you?) Oh, I don't know what wrong with me
that time. Doctor don't know, so the Indians cure me. One time I eat mush-
room from here, big white mushroom. We used to eat them springtime. So I
picked it in the morning and evening I cooked it, and I eat it myself.   And
same evening I got sick--vomit all the time and couldn't hold nothing in my
stomach. And they say I shouldn't eat. The Indian doctor said that. Maybe
I wasn't right to eat it. Maybe moonsick or something. Maybe I was going
with a man that night. I don't know, but it ust be so. You know there was
only one mushroom. They always grow four or five together, but this was just
one big one all alone.
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They couldn't stop me from throwing up that time. Did that for whole
three weeks. Doctors couldn't stop that. After a while Dr. Orman and another
white doctor want to starve me for water, but anyway I have to have cold
water. So I swallow that, but still it comes right up. But still I feel good.
But that didn't help. So he call Dr. Orman, and he came out and I was still
vomiting. And he give me some kind of powder after I vomit. I think that
is the one help me. That keep me from drinking lots of water too. And after
that Indian doctor come around. Walter hired two doctors, that Ruth and
another doctor. (91) He died already. From Wilderness Valley. And Ruth--
she's, I don't know what you call that kind of doctor. When I was sick, I
was sick in bed three weeks. Don't know nothing. He brought her in. So
he got her one night, and she said I had some kind of Indian sick. Then we
got the Indian doctor. That was Ken Shore. Suck, she was sucking doctor.
And this old man was a singer, singing with the rattle. They put some kind
of medicine in the bags. He doctored me four days. And after that, three
or four days after, he came back and doctored me two days. That was the
finishing. After I got well, they put up dinner like they used to do. No
dance that time. Just put up dinner.
So the children, we never hire no Indian doctor. We did hire one Indian
doctor, Tom Shobi, from Round Valley. We hire him for the little one. But
he never do no good. But when he was die, he said Bess told him not to cure
this little girl. So he dope her. He told this to that to Tillie Harris,
and Tillie told it to Sophie, and Sophie told that to me. Before she told
me, she said she wanted to tell something to me, but she didn't want me to
feel bad about it. That's why when this Bess became matu some of them
didn't believe it. She learned it from old Shobi. But she make believe she
dream it. But somebody don't believe that. She sing the same songs as he
did, they say. I kind of believe that. She sing pretty near the same one.
(92)
Yes, that's the way it was. We did hire Indian doctor make medicine,
but they didn't help. That Wilderness Valley, Jay Keuny, we told him to
cook herbs for that big girl, but they didn't help. We paid him forty
dollars for that medicine. He cooked that twice, but it didn't help. So we
spent all we had, four hundred dollars in the bank. We had that, but it
cost all of that for doctoring those two girls and the funerals.
Dreaming:  (Was that when you started to dream?) No. After that I started
in dreaming--I guess I dream then because I felt so bad I couldn't hardly
sleep. Before I got sick, I dream lots of dreams, but I never believe it.
They used to tell about dreams. They used to tell about these matu.
Something tells them in a dream. And they used to say that if you dream
it, pretty soon after a while these people talk to you and want you to do
something. I never did use to believe that. But I never dream about that
yet. About person wanting dance, wanting you to put up dinner. That's one
thing I never did use to believe. The old people used to say that in the
night time all the evil, all the bad spirits, the diaduwel come out. (93)
That 's true. I dream that. All the relations that died long time ago,
they come around here. They want you to do something. They come around
here taking care of you. I never used to believe it, but since I dream it,
I believe it.
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One old fellow always used to tell me that. Re's a matu from Wilderness
Valley, a Kenny. He doctored me when I got sick. I felt pretty bad, but he
aid that I was going to pull through. But they didn't believe it. I got all
right. I never got over it for more than a year though two or three days at
a time I might feel a little better. Before I got that I dream twice. We
had been camping down by the river, and in my dream I saw that. They had a
rattlesnake on a stick and had it by the neck with string. And it was alive.
And they had it around where we were camping. And that's something else
Indians said--when you camping, always muss up the place where you sleep or
step. And I dream they did that where we camp with that snake, and that
snake was biting where I lay. That was the only time I dream of people.
Jerry Davis was there, and his wife, and his mother, and Hank Jose. And I
said to one old woman, "'Why do you do that?" And she said, "I don't like you
just because you won't let your son get married with my daughter." That's
awful funny, ain't it? And I dream that I ran across the river bank and
called to one old man to pull me out. And he did. And Jerry Davis' mother
was following me. She had a black dress on. When she was in the water com-
ing after me, I hit her on the head, and she turned into a big black snake.
And she was just laughing at me under the water. I couldn't do anything for
her. (94)
I never told that to nobody except old Laura. She said that was true.
That family do that with the snake. They all thought I was going to die,
so they came and stayed. I told her, "I dream funny dreams before I get
sick."   She said that the way it used to be. And I said, "Yes, I used to
dream lots of things, but I never believe it." After that she said it was
trying to tell me something. She believe I was going to die, but I say,
"No! I'm not going to die.   I'm going to get well. But somebody is going
to have trouble."
But after I got well, I dream two or three times about coffins. One
night I dream two coffins laying in front of their house, and they were
covered with two blankets just like. And sure enough, he and his mother
died after that. And once I dreamed the same down at Bear's house. I see
the coffin. That woman bought her own coffin, and upstairs she had four
patchwork quilts. She say, 'This is for my coffin when I die." And sure
enough that was the way it was. Sometimes when I dream like that it come
true. One time I dream about Sarah Davis. I dream her father came down
crying about her house. And two days afterwards her son got shot. He got
shot by Mexican way up north. (95)
I was telling that Mrs. Gordon in town about the rattlesnakes being
used for poison. Now she believes in it. That's the kind of stuff they
stuck the arrowhead in. They stuck the arrowhead in there for days, and
let that rattlesnake suffer for four days and die in it. That's what
they used for poisoning. They didn't use that when they hunted deer. (Did
you ever see them make that?) They keep it way out someplace where nobody
would see them. They go out only certain people--only four. They got two
guides when they go out to make poison. I dream about it. These people
they got one place up here. I told that to one old man. Re asked me how
I know it. I said I dreamed it. He said he see it when he was small.
When he was about twelve, his father and his uncles used to sneak away
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early in the morning, and once he followed them. He saw them making the
poison.  "I guess you some kind of woman."  He said that to me.   I said,
"I guess I'm going to be."
Oh, they do lots of bad stuff.   I heard all of those stories.  I teach
my girls like that.  Sbe don't believe, but I will tell her about it.   Maybe
when she get old she like to try it like I would, but I don't like to fast.
You have to fast until sundown. That's hard. So I don't.
I was dreaming even fore I had all that trouble that time. After that
my girls died within a year of each other. One night I came for a walk up
here. Our house was over there then. I looked back, and it seemed as
though I could look into the house. And there were two coffins there. It
meant some awful bad trouble, I knew, but I wouldn't believe in it. Then
after that I was up here again, and I could see a light streaming down from
the sky.  It seemed to touch the ground over there near the village.   I
stood up here and looking at it. I knew that it was a sign that I would get
well. I told that old woman (Mable Brown) about it, and about the two cof-
fins too. She's the only one I told about it--I didn't even tell this man
here (Walter Wood). Sure enough. My daughters died, but I got well. After
that I had dreams all the time. Almost every night.
I dream about them too, and then they tell me not to cry--they in good
place. And one time I dream about the little one, ano she said, "Mama, you
shouldn't cry for me.  I'm crying for you." The Sister said that too, but
still I didn't believe it.  For three years I couldn't stop crying for them.
But when this daughter came back, I felt little better. Yes, those days I
was living in dark. This fellow here (her son Robert) was little fellow.
He took care of me just like a girl would. They both helped me. I never
do nothing except just make bread. I don't feel like cooking. Got no will
to cook. For three years I was like that. Gee, I feel bad. One was twenty
years old when she died, the other was seven years old. She was born on the
same year Deborah was born. I don't know what month she was born, but she
was six months behind her. (96)
When I dream about things now, it comes true. So now I believe in that.
I was telling one of the Sisters up at the convent about my dreams. She has
that kind too. Used to be no sun. Just like moon light. That's the way it's
going to be. And the world going to come to an end in fire this time. The
sea is going to turn into fire, just blazing. It will come from the east
where the sun comes from. The sun is matches for the world. That's the way
I see it in my dreams. I told it to one Sister there at the convent. One
Sister there says her dreams come true. And she ask me if when I dream I
see the sun. No, I never did see the sun when I dream. It's light but not
in that way. She says in her dreams it's like that too. And she asked me if
I see the person who talks in my dreams. I say, "No, I hear them talk, but
never see them." She says her dreams are that way too.
This last time I dream this world is going to end wi th fire. Not the
world, but the people on top of the world.   But before that, going to be a
moving show on the sun, on the moon, what they did to Christ when he was
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here. We going to see that before he come down. He's going to come down.
He's not going to come back as a baby, but the way he was when he went up.
He's going to come back the way he went up with the cloud, with the thunder.
I don't know if it's true, but that's what I see in my dream. It's going
to be a long time yet, maybe a hundred years. Maybe we won't see it, but
that's what I see in my dreams. I told that Sister about it. (E)
Some matu say that God gives them power, that he gives them part of his
power so they can help people. Bess says that, but I don't believe it.
Ruth says she doesn't believe it, and I say so too. Our Lord wouldn't even
give part of his power to his own son. He sure won't give any of it to
these people. That's what I think. He doesn't give his power to anybody,
but he's willing to help everybody.
(Where do the matu come from?) That was long time ago, I guess. Ever
since the Indians was in this world, I guess. Some people dom't believe in
them though. I believe that though. I believe old Indian stories what they
tell. This is not in a book. They teach each other with the mouth, I guess.
I guess that was since the beginning of the world. They put them here and
told them that. It will run out when we pass away. In my dreams it says
the Indians will never change. Even if they don't know one word of the
Indian language, they'll never change. They'll always be Indians even if
they don't know their own name. Something tells me that in my dreams. I
believe that. I dream like that. I never see the person, but it talks to
me. Sometimes it comes true--sometimes the thing happens a long time
afterwards after I have forgotten about it. This spring I had a dream.
Charles Swan--he used to be matu at Manzanita--but he's dead now--he came
to me in the dream. He tell me something bad is going to happen, that
somebody is going to die. Next day I learned about that boy down at Hop-
land died. They'd been drinking, and he went to the car to go to sleep.
The gas got him. My dream came true.    I believe in my dreams.  (98)
One time I dreamed a bullsnake having horns coming out of eyes. My
old lady said it used to live in a hole over there. It stayed in the hole,
and they saw just the head sticking out.
S                    (When did you see your first rattlesnake?)  Well, the
first rattlesnake I see when we move up here. (99) I never see one before.
The first time I see it was when these children were playing around. There
was a big ditch there, and I heard the dog barking one morning about this
time. They was making a road there in the bank, and this dog was just bark-
ing and barking when the children were sitting there. I said to that old
man, "I think that dog found something. " He went there, and sure enough
there was the snake sticking its head out of the hole. He came running
back calling, "It' s poison!  It's poison!"  They don't call it snake--they
call it like that. (100) He got hatchet from the shed, and cut the head
off. That the first time I see the rattlesnake.
From then on we see rattlesnake nearly every year. Last year they
killed three. Seems like they were pretty good. One was over there by
the garage when Vic was playing there, just sitting there. He came to the
house and told us. Before that I heard about rattlesnake, but I never did
see it. But they found the snake trails and show it, and tell me how they
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travel. The trails don't look like snake track. Sure enough when you see
them crawl, it's not like a snake track.
(Did you ever see a snake when you were a child?) Oh, no. I don't
think I ever remember. Let's see. First snake I see was milk snake way
down at Vineland where we was going down to work. I killed that too.
Every snake I see, I always kill. They told me to do that. Oh, when I
was--I don't see it crawling. When I was a girl, they was suckering hops.
Old man pick up big bull snake, and he was chasing my mother around with
it. The old fellow was making fun of her. Oh, it was when Louis was small,
first snake I see. I scared of it. I saw it cross the road, and so I took
a stick and killed him.
And another kind of snake, gopher snake. When you grow up to be young
woman, you see that around the house it's going to bother you all the time'.
It want to bother you, get into bed with you. They say that in the brush
houses one young woman used to lay around and say not to bother that snake.
"That's my husband," she said. "If you kill that snake, I'm going to die."
Another fellow saw that gopher snake, and he killed it.   Then that woman
got sick and talk about it all the time that they killed her husband. Pretty
soon they make a shape like a snake, and they doctor her with that. Pretty
soon she got all right. After that when I hear that story, when I see that
kind around the house I always want to kill it. I'm afraid of it. And one
woman my age said when she was moon sick, she saw that kind coming toward
the house. She didn't want it to come close so she just pick up two or
three small stones and hit it on the head. And she say that thing bother
her, bother her. Dream about it every night, dream about it talking to her.
And that's why Indian people tell us not to kill snake when they that way.
Then it bother you all the time. (If you're not?) Yes, that way no
trouble. (101)
I killed two around here now. One around the house. It was harmless,
but after I hear that story I don't like them around the house. One time
it did come in our house over there, and I told Walter about it. And I
wanted him to kill it. That snake don't go away. He chased it away. We
was camping and came back there for something, and I found the same snake
around the house. I told him to kill it again, but he didn't. Then we went
to Tripton County. When we came back, I said I think that thing is still
there. We lifted up the mattress on the bed, and there it was lying there-.
Get big. I said, "If you don't kill it,I will. I think you scared," I said.
So I killed it with a broom. I used to hear lots of those kind of stories.
(g). I was a big woman already when I heard that. I was with a man.
I was a mother already when they told me about it. But this was later.
That woman--she was an old lady then but she was still having that sickness.
They was camping, and there were lots of snakes there. She saw it go to
the house and knocked the head off. She said she didn't mean to kill it,
but anyway knocked the head off.
About this milk snake, they say when you go around anyplace, lay around
in the shade, it come around there and tie you up and choke you. They
dangerous. And another kind of snake is dangerous. It travel on top of
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trees. They say that is bad too. They whip you, they say. You see it
right here, and then you don't know where it went. And its body just
orange color on the belly. The back is brown stripe, I think.
Doctoring:  This wman up here has dreams.    This Bess. One day she came
down here and looked at us all and told us we were all sick. She wanted
to doctor us, but we never let her. She said somebody told her that in
her dreams. Deborah was poisoned when she was sick. I say that Bess did
that. (102)
(g).  Deborah used to go around with her son, but she wouldn't marry
him. I saw her in town once and asked her why she wouldn't have him. She
said he was too jealous. If she married him, he would jealous her all the
time and then where would she be. So she stopped going with him. They
got mad because she stopped, and so they poisoned her on a letter they sent
to her. I saw her reading it, and I warned that old lady there (Laura
Roberto) that they might be trying to do something. Then when Deborah got
sick, I asked her if she had told May about what I said. She said she
hadn't. But I think that's what happened. When she was sick, I went
over there one day, and there was this Bess doctoring her. I sure was wor-
ried. I told them they shouldn't have her because she was the one doing
it. I told May she should send for Herb Burns to doctor that girl. He
came, and he brought Joe Mountain with him, and they both doctored her.
While they were there, Bess came down. And was she mad when she saw them
doctoring Deborah. She told May, "If I don't doctor that girl, she will
die." May said that that made her feel just as if something were hurting
her heart, and she wanted to have her doctor again. I told her not to do
that, that that girl wouldn't die. So Herb Burns stayed on and doctored
her. But Bess drove Joe Mountain away. He didn't like her, so he went
home. (103)
Right after that Deborah started to get better. I visited her that
time, and she was stil lying there in bed. Could hardly speak. I told
her she would be better soon. She said, "I only hope so, but I don't think
I will." I told her next time I came I would find her up. I didn't go
again for a while, but I saw her sister Rosemary in town about two weeks
after that, and I was asking her about Deborah. She was up and around by
that time.
Rosemary was poisoned by Bess too. She did it on some crochet stuff
she had. She could hardly move her arm. I was down and saw her, and I told
them Bess had done that. I told them they should get her to doctor it so
she could get well. I told you already what she did to Deborah. I told
the old lady--she was staying with them. I told her, "Deborah is going to
get sick. I dream that somebody do something on her letter. I dream that.
She going to get sick." I ask her that, "Did you tell that to her mother?"
She said, "No." That's the way the Indians do--they say the doctor do
that. Just like white doctors do that to get money, Indian doctors do that
too. If they have lots of beads and money, they say the doctor dope some-
body in the family so they can doctor and get pay. I told them that, "I
think she the woman doing that so you must hire her." I think she got all
right.
181
They got awful bad poison. That poison oak is bad too, but if they
don't catch it when they go by, if you doctor them on the clothes they
always get sick and swell up. Yes, they got awful bad stuff, but now some
of them are using this battery acid. My brother was one of the first ones
to be poisoned with that. He was drinking with these fellows, and one of
them put the stuff in his drink. When they took him down, they found his
whole stomach practically eat away. It was Mat Gray done that to him.
His son (EW's nephew) was just a boy that time. When he got big, he killed
Mat Gray. He shot him, and now he's serving time for it. He'd heard
about what had been done to his father. But some people say that Sonia
was the one who shot her own half-brother. (104)
I doctor a little of every kind. When they're doctoring, they don't
eat grease or meat for four days. Some of them don't eat meat after they
quit doctoring too. But I do it just the same days, the four days. Then
I don't eat meat. Just real meat, that's all I fast.   I doctor for things
like headaches. When Albert was sick with a headache a while back, I took
the ashes from the stove there and used them to stuff a pillow. I made
him sleep with his head on that, and since then he hasn't had any head-
aches. And when my granddaughter Margery Guest got scared of something,
her mother sent for me, and I went down there. I sang the first night
and nothing happened. The second night I sang again, and when I mentioned
something, she jerked and jumped up. Next night I went back again, but
that time she was quiet, and she was quiet the next night too. She was
cured then. (i). She was going past a swampy place and stepped on some-
thing soft. Maybe it was a soft place in the ground. She thought it was
a snake or something, and so she got scared.
And a few years ago, Sophie was sick. She was dying. That night
something came to me and made me go down there. I went down the path to
their house. Everybody was up. She was dying. The sweat standing out
all over her. It was that cold sweat that comes when they're dying. Her
breathing could be heard loud down in her throat. She could hardly breathe
--that's what made that noise. You could tell ale was dying. Her mother
was there crying when I came in. Her man was holding her in his arms and
crying too. Then I just went up to her and started rubbing her. I rubbed
her chest. In my trance I could just see what was the matter with her.
It was some white thing in her body that was going toward her heart. And
I rubbed and rubbed her. Then I was sitting down, and I came to and
wondered what I was doing there. I looked around, surprised I was there.
And that sweat was coming out all over the palm of my hands. I showed it
to her man. He should have been a matu too, but he wouldn't keep his
rules. That's why he died, she said. He told me that I had taken the pain
out of her body, and that was why I had the sweat on my hands. They asked
me to keep on rubbing her so I did. Finally I went home.
That night I slept only two hours, and early in the morning I went
back there. I thought she'd be dead.   I didn't think she could live.
When I got there, they were all asleep except for old Tim. He was building
a fire. He told me Sophie had gone off to sleep and was sleeping good.
After that they used to come for me every day and have me go down there to
182
doctor her. But still they thought she would die. Then I had a dream. I
saw an old man with a gold-headed cane. He told me she was going to get
well, but not for a long time. I told this old man (Wood). He didn't be-
lieve me. He thought she was going to die. And so he told me not to tell
anybody about my dream.
One night they called me down there again. Sophie was crying. She
said she was going to die that night, and she asked me to take care of Elaine
after she was gone. I told her, "No, you're not going to die. You're going
to get well. But it's going to take a long, long time." After that she got
well again. Something in my dream told me they should get Alec Head to doc-
tor her. They sent for him, and he came and sang over her. He had some
kind of rock, curing rock. She had a tumor, I guess, inside of her, and he
brought it to the surface. It broke, and after that she got well even
though the white doctors said she never would. The white doctor at the
hospital was amazed when he heard it.  He never thought she could live.
(g). After she was cured that time, she got something else wrong with her,
and that time they took her down to San Francisco to the hospital for a
while. (105)
(a). I helped Elaine with her leg. Well, they tell that she was on
the slide at school and fell off and fractured it, but around here the
people say that Bernice did it when she was drunk. She was driving the car
in those days, and one day she was coming up the road here. Elaine was com-
ing from school that time, and she saw Bernice. She got off at one side,
and Bernice came up and was going to pick her up and bring her home. But
she was drunk, and the car hit her. But Elaine will never say nothing
about that--she won't say that. After she was home awhile, that leg started
to hurt her, and it was pretty bad. So they cae up here for me. I thought,
"Why are they coming here for me? What can I do to help her?" But anyway
I went down there. And I rubbed her. The whole leg felt numb, and it was
going up through her body. If it had been on the heart side, I think she
would have died. But it was on the other side. I rubbed her and rubbed
her. And next day I did it again. After a while she got better. She's
another one of my cures. And one day she was sitting there just feeling of
her leg, and she pulled out a splinter of bone. The flesh was all rotted
there, and she pulled it out. I told them I thought the leg was broken,
that little bone in back there. They had the white doctor come out too,
and he said the bone was broken there. (106)
Wednesday Sophie was up here to ask me to come down to sing over the
old lady (Mable Brown). When I was down to sing over her, I put angelica
root on her forehead, but I haven't been down since to see how she's getting
along. (g). I put it on her forehead because that's where you think some-
thing. She sees ugly people that bother her all the time.
That's about the last, I guess, the end right here. But still I don' t
feel free here, feel like I' just way off. But still I try to help even
if they don't be friendly to me, try to talk good. Well, that's the way
they teach us. If you go to some other rancheria, try to be good. Then
some day, mayoe it return. Someday when you're in trouble, they might help
you.  I guess that's about all my life, I guess. (107)
183
Epi logue
Ellen Wood, unlike Sophie Martinez, brought her life history up to the
date of the interviews, though only with regard to doctoring. In 1941, her
chief interests lay probably in doctoring and the possibility of poisoning.
However, her chief cares were in connection with her grandchildren who were
left to her supervision by her children.  She complained bitterly that they
prevented her from going to Oak City or from attending different gatherings
in the village.. However, as far as I could see she seemed to get to most
of the gatherings: Indian dances, Women's Club meetings, and the American
dances sponsored by the Women's Club. On the whole, she seemed more of a
participant in the Pomo Community than did Mrs. Martinez who was active
only as a dancer.
NOTES
(1) This paragraph came at the end of her autobiography. Her autobiography
begins when she was about twelve. Cf., appendix.
(2) EW mentioned her aunt's taking her to the houses of whites on three
different occasions.
(3)  EW formulates this as expected Pomo behavior.   In discussing kinship,
she said, "The Indians claim the mother's side the deepest relation,
deeper than the father. But some people say tihe father deeper--
deeper than the mother. But we believe the mother better than the
father. As far as I can remember, I never did see Indian women leave
their babies the way the fathers did. That's why they say the mother
the main relation, better than the father." Other informants said
much the same thing.
EW's father enters her life story only when she is questioned about
him, and twice incidentally where his presence at some particular
time is mentioned. From her manner, I gained the impression that her
father was a very minor character in her life.
(4)  This is a constant theme with EW, the superiori ty of Pomo customs
with regard to marriage.
(5) This is another constant theme, this lack of jealousy.
(6)  Palmer Evans is her half-brother.
(7) Mable Evans. Palmer and Mable Evans are the only half-siblings she
mentioned spontaneously in her account. Since the others are now
dead, and EW observes to some extent the taboos against referring
to the dead, this may not necessarily be significant, save for the
fact that Mable is also dead. It is therefore not strange that she
should fail to mention the others; it is strange that she should be
so willing to mention Mable.
184
(8) This probably indicates fear of poisoning. Cf., Loeb, 333. If EW's
mother's illness had been diagnosed as due to poisoning, they probably
feared the poisoner might come around to hasten the death.
(2) In the late 19th century various Pomo groups pooled money and bought
their own land. This was the time when the lanzanita Rancheria was
established, although the group itself had existed in aboriginal
times.
(10) The maru or matu was "the dreamer in the New Ghost Dance Cult."   He
dreamed that something came to him, gave him instructions to hold
certain dances or ceremonies, and told him he would die if the instruc-
tions were not carried out. Cf., the life history of SM for further
information.
EW told B. Wilson, a member of the Laboratory, that when she was a
child Carson was the chief mar.gon Manzanita, but there were also
and old woman and Stan Day's grandfather. The latter "had a long
stick with a blue flag and a yellow moon-shaped cloth sewed on. We
children used to like to play there--the stick was so slick and the
ground too. He chased us away." The early Karu cult does not seem
to have impressed 1W particularly although she herself is now a dream
doctor.
(11)  Cf. also SK's life history for a reference to this "preaching" by the
chief or captain of the rancheria. Both women mentioned that listen-
ing to him made them feel "good."
(12) This would involve the use of kinship terms, and the obligation to
help at funerals and take part in funeral exchanges.
(f)   From lW's account, it is possible that her mother and the Tripton
County man were married when EW was about two and a half.  She said
once that her stepfather raised her brother from the time he was about
a year old. Yet in speaking of her mother's sickness, she said that
her mother was then single. She also says that when Jones first came
was when there was gambling in the roundhouse, and she could remember
when this was built. Such discrepancies do not worry the older Pomo,
who seem unconcerned with dates and sequence of events.
(14) This was the ritual wailing done by women at the time of a death and
during the mourning period.
(15)  On another occasion, EW said this man died when she was a big girl,
about eleven.
(16)  Cf., Loeb, 286-295, for death and burial customs. In 1941, EW still
wore her hair short.
(1)   Laura Roberto, wife of Captain Roberto. She is the "uncle's wife" or
"#sister-in-law" of EW's story.
185
(18) Tomas Mexican and May Green are of Manzanita Rancheria. Tomas Mexican
is married to the Bonny Mexican of SM's story.
(19)  Probably a member of the new Maru cult, but possibly a "sucking doctor."
The same word is used, and EW commonly confuses the two. Cf., Loeb,
326, 395.
(20) Cf., Loeb, 327.
(21) This game is described in Loeb, 221.
(22)  Cf., Loeb, 175. He says the Poro ate two meals a day, one at daybreak
and one late in the afternoon.
(23)  Cf., Loeb, 329-334; Freeland, Poro Doctors and Poisoners.   Loeb, 271,
was told that children were urged to be kind and respectful to the old
because "those are the people who know most about poisoning."
(24)  Loeb, 334, says adults were very reluctant to expose themselves before
those of the opposite sex. He also says, "Brothers and sisters were
extremely modest in their attitude toward one another. . .
(25) EW made it plain in other interviews that relations between cousins or
even more distant relatives amounted to incest, and she expanded with
shocked pleasure on a number of such cases, one involving her own grand-
daughter. EW said she thought relations between any relatives was in-
cest but that it was much worse if they were related through the mother's
side "because the mother's side is always closer."  For incest taboos,
cf., Loeb, 266.
(26)  Loeb, 213, 316.  Rattlesnakes were'respected as supernatural.  The name
was avoided, at least in the summertime, and the killing of the snake
was taboo. Present day informants say that the rattlesnakes are rela-
tives, and should not be harmed.
(27)  EW gave two accounts of this incident.  They were given nine days
apart. They are substantially the same, even to the wording, save that
in the first account she said that she herself had told the child's
mother about the incident. This was May's mother; the child was May's
little sister previously mentioned in EW's life history.
(28)  EW was always willing to talk about poisoning, and never bored when
this was the subject. Note here that she speaks of herself as the
only one in the family, though she has a full brother. In her mother's
family, there are cousins. In her father's family, she has half-
brothers and half-sisters.
186
(29)  EW was asked later why they called her "queen" when she was small.
"That's my family. They say that. In the Indian way call it
matakaletc'. (g). I don't know. They say I was different from all
the Indians--different look and different every way. I know lots of
Mexicans, Spanish people, used to say that to me. They say, "Hello
Bonita." And some say, "Hello Pretty." I get mad, awful mad. I
didn't know what that mean. But after a while I find out what that
mean, and I think they must have been crazy."
According to Loeb, 235, mata kaletc was the name applied to women
who were members of the secret society. They had special duties in
the village: the entertaining of women visitors from other villages
and the making of speeches along with the chiefs at times of
festivities. In some groups, the sister or wife of the chief was
called mata kale. Since these statuses were hereditary in certain
family lines, it is possible that KW was being trained for a position
of some importance. She herself, however, did not make this explicit.
(30)  A neighbor of EW's, and wife of the Paul Clinton, also mentioned by
EW as a poisoner. Bess Clinton also appears in SM's life history.
Note here that EW in speaking of poisoning seems to include any act
of violence or malice, as well as magical poisoning under this heading.
(31)  This refers to "love magic," which Loeb, 276, says was the "ordinary
method of courting" among the Pomo.
(32)  EW was asked if she herself had ever seen a bear in this country.
She said that the only time she had seen a bear was when she went to
the San Francisco zoo one time when she visited her son, David Guest,
who was then a soldier at the Presidio. This was during the first
World War.
(33)  Cf., Loeb, 335-338; Barrett, Pomo Bear Doctors. The Pomo believed
there were individuals with power who used a bearskin outfit when they
wished to injure others. Note that EW although much interested in
poisoning and doctoring shows no interest in "Bear Doctors."
(34) On Oak River, south of Kanzanita Rancheria, a few miles.
(35)  EW gave two accounts of this incident with an eight-day interval
between accounts. The second is the one followed here as it is the
longest and most detailed. The two do not differ, however, save at
this point. In the first account, SW said they met the man at night
time as he was coming home.
Cf., Loeb, 323; 273, 303-304, for further information on "scare" cases
resulting from violation of menstrual taboos. Cf. also SM's life
history for such a case.
187
(36)  Loeb, 327, says it was common for an outfit doctor to make vows which
the patient had to fulfill on recovery. Usually a feast was promised
"in honor of the divinity whose curing power was invoked." Such vows
are now made by the matu or dream doctors, and cures may be followed
by a four-night Pomo dance which ends with a feast on the fifth day,
or there may be only a large dinner, or as here there may be "American
dances" and a dinner.
(37)  EW was later asked who taught her to dance American dances. She said,
"One fellow, one young fellow. That's my father's niece's father.
Her father used to go down to city and run around down there and learn
the dances down there. And he would come back and teach all the Indian
young people to dance: waltz, polka, schottische. That was a Gray."
(38) Cf., Loeb, 309, who reports use of rocks in doctoring.
(39)  Loeb, 228, says the Pomo thought eclipses were caused by a bear attack-
ing sun or moon. People went up on the hills, clapped their hands, and
shouted to drive the bear away.
(40) At every opportunity, EW insisted that girls and boys did not play
together even as small children, and that she had never played with
boys. From her own account there is evidence that the play worlds of
the two were not completely separate, but this seems a stereotyped
response which appears whenever play activities are mentioned. Cf.,
also Loeb, 221, where it is said that "very young" boys and girls
played together.
(41) SM said that she had never heard this rule. However, other basket
makers of the area had mentioned it.
(42) This is a topic which EW was always willing and eager to talk about.
She introduced it whenever possible. She was never bored if allowed
to enlarge upon the subject.
(43)  EW referred to this stay at Henry's on three occasions. Twice she
said that she herself had stayed there winters and had gone from
there to school daily.
(44)  EW refers her to "love magic."
(45)  Cf., the life history of SM.
(46)  Loeb, 255, says that illegitimate children were raised by the maternal
uncles who treated them as his own, and they were not looked down upon
or mistreated, "but the mother was ashamed to give birth to a bastard."
Note that EW seems preoccupied with the idea of incest.
(47)  Rita Day, Stan's wife. Stan Day is half white. Rita Day and Ellen
Wood are quarter white.
188
(48)  Loeb, 283, "In case the girl's family objected to the man, she was
prevented from marrying him." Loeb indicates that premarital freedom
was expected among the Pomo, but that in at least the important fami-
lies, marriages were arranged by the parents.
(49) When someone dies, all pictures of him may be destroyed, in line with
the practice of destroying all possessions of the dead and henceforth
avoiding his name.
(50) EW said once that a girl's first sex experience came when "the man
forces them, I guess. That's the way they always do with us. Young
men watch you when you go like that. I know I fight with a man lots
of times when I play out late--They watch you and grab you and wrastle
you. They force you. I guess that's the way still. They know two or
three fellows before they get married to one man. Nowadays, it's easy.
They give them drink, and they make them drunk, and they take them out
in the car. That's the way they do nowadays, I think. The girls don't
do nothing. They don't even tell their father and mother till their
father and mother learn it from some other place."
(51) Though EW insisted that her aunt had raised her and that she had
lived mainly with her mother's relatives, her mother seems to have had
full authority on the question of her marriage. EW when asked said
that the others, including her father, had nothing to say about it.
Quite probably, however, they had been consulted and approved the choice.
Note the constant references to her mother and the dominant role she
has in EW's life, while the aunt, despite the fact that she "raised"
EW has a relatively minor position.
(52)  SM and JA did not confirm this belief.  I have not been able to find
it in any of the literature on the Pomo. However EW declared that it
was so several times. She always insisted that she had not menstruated
until after her marriage to this Tripton County man.
(53) During one interview, EW's three-year-old granddaughter began to weep
when her uncle held out his arms to her. KU laughed and said the child
had already learned to fear men and always cried with fear when her
uncles tried to approach her. SW and her son thought it was a good
joke.
(54) Cf., Loeb, 271-274. Compare this with accounts in the life histories
of SM and JA.
(L5)  Cf., Loeb, 278, 279, 283, 285, for information on the exchange of
property between the two families after marriage.
(56) Cf., Loeb, 283, 285. All groups of Pomo seem to have practiced some
reserve toward parents-in-law. Among the North Pomo, young people
averted their faces when speaking to their parents-in-law. This may
also have been true of other groups.
(57) To give the return presents to the groom's family.
189
(58) This was probably the Pleasant Valley region.
(59)  Note that previously she had said she was married-about September, that
in two weeks she was pregnant with her first child.
(60) When asked, LW said no children were born in her imediate family after
she was old enough to remember.
(61)  Cf., Loeb, 251, for care in childbirth.
(62)  FW said once, "Long time ago when Indians have babies, they don't have
the baby every year--just every two or three years. But this time,
looks like young people have babies every year and a half. I guess
that's because they don't care for themselves.   When they have babies,
they don't put on hot stuff. They used to tell that to me, "If you
don't cook your blood inside you, going to have another baby right
away.t"
(63)  Loeb, 253-254. After childbirth, a woman underwent the same restric-
tions as during her first menstruation.
EW said that her daughter-in-law had combed her hair after her child
was born and had then lost much of her hair.
(64)  Loeb, 253, says that among the Pomo, the father was required to remain
at bme for the first eight days after the birth and could not hunt,
fish, gamble, dance or drill beads for a month. Until the child was
weaned, he had to observe the same food taboos as the mother. Neither
EW nor SK indicated that their husbands had been restricted in any way
after their children were born.
(65) For funeral exchanges, cf., Loeb, 286.
(66)  However, on other occasions she said that she had run away from her
husband during this period and gone around with two or three other men.
(67)  Cf., Loeb, 308-309.  Bones were much used in medicine.   Some Pomo groups
removed bones from graves, placed them over hot stones and used them for
sweating patients. Doctoring was also done on top of graves from which
the bones were not removed. A fire was built on top of the grave and
the patient sweated. Among Lastern Pomo, the grave had to be that of
someone who had died a violent death. Such treatment was used for vic-
tims of poisoning.
(68)  Cf., Loeb, 334.  "Young men and women were very careful where they
voided excrement. They went to the bush privately and buried the
excrement. Mothers always went with children and instructed them.
There was great fear lest some enemy work magic on the exuviae."
(69) The first "sister" mentioned in this paragraph is her half-sister,
Mable Evans. The second is May Green, her cousin.
190
(70) Cf., Loeb, 282-283. There was a joking relationship between in-laws
of the same generation. "A man tried to get his sister-in-law
sexually excited by his talk. He frequently had an affair with her."
(71)  EW frequently mentioned this desertion by her husband in favor of her
half-sister. She was eager to talk about it.
(72) Walter Wood, EW's second husband.
(73)  This is the one child from her first marriage that EW herself raised.
(74)  The words in brackets have been inserted to tie in the connection here.
(75)  Wood was married to a sister of Tilly Harris.   This family is one of
the most numerous on Brushville Rancheria.
(76)  A small hamlet a mile from Brushville.
(77)  Bear is the one EW usually mentions in connection with poison attacks
against her family. Bear was married to Stan Day's sister.
(78)  Cf., Loeb, 259-261. Names are passed down in the family line, and
names are always taken from the family list of names. There is some
feeling that the recipient of the name becomes like the person whose
name has been taken.
(79)  This is the first mention of EW's interest in doctoring.   EW often
mentioned such dosing that she had done to her family or to herself,
always with favorable results.
(80)  This was told when EW was expanding upon the subject of incest.   It
seems to belong in this period, however, chronologically.
(81)  Rena Guest, EW's daughter-in-law.   She is married to David Guest,
EW's oldest living son by her first marriage.
(82)  James Guest, a son by her first marriage.
(83) Cf., Loeb, 316. lie says that dreams about the dead were bad.
(84)  EW gave two accounts of this incident, with an interval of eleven
days between. They corroborated each other, though not all details
appeared in both accounts.
Alfred Parsell was told by Rita Day that there was an old spring in
the hills on the east side of Hanzanita Rancheria where people used
to take things which they intended to use in poisoning people. Bonnie
Mexican told Stephen Cappanari that the poisoner gets your shoe string
or stockings, and places it in a chimney or in a place where water is
standing.
191
(85) This was the last child born of her first marriage, and the one whom
EW claimed to have raised herself. Note here that the boy is taken
over by his stepfather's family.
(86) EW consistently took the point of view that a iife history should
embody all the "bad" things in one's life, though this was not implied
in the original request that she tell her life story.
(87) When I first met EW at SM's house in 1941, she told me, "Captain Roberto
used to say that children were born good or bad. If they came from a
good family, good stock, they were usually good." It may be indicative
of EW' s personality that she said this before a neighbor whose only
living child had been in prison on four occasions and who had recently
created such disturbances that she had been locked away again.
(88) Grubville was a rancheria near the Brushville site.   In the early
twentieth century, Grubville people moved to Brushville which was
bought for them by the government. Sometimes the two are referred to
as the same rancheria--sometimes, as here, a distinction is made.
(89) Ruth Post is a sucking doctor who lives at Brushville.   She appears in
SM's life history. The Bernice referred to below is SM's daughter.
(90) Walter Wood, EW's husband, told Ernestine Friedl that one of his
daughters died of tuberculosis and another fell while she was jumping
rope and hurt her spine. They tried all kinds of doctors for her, but
she died. He said that these two daughters broke him. He spent his
money on doctors for them and then on their caskets and funerals.
(91) EW's husband told B. Wilson, "I had a Catholic priest and two white
and two Indian doctors working on my wife when she was sick. The
Catholic priest said, "Walter, you are very foolish doing that."
I said, "No, that's Indian way."
(92) Cf., Loeb, 396. He says the meru dreamers who were doing most of the
curing even in the 1920s performed their cures by singing prayer songs
"taught in a dream for this purpose." But, "Songs, while theoretically
taught in dreams, are actually taught by an older member of the family,
especially the maternal uncle."
Shobi was an outfit doctor. It is generally believed that Bess Clinton
learned much of her doctoring from him. Rita Day also thought that
Bess Clinton was a poisoner. She told me, "People say that Bess can
poison and that she will poison for a real friend. I think she could
doctor the person she poisoned. For poisoning, people say she takes
things, especially hair. That's what Bess's old relative Tom Shobi
did. That's why I'm scared of her."
Rita Day also reported, "Bess Clinton says that she got her power be-
cause she was a cruel woman who did bad things--things she would not
want others to know about and that she was punished--by God, I guess,
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or somebody--and given this power.  When you are bad or know you are
bad, you get that way.  She doesn't say who gives her power, but they
say God must."
(93) diaduwel are ghosts.  Cf., Loeb, 290.   Dreams were caused by ghosts.
"If you dreamt about a dead person, it was because the ghost of the
dead visited you in your sleep."
EW asked me, "Do you believe in ghosts?" I told her, "I don't know,
but I wouldn't like seeing one.'" She said, "That's the way I am. I
never saw one, but I sure wouldn't like to see any. Bess Clinton says
they come around all the time."
(2i) Hank Jose is from Vineland. The others are from Manzanita Rancheria.
Information on snake dreams is conflicting. Apparently such dreams
are fairly common among the Pomo. Sophie Martinez reported a dream
of a rattlesnake, content not remembered, but she said that such a
dream was good luck so it did not worry her. Tim Brown, her step-
father, said he dreamed of rattlesnakes all the time and that while
"that's pretty bad," it was also lucky since it meant the snake would
not bother him. Elaine Martinez, SM's teen-age granddaughter, dreamed
of snake-like creatures in 1940, and did not seem disturbed. Her
interpretation was that she had been eating too much green fruit the
day before. Bonny Mexican told Charles Brant, "It is bad if you dream
about snake. Like when white people dream about bull--means you got
too many enemies." However, she also told Bran t, that if you dreamed
of being bitten by a snake it meant good luck.
Loeb, 316, says dreams of rattlesnakes or bull snakes were considered
good luck.
(95)  EW's husband told B. Wilson, "My wife dream   lots.  She dreamed this:
Stan Day's sister, upstairs her casket was lying with the cover. A
year later Stan Day's sister died, and she wasn't sick when she said
that ."
(90)  This would probably set the girl's birth about 1921, her death about
1928. Deborah is the daughter of May Green, one of EW's cousins.
(97)  Dreams of the destruction of the world are characteristic of the Maru.
Cf., the account in SM's life story. However, many of them claim
that the destruction will be by a flood.   I asked EW if the maru had
told about the world being destroyed by floods when she was a child.
"No, that's not matu, but they always tell about it. I don't know
how they know about it. They must have heard it. After that somebody
promise that it wasn't going to happen anymore--it was all going to
be fire. The world was going to be on fire. They used to tell that.
Everything was all full of water here, and then somebody said that not
going to be any more flood in here. After that he wasn't going to do
that any more. Next time going to be fire--fire all over. Somebody
heard it, I don't know who. Somebody told it, I don't know who. But
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they tell it. Next flood going to be fire, not water." She also said,
however, that at the time of the great maru activities in the 19th
century that people danced, "I don't know how many times. They didn't
want to have the flood come again so they used to dance so that flood
don't come in."
Christianity and Pomo concepts are blended here, with some additions by
EW. I do not believe that EW is aware of the different origins of her
beliefs.
(98)  In 1941, EW was questioned by B. Wilson about the Maru Cult and its
modern derivatives, the dream doctors. She told him, the maru "told
people what's going to be. What's going to be, how they dream about
this place. They say they hear somebody talking to them. They say
they don't know who it is. Some know. I don't know who is talking
to me. One old fellow told his family the thunder would sound when
he died, and sure enough it did. And about an hour later he died.
I never heard who appeared to them in dreams. Maybe they have no
name, the person they are talking to."
She said also that each maru had one "special person. Can't change.
If you believe on maru, you got to believe him."   B. Wilson asked her
if the person could avoid becoming matu, and she said, "If they don't
accept, they keep on dreaming, keep being bothered.   I was afraid.
You can't be doctored to avoid it. I don't know how it is. They
choose you. You can't change it.    You can't stop it.  That's what
the matu always say.  If you don't do it, you will get sick, have
troubles."
"I dreamed three times. I talked to Our Lord too. He was all in
white and a big tall fellow. I'm a piece of a matu dreamer, and I doc-
tor too sometimes. I doctor my children when they get headaches. I
dream everybody see the end of the world--all people come up. The
priest say that too.  Sometimes my dream come true.   I don't dream
often.
"Some matu preached what they see, what's coming. My grandfather
used to be that kind. He say disease coming, and sure enough it
came. "
(99) This information is placed here in connection with her dream experiences
because of the appearance of snake motifs in her dreams. After the
dream material was obtained she was asked about snake experiences.
(100) Cf., Loeb, 314. The name of the rattlesnake was avoided in summer.
(101)  In 1940 a rattlesnak.2 was seen around the Martinez House. Elaine
Martinez said she was told by her grandmother to go away and not see
it because she was then menstruating. It was killed by one of the
Brushville men.
(102) Deborah Green.
194
(103) In the files of the Laboratory are many reports by different informants
on this case. None of them mention EW as having any part in the diag-
nosis or treatment. Bess Clinton is usually given as the chief doctor
in the case. The cause of the illness is said by many Poro to be due
to a broken menstrual taboo--Deborah Green having gone swiumuing during
her period.
(10) Other Manzanita people said that Sonia Gray shot her half-brother and
succeeded in shifting the crime to Alfred Evan's son.
(105) Cf., SM's life history for another account of this illness, an account
in which EW does not appear.
(106) Elaine Martinez said that Ef was some kind of a doctor. "She is some
kind of Indian doctor, but I don't know what kind even though she
doctored me once. She sings while she doctors, but only to herself
in her heart."
Others regard El as a doctor. SM said that she was some kind of
doctor though she did not know just what kind. El's husband told
B. Wilson, "My wife is kind of hand doctor. She put her hand on, and
it would sweat and draw pain out. When I get a headache, it helps.
I don't think she tell these people. My wife say Alec Mead good, so
they got Alec Mead to doctor Sophie Martinez--and she's living today
after two white doctors gave her up. He didn't give her any medicine--
just worked over her on top with that rattle."
(107) EW once said, "If I get into any trouble or if anything goes wrong,
I'd rather go to the whites than to any of these people around here.
I know the way they talk, and if I need any help I'd rather go to the
whites first before I'd go to them. Indians are mean people." She
also said, however, that her neighbors came to her when they were in
trouble. "The Clintons never visit anyone here. They aren't friendly
with anyone. But when they have trouble, they always come to me for
help because they know I'm the kind who'll help anyone."
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CHAPTER V
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JANE ADAMS
Introduction
Jane Adams moved into Oak Valley after her husband's death in 1939.
She then lived with her daughter, and her daughter's family, on the Chiptown
Rancheria near Oak City.
Mrs. Adams was probably in her early sixties in 1941, although she had
been unable to prove her age and was afraid that she might not be able to
claim an old age pension as soon as she should receive one. Her health
seemed to be good, although she was subject to bad headaches. Her eyes were
still sufficiently keen for her to excel at basket-making. Her voice and
her whole manner were filled with vigor, but I had no way of judging her
present physical strength.
Mrs. Adams was usually seen with her daughter. The two women went
everywhere together. The relationship between them seemed a very friendly
one. On the other hand, I believe that Mrs. Adams was finding some difficulty
in adjusting herself to life in her daughter's home when she was accustomed to
her own household. She was a fond but complaining grandmther, who criticized
her daughter's children constantly and worried about their breaking away from
home and arguing with their parents.
We heard little comment concerning Mrs. Adams from other Pomo, which
in itself is a sign that she had not aroused any strong feelings. Mrs. Adams,
herself, said that she had had little contact with other Pomo in Oak Valley
since moving there. The only gatherings which I can remember her attending
were those sponsored by the women's club, of which she was a member and her
daughter an officer. I suspect that through her daughter she probably played
a more dominant role in the affairs of this organization than appeared on
the surface. Mrs. Adams had some prestige, both among Pomos and the few
whites who had contact with them, as a basket-maker. One dealer said that
he thought she probably made the finest baskets now being woven in the area.
She was still interested in improving her skill in this direction, and once
had her daughter drive her to Tripton County so that she could inspect a
basket collection there and study the designs.
My impression, and I believe that of other members of the Laboratory,
is that she is the most intelligent of the three women whose life histories
are presented here. She was alert, well-informed, and interested in life
with a quick abrupt manner. She was probably also the most "acculturated"
of the three women, yet despite this, my guess would be that she was the
best adjusted and most "normal."
Life History of Jane Adams
(Where you were born?) In Lucerne. Right edge of Lucerne tunnel.
Use old shack when I born. My mother told me that little chick first hatch
when I born. That must be either April or May. I don't know how long ago
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the priest came around here first. They baptised me when I was a little
-baby. We went to Lucerne, and they say that was 59 years ago. We went to
Tripton County to get my old baptism record, but my name wasn't there.
First thing I remember, I was sucking my mother's titty. I four or
five years old and still on breast. I remember I was sitting on a chair
crying for titty, and my mother was sewing. I grabbed cloth, pull it away
and laughed.
R                          My mother's name was Victoria Renton. Her father
was white fellow. Bachelor. All bachelors. No women. Marry Indian women.
That's where we get white blood in us. (l) My father's name was Ramon Perez.
That's Spanish name, I think. My father wasn't living with my mother ever
since I know anything. They was parted when I was little baby, I guess.
And she used to go out wash for white ladies, maybe two days in the week.
That the way she raise us.
There was only two of us anyway. My brother, that's all. (2) He was
older than me. (g). I don't know how old he was. He was way bigger than
me, I know. But I don't know how old he is. My mother never told me how
much older he was than me. Some women had fifteen, fourteen children, but
not through our family. We didn't have much children. My mother had only
two; I had only two; Edith had only four. My youngest boy Francisco is
eleven years younger than Edith. That's why she said she didn't have anyone
to play with when she was little. She was eleven years old when he was born.
(Who took care of you?) My mother. We used to stay with my mother.
(Did you have a grandmother?) Yes. When my mother goes out, goes some
place, I stay with my grandmother. Most of the time I used to stay around
with my grandmother. But they live together, you known, not in another
house. Just in one house. (Q). Just my mother and grandmother, that's all.
And I had two uncles, but they didn't stay hose. They go out on a ranch
working.
We didn't live on a rancheria like this. We just live ranch to ranch.
Move on to another ranch; live there two or three years; quit working there
and move into another ranch and start working there. That's the way we live
in Lucerne. But these people up here live on rancherias all bunched up.
My mother wash four times the week. That's how we get along. Q)
My father still alive that time. le's working, but he spend all his money
on drink. Don't care about his children. Women got no work then; only
men work. Women only work in sumer months, pick hops and pick grapes.
Some way we got along about eating.
Daily Life: I was with my mother and grandmother all the time. My father
and mother, I was baby when they leave each other. So my mother raise me,
and we raised awful poor. Yes, awful poor. Nowadays, I just tell you that
when persons don't care for child, state or county, they take care of them.
But my time, we didn't have no help. We raised awful poor. My mother buy
me a pair of shoes, and I don't wear that every day. Just once in a while
I go to town I wear that. No dress. Maybe I have three dresses. That's
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lucky. I own two dresses--one put on; one wash. Just change around. That's
all. That time they didn't have no underskirt in store. That come in later.
My mother buy sack of flour, and when she empty it, save that and make me
slip and underskirt. I raised awful poor. Everybody raised that way--not
only me. Eats just the same. Sometimes we eat just tortillas. That's Span-
ish. Sometimes supper, that's all we eat. We don't eat no dinner. Sometimes
acorn mush, pinole. Wild rabbit when we lucky sometimes.
Later on, when I was about nine or ten years old, from there up, we was
a little better eats. We eat corn. We gets corn from somebody's field. That
ain't really stealing. Have to eat something. That's the way we get along.
Some white folks good to us. When apple fall, they let us take it. I'm not
shamed to tell you that. (4)
(a). Hops came in when I was--I remember anything when hops came in.
But down in Lucerne, we didn't have no hops. In that county, they only had
hops around Santa Clara and Vineland. When hops ripe, the hop man came down
and get the workers and bring them up here to Vineland. When they done, they
went back to Lucerne. Hop training and hop suckering, just late jobs. And
no whites picked hops. They had Chinamen long time ago. Indians and China-
men long time ago. Now all the white people have the jobs. Now they got pear
trees, prune trees, whole valley. On the Oak River clear down that's all you
see. Long time ago no fruit trees, no hop vines, nothing grow. Just oats
and wheat grow, and hay for the stock. Now they ain't got even hay for the
stock, and they use tractor to plow. They don't need the hay. But long time
ago they had thirty to forty head of horses on every ranch. Now all in machin-
ery.
(Did you pick as a little girl?) When I was a little girl, I don't
pick much. I lazy. Just go around the river swiming. My mother and
grandmother, they pick hops. But I don't help. I'm lazy. They don't tell
me to pick either. You see, we don't care for money that time. What one
dress we got, that's good enough for us.  But nowadays girls want thirteen
or fourteen dresses. That's why they want to pick hops, to get dress and six
or seven pairs of shoes. One pair a year was enough for us. When we stay
home, we go barefooted. Now children is raised with the shoes. Even winter
time, I used to walk barefooted. And we don't get cold. Nothing.
Playing: (q). They don't teach us nothing, I don't think. Don't remember.
We just learn what they do. Half of the time we don't stay home. Play
around outside even in winter time. Raining mind you. We play with water.
Just go early morning. Play out there, and never come home till evening.
Keep bunched up, four or five or six, playing. After we grow up, then we
quit that. Stay around the house. We ain't got much to do anyway. But
nowadays, children going to school keep them busy. We wasn't that way.
That's all I think.
(What did you play?) Oh, they had a stick, long stick, switch like
made. We play that. We play that together, and we play with small arrow--
shoot that. That's all the play we used to have. No marbles, no dolls,
nothing. Summer begin, we swimming. Spring of the year. Play around the
river in sandy places every day. And we play with rocks. Pick up the kind
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of rocks we want, little one. Then we gather them, get nice sandy place,
sandy place there where we sit down and played them. And leave it there.
Some other day when we feel like it, we go there and gather in rocks and
play again. That's all the play we used to have. I'm the only one who's
living out of that. All die out. Robert Renton live yet too, and Ken
Renton. Most of them dead. We played them rocks. Boys don't play them
--just the girls. But this other, we played with this little sticks,
arrow--the boys would win that. We girls couldn't shoot way off. But
sometimes we used to win it, just like this marble playing.
(Who went swimming?) We all go together. Wear our dresses. No
swimming suit. Wear our slips. We don't swim naked. We don't mix
with the big boys either. Only little boys used to mix with us. The
big boys swim separate. But when we play together, that is not in water,
that is on dry land, we play with the boys. Climb way up on trees. This
wild grape vine, you know, they dangling up on trees. Used to climb up
on top. Sometimes we had big fall, too, head down too. Cry a little and
start playing.
(Did you have any pets?) They used to have a dog every year. Get
poison and die and get pup someplace else and keep it. I like dogs and
cats. I like cats to kill mice. Sometimes mice get so thick. I don't
know how many dogs I own ever since I grow up. About fifty, I guess.
Ever since I remember anything, I had a dog.
Lucerne people die out way before I see anything. I never see much
people. But these people around here was big bunch of people. But I
never see much people when I grow up. Just a few of them. Nobody hardly
down there. Just one or two families, I think.
(You said you played with other children?) Yes, but they come from
their home way off. Even two or three miles. And we used to go to their
place to play, but we didn't live together. They got nothing else to do,
just to play. It wasn't much. Just the four of us, I know. We play with
anybody that we see. Sometimes visit.
(Did you visit much those days?) Yes, they visit. They have good
relation, they visit the relation. When I was young, I used to visit my
grandmother's brother, old fellow. He was about two miles away from us,
live on another ranch. He didn't work though. He was old. This white
lady just felt sorry for him, and he lived on the ranch. (Q). Go to
his house and talk to him. Stay there all day with him. Go to his wife
and him. Play around the house and go back home evening. Maybe twice a
week, I used to visit him. Sometimes my grandmother went with me. (What
did you talk about when you visited him?) Oh, I don't talk nothing. Just
play around, not say nothing. When he talk to me, just answer him. That's
all. We don't talk like nowadays children talk long time ago. We got
nothing to talk about. But nowadays they read on funny papers where
children talk, but we don't.
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We didn't talk much. Just sometimes when we see something to talk, we tell.
That's all. Even now I don't talk much. I just sit here listen to what they
talk. But some women show they can talk. I don't go much for talking.
(When you played with children, were there ever fights?) Yes. Growl
fights and break up the play. Go home, and two or three days they'd be all
right playing again. Some of them used to be awful mean, get mad at each
other. But they wouldn't be very long though. Next day they'd be talking
to each other. (q). They fight with the girls, with the boys. That's why
we don't use to play with the boys too much. They always want to fight.
Boys that used to fight too each other, grow4cuss each other. But they
wouldn't be mad long though. They'd be playing just the same inside of half
an hour, one hour.
(Did your mother come out and stop it?) No, she never did. Well, we
don't growl in the house, we growl away out where we playing, but we don't
tell that at home. Just keep it secret. (Q). Oh, they just taking things
away, I guess, and growl and fight. Some of them mean. They just fight,
mean. Sometimes when they played, they take and get mad at each other.
(Did you ever fight with older people?) We never did growl with a big
person. We just cuss the people with whom we playing. You know sometimes
when we playing with those rocks, you have a nice one. And somebody steal
it. That's the way they get into trouble. I know I never did steal any-
thing. We used to say, "Go find your own. No use stealing from me."
(Were you ever punished?)  I don't think so. At that time I don't
think so. But nowadays children get punished when they don't do right way.
They whip children nowadays too. But my time, never see children get whipped.
Children used to be pretty good. They afraid of anything, but now they ain't
afraid. They want to be boss of their parents. They want to be different
from we. Long time ago, I fraid of white people; but now children born, and
they don't fraid of nothing. They talk English. That's why. We don't under-
stand even when we five or six. I was ten or eleven years, and I don't speak
English. That was why we was afraid of white people. When white people came
around, we run away.
Fears: (Why were you afraid?) Well, they tell them, "White men going to
get you, and white men going to do this to you." Just make them scared out,
coward like. (5) But nowaways, you see they begin going to school when you
six years old, and they just among white people and they not afraid of
nothing. We long time ago afraid of white people. That why we mind what
they tell us. They told me to behave myself. Told me not to be mean.   White
man going to get me, white people going to take me away.
Well, that's what people been doing. They been stealing children. Yes,
lots of children they steal, take them away from the mother, the parents.
Two year old. Oldest one I think was five years old. Boys and girls. Put
it in a sack and hang it on horse. I don't know what they do with it, sell
it or what. That was up north too here someplace. They got saddle horn,
and you know they hang it from sack side of the horse, the small ones that
can't walk. That's why we afraid of white people. Pretty bad long time ago.
200
Some of them come back when they grown up; some of them don't. They die some-
place. (Did you see that?) No, it's all up from north. My grandmother used
to tell me they see that when they go by in Lucerne. I don't know what they
do with them-children.  Sell them to some rich white people, I guess.
(Did you see many whites as a child?) No, we never see them men come
around. Sometimes they come to the house to tell what work to be done.
Sometimes they come for my mother to tell her what to do, to come and wash.
But we don't go amongst them. We hide as soon as the white man, white lady
come.
(Did they warn you of other Indians?) No. They don't afraid of
Indians. Cause they Indian, you see. Only white people they hate. They
don't hate the Indians because they can talk to the Indians. But they can't
talk to the white people because we don't know what they say except, "Hello."
I was about nine, ten years old when I was learning how to say, "lello." Yes,
when we see white people coming, we hide.
(Who told you all this?) My grandmother and my grandfather and my aunt.
I see two old ladies. Used to sit around with them. They used to tell what
they do long time ago. That's the only way we get teaching, you see. No
school or nothing.  If they don't tell us anything like that, we don't know
nothing. We want to know old time things. Have to be told. That's just
like you people going to school nowadays. They teach us what they do long
time ago. They go out camping, acorn camping; go coast for seaweed. Go
camp on river. They teach us evening, bed tiae. All day time when we stay-
ing home.
(Where did you sleep?)  They too poor to have bed of their own. We
got nothing when we was raised up. No bed. No ppring bed. We lay on
ground. Have a mattress of gunny sack. Put straw in there. I used to sleep
with my mother or grandmother. Sometimes I was sleep with my mother; some-
times I sleep with my grandmother. When we big, fourteen or fifteen, we have
to sleep with our mother or grandoother. We ain't got no bed. But nowadays,
all the chlldren, even the three- and four-year olds, they got their own bed.
We ain't like that when I was raised. Too poor. Everything different. Now-
adays from long time ago. Even white people used to let children sleep with
their own bed long time ago. Nowadays everything handy.
(Did you dream then?) I never did remember I dream. I dream lots, but
I never did remember. Some people remember dreams, but I don't. Only thing
I used to dream when I was a little girl was flying around. They say that's
growing. Fly from one tree to the other tree, just like a buzzard. But after
I grow up, that went away. I don't dream that anymore. I don't go much on
dreams. I don't think nothing. That's why I don't remember. Some people
pretty strict on dreams. That's why they remember anything they dream.
Ellen says anything she dreams always comes true. (6)
A good dream don't come true with you; bad dream come true. That's
why I don't pay no attention to dreas. Maybe I dream night time, but I don't
think nothing about it. Dreams, they just dreams. I don't believe in dreass.
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Nothing to it.
(Did they tell you about snakes?) Yes, they used to tell us to look
out for rattlesnakes when we was playing out. But we couldn't see any
rattlesnakes long time ago. But now you can see them pretty near every
time you turn around. They don't go around daytime when there heat like
this though--they go round nighttime when it's cold. (When did you first
see one?) First time I ever saw one--I don't know where. I shot one, but
this was later. I don't think I ever see rattlesnake when I was young.
Oh, yes, I saw one hanging up on the brush where they shot it with the
rifle. I never saw it alive, but here about twenty years ago I shot one
down at Vineland. It had about eleven buttons on it. I killed about three.
After that I saw one down by the house in Vineland, and I shot that one too.
I killed three rattlesnakes, but these two were smaller than that eleven
button. That's two different kinds. Them small ones are mean. They
naturally small all the time even when they're old.
Work:  (Did you have any work?)   No, no work. What should we work?    We
ain't got much dishes to wash. We Indian people too poor. We ain't got
much housework my time. House is cabin. We had a little cabin, just like
this garage here. No floor. No window in it. (s). Meal time? Well, we
had breakfast in morning and about evening we get through and go home supper
time. No dinner at all. Play all day.
(Did you have to take care of younger children?) No, I don't think
so. I didn't see much children because I didn't have no sisters younger
than me or nothing. We don't live around among the people, just alone.
They say some children cry all night. I don't know. I never did notice
about children.
(When did you learn to make baskets?) I learned it from my mother.
She throw away willow. I used to pick that up and work on that. From then
I learned. Make them ugly ones. I started on the ugly ones she throwed
away, first ones. After that I used good roots, good willow. My mother
good hand at baskets. She teach me how to fix the basket roots, and how to
work on it. Just the way you going to do, make it like this, she tell me.
(q). I don't know how old I was that time. I don't know my age. Nobody
told me how old I was. My mother was just the same as I. She never did
read or nothing. She never did go to school. I used to remember good, but
I can't now. Getting old. Suffer too much. (Were you married that time
yet?) No, I wasn't married. I wasn't married when I started making basket.
(How did you happen to start?) I felt like making a basket, so I ask
her. (What happened to your first basket?) My first basket? I don't know.
My mother had it.   I don't know what she done with it.   Maybe sell it.  I
don't know. That's long time ago, over forty years ago. Maybe fifty. I
didn't finish it anyway. She finished it after I worked up to half.
(Did you learn to make beads?) No, Just certain old people making
beads long time ago. Just man. But nowadays women started making beads.
Now they got everything handy, so that's how women make beads. All the
women round here, I hear, make beads. They don't work on baskets. I don't
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visit anybody around here, but some place I hear that. Long time ago just
certain men make beads. No women make beads long time ago. You see, they
should make baskets, but they don't. They too lazy. Well, it's pretty hard
to get this basket root. They better off if they're not working on it. And
they can't sell baskets. They don't get nothing for it. It's hard work if
they don't get anything for it. That's why they don't make baskets. If they
buy baskets, they always want it cheap. Cheap! They won't give you what you
ask for it. They'll jew you down.
(Did you learn to make anything else?)  Well, they got nothing to make.
They got nothing to teach. That's all the work they had, the baskets. But
nowadays they crochet, like that. Everything they learn in school. Patch-
work quilt. That why they don't want to work on basket. Easier to crochet.
They can buy the thread. Basket roots they have to get out and take. That's
hard work, not very easy. And gathering willo--that's kind of hard for young
girls now. They dressed up, and basket root digging is awful dirty job.
Pretty hard to get it now. They won't let you dig in their places, the ranch
owners. They say their land going to wash away where you digging.
(j). When I was a little girl, I used to go round with my mother dig-
ging basket roots. It wasn't so hard that time. We sneak around the river.
But now they won't let you. They make you get out of their place.
(Did you learn to dance?) We didn't have no dances in Lucerne because
no people there. We used to hear that they have dances up here and in Vine-
land, but we don't go. Take us too long to get there. It would take us two
days to walk up to Vineland. I never was up this way. I never see much
people when I was in Lucerne, just a few. That's why I can't dance Indian
dances. If I'd gone to Indian dances when I was a little girl, I'd have
learned.  I can't dance Indian dances.   (How about American dances?)  No kind
of dancing. Just circus used to come there. That was before this train come
through. It stopped at Lucerne first time. That was lively town then, and
circus stopped there every year. Big elephant and everything. All kinds of
animals.
Adult Life
First Menstruation: (Had you menstruated the first time when you made your
first basket?) No, I guess I was pretty old when I got that the first time.
I don't know why. I guess I was fourteen when I first get them kind. I was
awful skinny too. Awful thin. I just get fleshier when I get older. Even
I had Edith, I dom't think I reach one hundred pounds. .1 was so skinny.
(g). Yes, they teach everything. Before you know anything, they teach
you everything. They told us not to go with the man either when we young.
They say, "No good." That's what they teach us, everything. They told us
not to get married when too young. "No good," they told us. But nowadays,
we can't teach children. They talk English. I can't teach children with
the English.
They tell us, "You going to be that way." When the first moon sick,
Indian people fix girl. They have you lay in bed four days, not go outside.
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That the rule for them. They claim you get sick, you get crippled, if you
walk that way. Second one, it don't make any difference where you walk, where
you go. But first one, you have to be careful, stay in room maybe four days,
maybe five. But nowadays children going to school. You don't know when they
get first moon sick. They won't tell. They keep it secret. But old time,
everything different. Everything change way off different. (What did you do
that time?) I lay in bed. They made me lay in bed till I get over it. Just
the first one. Second one is nothing. You don't have to look around. They
cover all your face and everything up. Nobody won't talk to you. It won' t
be very long . Four or f ive days they keep you right there. And one thing,
we don't take no bath. We don't touch no water till we get over. Then take
a good bath, clean ourselves up. (7)
Marriage: (What did you do after that?) We got nothing to do. We don't do
nothing. Just stay around the house, that's all. We got nothing to do long
time ago. (Did you still play?) No, we're big girls, fifteen and sixteen.
Only children play. We got not much to do long ago. Too poor. We got
nothing. We go swimming summer time.   Summer time we don't stay down here
either. We go move down river, camp by the rivers right next to the river.
We go back to our house in the fall when cold begin. Just lay around by the
river in shady place swimming. That's all we do.
Well, so I grow up that way, and after I got about twenty years old, I
was married. Then I got better clothes. (s). Oh, some married young; some
married old. You see we people don't know our age. (How did they know it
was time?) Oh, when they see girls when they grow up, they go after boys.
And of course parents don't say anything if they go with the men. They don't
know how old they are. They think that way, and tell them they think they
old enough to get married. Man just the same, boys. They go with the girls.
They don't know their age, how old they are.  (Would that be after a girl had
her first month sick?) Oh sure. They never did marry before their month
sick. They, always did wait for the month sick. Maybe four or five years
after I get the month sick, that was the time I got married. That time I
was about 19. Nineteen, maybe twenty.
(How did you get your first husband?) Oh, I go with the man for a few
years and then I get married with him. But I didn't stay with him very long.
He was not very good, drank too much. I met that man in Lucerne, but he's
from Windsor. When summer come, people come to Lucerne to pick grapes. I
know him ever since I was little girl. I went with him for two years. Then
we got married. Bert Danat--that's my husband's name. He died in San
Quentin, I think. Up there for doing killing. He do that way after I leave
him. I didn't stay very long. He was not very good, drank too much. But
this last husband I lost. I lived with him thirty-seven years. No use to
keep a man when you see he's bad man.
(Did your mother say anything that time you got married?) No, my
mother never talk. She was quiet lady. She don't talk against nobody.
She quiet. She size of Edith. She weigh over two hundred pounds. When
she died, she weigh fifty pounds. Some blood vein broke on her next to
brain. She can't move. She just worse than little child. She sick for
three years. She died fifteen years ago.
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She was quiet lady. Lots of times she got nothing to say. She don't
hardly talk. That's why I think I can't talk much. If she was a good talker,
growl with me all the time, I'd been a good talker. But I never was. My grand-
mother used to be rough. She used to talk anyway. But I didn't pay no atten-
tion. We didn't pay no attention. Let her talk anyway. She used to be bad.
She used to hate daughter-in-law, son-in-law. Yes, some people that way. But
I don't feel that way. It's no use hate the son-in-law, the daughter-in-law.
Yes, some people that way. That ain't right.   Even if they have trouble
with their husband or wife, we don't have nothing to say. That's what I tell
my grandchildren, but they won't listen. That second man of mine, I lived
with him ten years before I married him by Catholic way. I lived with his,
got to know him pretty well, got acquainted with his. Then we got married
by the church. My son Francisco is living with a white woman. He wanted to
marry her in the church, but I told him no. I know I'm not telling him right,
but she's a cranky woman. And I don't want his to be married to a cranky
woman. Then if he left her, he couldn't stay with his church. This way, he's
not living right, and he can't go to coinunion or to confession, but he can
stay with his church. So I tell him, "Don't marry her."
(Did they tell you these things before you married?) They don't tell
me nothing. I just find these things out myself. I just find out myself
when I grow up. That's the way I try and teach my grandchildren. But they
won't believe what I say. That's the way I teach my daughter. I tell her
if she wants to go with man and get married, get married. Don't jump around
and take all the men in. She did, and they live together yet. They never
had no trouble.
Children: Edith was born two years after I'm with Danat. I live with him
but four year. We went to Santa Clara to get Edith's baptism, but couldn't.
I baptize her in July, 41 years ago. Next month the twenty-second, Edith
will be forty-two years old. They looked in the record, but the priest
couldn't find that.
That's the way, if we had children, child born, you have to stay in
bed about thirty days, they claim. But now womn have child, they learn
from the whites and only stay in bed ten days. Maybe five days, and they
get up. But we don't. Whole month we stay in bed. One whole month you
don't go with the man after baby born. The sooner you go with the man, you
have another baby when your baby just about six or seven months old. And
we nurse our children on our breast. That's keeping away from your having
another child too soon. But when they nursing on bottle these days, inside
year you have another child. Long time ago, baby has to be three or four
years old before they get another brother or sister. But even Indian people
getting wrong nowadays. They leaving our rule all the time. They don't
follow our rule. Our rule lost out now. They all just like the whites now.
They don't believe in our rule now. That's why old tiers lots of people.
Now they don't follow the rule. They all die out. Young people just die
out now. You don't see many around.
(Did somebody show you how to take care of that baby?) I don't know.
Nobody teach me, but I take care of them when I got them. There's nothing
to taking care of children, is it? Just nurse them, nurse them on your
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breast; give him bath every morning. You see, we ain'tgoLtmuch job on
children. Just keep them in baby basket, change them about three times a
day, put them in basket in the evening, and they wake up in the morning.
Change him once and give him a bath. Give him the breast night time when
he cries and tell him to go to sleep. But you white people, you know, keep-
ing children in baby buggy in style, got to keep him clean. Lots of work.
But we don't. Just give him enough milk; don't starve them out. Just feed
them anytime when they cry.
(Did someone bring presents when Edith was born?) No. No presents,
nothing. No shower, nothing. Sometimes they do, but not much though. May-
be one thin blanket, and two or three diapers. That's all. They don't do
much. I know when I had Francisco, nobody give him nothing. His grand-
mother was living yet, but she never give nothing. Maybe some people do.
(Why did you decide to leave Danat?) He wasn't treating me right to me.
He drink too damn much. Don't think about buying clothes for me or for child.
When you married, trouble begins. Foolish talk, mean talk, won't sleep.
Sometimes he goes off two or three days and don't come back. When I leave
him, he try to get me back, but I wouldn't let him. That's all. He marry
two, three, more times after I left him. Then he died down in San Quentin.
After I leave him, I be with my mother. I stay with her about three
years. Then I get this other husband I lost year ago when Edith was five
years old. When I was married into Hopland, my mother married into Chip-
town. That was thirty-six years ago. They're all dead and gone now. (8)
I lost one girl. She was two years younger than Edith.   She had
blood poisoning. She died when she was two years old. I think about her
yet. She was nice, bright. She had trouble getting teeth, so I took her
to doctor. Doctor lance her gum when she had high fever, and it turn into
blood poisoning. She didn't last only five days. And she began to walk
too. After she died, another doctor told me that gum never should have
been lanced when that child had high fever. That he tell me after my child
is dead. That break my heart. See? I think maybe I went to the wrong doc-
tor. Maybe if I went to the other one, she wouldn't have died.
My child died a week before my mother die. Edith was four years old.
Two funerals in one month, week after week. That's where all my nice beads
go.
I met my second husband at Indian dance at Vineland. I just stayed
in Vineland and never went back to Lucerne. He was my boy friend before.
He come up to me and tell me to stay with him, so I stay. He was married
twice already. I make the third wife for him. None of them was legal, but
we was married by Catholic priest. We live in Vineland thirty-six years.
He was pretty good. He drink, but not too much. He don't scold me
all the time. We get along fine. Yes, help each other. Winter time, we
get eats in store, crated. Yes. My husband work every day at ranch, and
summer time we both work. Then we pay our bill up. Sometime two hundred,
two hundred fifty dollars. We don't spend the money we make foolish. We
206
buy our clothes, enough to last the whole winter through: everyday dress,
sometime good dress. He buy clothes same way: underclothes, two, three
shirts. And what left over, we save that for eats winter time.
Francisco was the only child I had with him. He had his own child,
Vance Adams. Married Florence Day. Francisco eleven years younger than
Edith. Must be six years before I had Francisco. Francisco thirty years
old now. He born in 1910, June. My mother help me when Francisco was born.
I never did have doctor when I have baby. I had lot of trouble when Fran-
cisco was born. Maybe I was too old. About thirty, thirty-five.
My change of life was about twenty years ago. Francisco was about ten
years old when I had my change of life. That didn't bother me. Only thing,
I want water sometimes middle of night. Some women awful sick. They might
go to hospital.
Francisco, five year and a half, he went to school. He went to high
school when he twelve year old. We had hop contract for two years, and we
save up seven hundred dollars. We run a contract forty acres--thirty-five
dollars an acre, trellis, high pole hops. Contract eleven hundred dollars.
I think we were on that two year, and we save up seven hundred dollars clear.
And they buy automobile when Francisco was about twelve years old, when he
start to high school. They call it Ford 16. Well, that wore out, and
they got Studebaker. Run that two or three years, and that the time Fran-
cisco was about seventeen years old, I guess. Eighteen or seventeen. Then
he bought new Chrysler--nine hundred dollars. You see, that where our money
went. Weren't for this automobile, we'd be a little ahead. We wanted to
put Francisco to college, but he wouldn't go. He rather run round in car.
I ain't got no school. I never was go to school. Nobody teach me anything.
I just learn myself, just get into my mind. That's all. This only way I
can get along.
I hard working lady--work even sumer. Pick hops, train hops, pick
grapes. Work every day. No Sunday for me. I wash clothes--my children's
clothes. Winter time come--make baskets. Busy with the basket. People
come around, buy basket. That help too. Yes. And I catch fish with net in
Oak River. Swim all way under bank, catch about ten, fifteen at a time.
That's the way I do. I love fishing. See how hard I work? Some people don't
do that. They wait for husband. But I go out. Kill rabbit.     I got a little
shot gun in there. I shoot my own woodpecker to work on basket. Then we go
to coast, every sumer. Dry sea weed, dry mussels for winter time for eats.
And meat place, fish place, we eat that sea weed and mussel and cook that.
Sometime we want real meat, and we goes out and shoot wild rabbit. We
gather basket root when we out of job. We gather this fall, and use them
next winter. That's my life, yes. That's the way my living is.
On reservation, my husband planted grapes. We got about ten acres down
there. Sometimes we got four hundred dollars out of one crop. Sometimes it
come out about five hundred dollars. Last year, we just got two hundred and
forty dollars out of it. Of course, I didn't work. I didn't pick last year,
and that all went to funeral expenses. Three hundred and ninety-five dollars
I had funeral expenses for my husband, but I all clear. I'm all paid up.
I don't have to worry about bill.
207
When my husband sick, I stay up with him nights. His cousins, his
brother--even his mother--they didn't help. I suffer alone. I used to
give him morphine shots. Yes. One night he told me his ear bothering him.
He ask me to look and see if there was a sore.   I look, and seems like a
pimple with lots of dry skin on it. I pull that skin off. Few days later
I pull some more off. Then I forget it because don't seem like anything.
About three months later, he tell me: "My ear is bothering me. You better
look at it again."  I look at it, and this time there is a little sore there.
I told him to go to doctor, but he wouldn't do it. He put gunpowder there,
going to burn it out. Then it began to grow. Just like a cauliflower it
looked. Finally I get him to come into town to doctor. The doctor look
at him and say he has skin cancer. He tell him to go to the city to a
specialist. When he went to the hospital, they told him better have that
ear cut off. He said no. When he died, he wanted to die with his ear on
him. It got worse and worse. He suffered awful bad. For two years he
screamed. The doctor said his ear was going to start smelling, but I kept
him so clean it never did.
First year he had that, he worked. Second year, he can't do that.
He died last August. In July he had given up his life. He said he suffered
too much and he wanted to die. At the end he coulda't swallow. His whole
head, just as hard as stone. He died making sign of cross. Last thing he
said to me, "I'm going home. I'm going home alone. I'll find a good place.
This isn't home. This is like camping."    (10)
EPILOGUE
Certain motifs do not appear in the life history of Jane Adams that
would be expected on the basis of the other two accounts. No mention, for
instance, is made of poisoning. At least some of these motifs are absent
due to the briefness of the account. Mrs. Adams, for example, does believe
in poisoning, although her belief in it may not have as much influence with
her as with the other two women. In 1940, another Pomo reported that Mrs.
Adams had lectured an archaeologist who mentioned that he had been digging
in some Indian mounds. She told him that Indians did not believe in digging
things up because they might be poisoned. The archaeologist said that his
hands had been bothering him recently. Mrs. Adams said, "There, you see!"
In my presence, Mrs. Adams said that people did not display their beads
even at dances because they were afraid that they might have more beads than
the others, that this would arouse jealousy, and that a poison man might kill
them or their children.
Despite this, Mrs. Adams is a strong Catholic as isdicated by her life
history. B. Wilson obtained additional information from her on her rela-
tionships with the church. She told him, "Not many Indians go to the white
church in town. They don't like us, and we don't go. I haven't been in
church in town since Easter. I used to go to the reservation church in Vine-
land every Sunday. We observe Lent--forty days. Just kind of starve out.
We have to follow the Catholic rule if we are going to stay with it. I
don't know if the others do. And Easter we go to Holy Coumunion. Then we
are through with our fasting. I only go to confession on Christmas and
Easter.
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"You don't want to force people to go to the Catholic Church. Then
they go once or twice, and then they leave it.  My grandson is awful. He's
raised a Catholic. He read a book in high school and argues with his father
and mother. I don't like that. He should just get out of the Catholic Church
and say nothing and not worry his father and mother. I've told him that
often, but at that age they're just too smart."
NOTES
(1) JA told this to Juliette Lombard in 1940. In 1941, she told me that
her grandfather was an Englishman who had come to California and mar-
ried her grandmother, a member of the Lucerne Pomo band. Her grand-
father's ranch at one time covered all the land where Lucerne now stands.
(2)  JA told me this in 1941. In 1940, she told Juliette Lombard that her
mother had four children. One was a child, stillborn after her mother
slipped while she was washing clothes. Two were boys, one of whom died
before JA was born. No one told her what he died of. The other was
the brother referred to here. He died of tuberculosis when nearly
thirty after having had "fits" nearly all his life. His mother took
him to a white doctor who could do nothing. The Indian doctor was
equally unsuccessful, but he predicted that the boy would die of
tuberculosis when he was twenty-eight or thirty. "And that came true."
Note that below, JA counts only living children.
(3)  Later JA said that her mother used to wash once or twice a week for
the whites.
(i) This poverty of her early years is a constant theme with JA which
appeared throughout the interviews with both Miss Lombard and myself.
(5) JA was asked if her old people had scared her with tales of owls (cf.,
life histories of SM and 1W). She said that these tales were only
for very small children, and she could not remember their having been
used with her. Note here that while she insists children were made
afraid of people, their fears were directed toward the whites rather
than toward other Pomo. While EW and SM were taught to fear whites,
their chief fears seem to have been focused on other Pomos from child-
hood on.
(6)  Ellen Wood. Cf., her life history for material on dreams.
(7)  JA told B. Wilson that she had not observed the taboo against combing
the hair or washing the face. "I don't obey this rule. That's why I don't
bl ame the young." However, she had strictly observed the rules against
cooking during her menstrual period. "These Chiptown people cook no
biscuit, but I cook nothing. If you eat what they cook when that way you
get TB. I think that's why there's lots of TB now." She told J. Shor
that one Pomo woman had gone insane.   "My idea is that she followed
the white way; didn't follow the Indian rules she supposed to. She
ate meat during menstruation. Must have drink natural mountain water.
We Indian people believe that way. Natural mountain water affects
the head."
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(8)  JA was asked if she had a stepfather.  She said that the only step-
father she had had was this man her mother married after her second
marriage. I said I had heard that stepfathers could be pretty mean.
"Well, he didn't have to be bothered with me. I was already married
and don't stay with them. I don't know how stepfathers treat little
girls. But I had step-son. Raised him since he was about four or five
years old. I know I don't feel any different than he was my own son.
Maybe I didn't have any children, and that's why I felt that. Some men,
some women, hate step-children."
(9)  Note that earlier JA had said her mother died fifteen years ago. She
had also said that her daughter Edith was forty years old, and that
the child who died died when Edith was four. Below, JA says that her
mother helped at the birth of Francisco, who was born when Edith was
eleven. Such time discrepancies seem inevitable in any Pomo account.
(10) The above account of her husband's illness and death were given to
Juliette Lombard in 1940. In 1941, JA told B. Wilson, "I hear when
person with last breath, they see flower place. I'd like to know if
it's true. My husband see flower field, and next day he die. He say
he's going home, he's just camping here. And his sister when she died,she
ta lked jus t the same."
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APPENDIX: AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ELLEN WOOD
I don't know. I had an awful bad life, hard life, all the way to yet,
just as far as I could remember.
I don't know how old I was, I was small I guess, my stepfather, when I
sleep he always sneak around at night time.   I don't know why he did that,
but all the time he did that, and I couldn't sleep. And one time, when I
was ten or twelve or eleven years old, he took me out to build a brush house.
That was the first time he did that to me. He cut the bushes and threw them
out into the open where I could pick them up. And I was piling it up, as
much as I could pack. And then when I was stooping over to pick them up, he
grab me from behind and take me into the brush. It was this time, in the
morning. They were down in the field getting ready to pick hops. They
always build a brush house for the shade. Then he grab me and take me in
the brush. It was pretty close to our house. And I hollered. He let me
go. I took the brush and ran home. And I was crying. My mother asked me
what was the matter, but I never answered her.
Then it kept on like that, and finally--she finally noticed, I guess.
Then after that she kind of know it. From then on, every night, every night,
he tried to catch me asleep. From then on, she didn't feel good. I didn't
know what to do. My aunt was someplace--she was married too--and I was afraid
to go anyplace.
Then after a while she found a man, and she gave me to him. They had
the man in a camp.- That was two or three years after that. Then when I was
away, they came after me. That was in the night time. She and her man, they
came and took me home. I don't know what they wanted, and I came along with
them. I saw the man laying in the bed, and so I went there. She told me to
go there. I stayed there about a week. Then run away again. I didn't go
home for about three or four days. Then my mother came after me and took me
home, and they give me a good licking. After that I never tried to run away
anymore. Stayed home all the time.
For eight years I stayed with this man. Then my sister growed up to be
a young woman, and she was playing with him all the time. She didn't know
nothing about it though until she was about fourteen years old. Then they
run around together. But I didn't say anything. But then that man would
stay out until about twelve o'clock every night. He would stay with my
sister half the night and half the night with me. After two months I told
him that he could stay with her, plenty of men in the world and no sense to
have two sisters stuck to one man. He didn't like that. He wanted us both.
But I told him I didn't want that.   That would be shame, I said.  Yah, and
then after that they stayed together,he even yet he never left me. He was
always looking for-me all the time--look for me all the time wherever I go.
And then one night this old man (Wood, her present husband) and I were
together, and he caught us.  He wanted me to go home with him.   I did.  I
must have been crazy, but I did. He had a horse there. We were down at
Silone's and had had a couple of drinks. He wanted me to ride the horse,
212
but I didn't want to. So we walked down toward Manzanita leading the horse
that night. And then he hit me. I don't know what it was with, but he must
have struck me on the head with something and knocked me out. He must have
pulled me to one side of the road. Anrd there was a little ditch there with
water in it. He went down and got water in his hat, and he was washing my
face. I come to. I feel it. And he was washing my face, washing my face,
and then I come to. And I was just lying there, and he was sitting there.
"You ought to wake up. You're drunk. This is Silone's place, " he said.
But I told him, "It isn't Silone's place. I know that, and I know what you
done."
He wanted me to get on the horse again, but I wouldn't. So we started
to walk again. When we got to Manzanita, we went to our house, and I called
and my mother came to the door. I went in alone. I didn't say anything to
them, but went to my bed, to my place. He knocked on the door, and the old
man opened for him. He came in and told them the story that he found me
drunk lying in the road. My family believed it. Then I got mad, and came
out and told them it was a lie. I said, "I know what you did to me, but I
didn't say anything and then you came telling lies, and my family believe
you!" I chased him out. I got a big iron bar and chased him out.
Next morning, one lady came to see me. I was sitting outside. She
came to me and asked me what he had done to me. I told her that he had hit
me, but I didn't know what with. She looked at me and on my head, she said,
was a knife mark. And my hair, I had long hair way down, was all blood.
There was blood all through it. After that she took me down to the creek
and took everything off me and washed my hair. After that I wouldn't talk
to him.
And next time, I and my mother was going home from the river way down
there in Manzanita rancheria. And he came along with a wagon, drunk, and
another fellow. They stopped us. And he wanted me to make it up. But I
told him, "No! What became of my sister? Stay with her. Don't bother me
any more." After that he didn't bother me for a long time. And then when
we were in our place, I and my aunt, we were alone sitting down there on the
porch after sundown, and here he came along. He wanted to stay with me
again. And so I told him, "No, I don't think so. You stay with her and
make a good living, and I'll try to do the same thing and find another man."
Then he said no other man would have me. I said, "That's all right. It's
my lookout." And he had brought fifty dollars in silver with him, and he
put it here on my apron. I was sitting there. Gee, it looks lots, fifty
dollars in silver. I asked him, "What's this for?" I didn't want it, but
he wouldn't take it back. So I stood up, and they fell all over. He was
picking it up and crying. Then I felt bad, he was crying and picking up
the silver. Then I went in the house, and I was feeling sorry for him, little
bit. Then I heard him talking to my aunt, and I heard her say, "I can't do
anything with her. She's spoiled now." And I heard her say, "Don't bother
her anymore. Go on and do what you want." I could hear them because I was
inside and they were on the porch.
And after that I was living with this old man, and still he tried to
come and talk to me. And when I come to this fellow, I stayed in this
213
rancheria maybe year. His old mother-in-law and them used to come around
all the time and try to chase me away. Gee, I used to be scared to stay
when he went away. Used to lock myself up in the house, scared. She used
to come around and give me dirty language. He'd had her daughter. That's
the way the Indians are, jealous of their son-in-law. And she had another
man, but still she used to come around and give me bad names. But I didn't
say anything. That's why I don't have no friends on this rancheria, just
go around by myself afraid to talk to anybody.
That's about the last, I guess, the end, right here. But still I don't
feel free here, feel like I'm just away off. But still I try to help even
if they don't be friendly to me, try to talk good. Well, that's the way
they teach us. If you go some other rancheria, try to be good. Then some
day, maybe it return; some day when you're in trouble they might help you.
I guess that's about all my life, I guess.
And now I'm going on fifty-nine now. September, I'll be fifty-nine.
I don't know what date though, but it was September, hop picking time. My
mother said I was three days old when they finished the hops. That must
have been September, first week. There wasn't much hop those days, just
down at Doyle's place. Wasn't many people that time working for one man.
215
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JANE ADAMS
I was with my mother and my grandmother all the time. Yes, I raised
with my mother. My father and mother, I was baby when they leave each
other. So my mother raise me, and we raised awful poor. Yes, awful poor.
My mother buy me pair of shoes, and I don't wear that every day. Just
great once in while I go to town I wear that. No dress. Maybe I have
three dress. That's lucky. I own two dress. One put on; one wash. Just
change around. That's all. That time they didn't have no undershirt in
store. That come in later. My mother buy sack of flour, and when she
empty it, save that and make me slip and undershirt. (Where were you born?)
In Lucerne. Right edge of Lucerne tunnel. Use old shack when I born. My
mother told me that little chick first hatch when I born. That must be
either April or May.
I raised awful poor. Everybody raised that way--not only me. Eats
just the same. Sometime we eat just tortilla.   That's Spanish. Sometimes
supper that's all we eat. We don't eat no dinner. Sometime acorn mush,
pinole, wild rabbit--when we lucky sometimes. Later on, when I was about
nine or ten years old, from there up we was a little better eats. We eats
corn. We gets corn from somebody's field. That ain't real stealing. Have
to eat something. That's the way we get along. Some white folks good to
us. When apple fall, they let us take it. I'm not ashamed to tell you that.
My mother wash four times the week. That's how we get along. My
father still alive that time. He's working, but he spend all his money on
drink. Don't care about his children.
Well, so I grow up that way, and after I get about twenty years old, I
was married. Then I got better clothes. My husband support me. But he was
a drinker so I didn't stay with him very long. When Edith was about two
years old, we parted.
When Edith was five years old, I got this husband I lost year ago. He
was pretty good. He drink, but not too much. He don't scold me all the
time. We get along fine. Yes, help each other. Winter time, we gets eats
in store crated. Yes. My husband worked every day at ranch, and summer
time we both work. Then we pay our bill up. Sometime two hundred, two hun-
dred fifty collars. We don't spend the money we make foolish. We buy our
clothes, enough to last the whole winter through: everyday dress, sometime
good dress. He buy clothes same way: underclothes, two three shirts, and
what left over, we save that for eats winter time.
We had hop contract for two years, and we save up seven hundred dollars.
We run a contract forty acres--thirty-five dollars an acre, trellis, high
pole. Contract eleven hundred dollars. I think we were on that two year,
and we save up seven hundred dollars clear. And they buy. automobile when
Francisco was about twelve years old when he start to go high school. They
call it Ford 16. Well, that wore out, and they got Studebaker. Run that
two or three year, and that time Francisco was about seventeen years old,
I guess. Eighteen or seventeen. Then he bought new Chrysler--nine hundred
216
dollars. You see, that where our money went. Weren't for this automobile,
we'd be a little ahead.
On reservation, my husband planted grapes. We got about ten acres down
there. Sometime we got four hundred dollars out of one crop. Sometimes it
come out about five hundred. Last year we just got two hundred and forty
dollars out of it. Of course, I didn't work. I didn't pick last year, and
that all went to funeral expenses. Three hundred and ninety-five dollars
I had funeral expenses for my husband, but I all clear. I'm all paid up.
I don't have to worry about bill.
I hard working lady--work even sumer. Pick hops, train hops, pick
grapes. Work every day. No Sunday for me. I wash clothes--my children's
clothes. Winter time come--make baskets. Busy with the basket. People
come around, buy basket. That help too. Yes. And I catch fish with net.
Swim all way under bank; catch about ten, fifteen at a time. That's the
way I do. I love f ishing.
See how hard I work? Some people don't do that. They wait for husband.
But I go out. Kill rabbit. I got a little shot gun in there. I shoot my
own woodpecker to work on basket. Then we go to coast every suuer dry sea
weed, dry mussel, for winter time for eats. And meat place, fish place, we
eat that sea weed and mussel and cook that. Sometime we want real meat and
we goes out and shoot wild rabbit. We gather basket root when we out job.
We gather this fall and use them next winter. Willow. Red bud. Year before
we gather them.
That's my life, yes. That's the way my living is.
217
CHAPTER VI
ANALYSIS OF THE LIFE HISTORIES
It may be of some assistance to the reader of the life histories if a
few of the loose threads are pulled together here, and similarities and dif-
ferences between the accounts are pointed out. No more intensive analysis
of the material has been attempted. For one thing, I am not competent to
pontificate upon pe.rsonality and its underlying principles--and any attempt
to trespass in this field would be likely only to befog the issues. For
another, I am fully aware of how much material on the Pomo remains to be
presented. It is useless to attempt to speak for the Pomo on the basis of
these three life histories alone. It should be emphasized, therefore, that
the statements which follow are based on the life histories and apply only
to Pomo women of the generation represented by the three women. It seems
possible to generalize from their experience to this extent. "Pomo" there-
fore is used in a restricted sense throughout this chapter. Quite probably
if life histories from people on other generation levels, or from men on
this generation, could have been included here, the resulting picture of
Pomo life would be radically different. Possibly it would be rather similar.
But it would not be the same.
Uniformities in Culture
What Happened: If one analyzes the life histories into incidents, one finds
that there is a marked parallelism in what actually happened to the three
women. It is the most striking between the two longest accounts, but even
in Jane Adams' brief history one meets the same events appearing like well-
known landmarks upon the Pomo life path.
To choose some of the more striking similarities--each woman was deserted
by her father during her infancy. Each was reared largely by her mother's
people. Each was left largely to the care of an aunt or grandmother, but in
each case the mother still figured as the dominant person in the child's life.
Childhood was spent in much the same manner, even to the playing of the same
games: shinny, swimming, construction of "rock dolls." When older relatives
went to wash clothing for whites, Ellen Wood and Sophie Martinez accompanied
them and played with white children. Jane Adams' mother also washed for the
whites, but she does not seem to have played with white children. At night,
each child slept with an aunt or grandmother who instructed her in Pomo
customs and told her stories about the old times. They were early made to
fear whites, other Pomo, and the dangers of the supernatural. Sophie Martinez
and Ellen Wood both had experiences with "poisoning" during their childhood.
Both also saw relatives who had been "scared" and treated for the breaking
of menstrual taboos. Both saw something of the ritual and heard the prophecies
of the Maru Cult. Both were ill as children, were treated by maru doctors,
and saw their mothers pay the doctors for the treatment. Jane Adams must
have seen something of this doctoring also, since her older brother was treated
by lItdian doctors during her childhood; but of this we learn little.
At puberty, each woman underwent a period of modif ied seclusion, and was
instructed in the taboos which she would have to observe at future periods.
218
All married relatively young. Two were married off by their mothers to
older men who had been previously married--their marriages being arranged
apparently with neither their consent nor their previous knowledge. In
these two cases, the families of the couple exchanged wedding presents.
Jane Adams, who belonged to a Pomo group largely disrupted by the effects of
white settlement, arranged her own marriage and there was no marriage ex-
change. After marriage, all three began to be trained for adult life, but
they were still under the tutelage of older relatives. All three women
lived with relatives for some years after marriage and were initiated only
gradually into full responsibility. They learned to care for a house and
to cook and sew, and also began to work regularly to support themselves
and their families. Before this, they had learned to make baskets and had
occasionally worked in the hop fields, but no pressure had been placed on
them to work steadily at these occupations.
All three had several children by their first husbands, and then these
first marriages were broken up. Sophie Martinez and Ellen Wood said their
husbands first deserted them and then accused them of unfaithfulness. Jane
Adams deserted her husband. All three maintained that the men attempted to
persuade them to return but they refused. After the separation, the first
husbands of Sophie Martinez and Jane Adams were sent to prison for murder.
All three women married again, and this time each married a man of her own
choosing. Ellen Wood and Jane Adams remained with their second husband;
Sophie Martinez attained permanency only with her fourth husband. Each
woman had children by subsequent husbands. Ellen Wood had twelve children
in all; Sophie Martinez, nine; and Jane Adams at least three. All lost
some children. Sophie Martinez and Ellen Wood blamed many of the deaths on
the poisoning activities of their enemies. They were unfortunate in other
ways with their children--Sophie Martinez and Ellen Wood had one child
imprisoned (and we were told by other Pomo that Jane Adam's only son was
accused of theft and lost his job on this account).
Each woman spent part of her life on a foreign rancheria. Each became
a government ward in her early womanhood, and had received some form of gov-
ernment assistance. All three were Catholics, two from infancy and one from
early womanhood. Two had had visions of Christ. All had had to cope with
illnesses during their adult life, and for these they had called in white
doctors, and usually the priest and an Indian doctor.
Probably this same outline of events would appear in the life of any
Pomo woman of their generation with only such minor variations as are found
in the three accounts already cited. Pomo life then seems to be relatively
restricted, with few alternative choices for individuals. However, even
within this restricted range there is some elasticity. All three women,
for example, are basket makers. But only Jane Adams excels. On the other
hand, Ellen Wood has found an outlet through becoming a dream doctor, and
in this way she is gradually obtaining some recognition. Sophie Martinez
is the only dancer among the three--and as a dancer she has prestige among
the Pomo. None of them became sinners, though this is another recognized
way for a Pomo woman to achieve prestige. Despite its uniformity then,
Pomo culture has made some provision for individual differences.
219
General Themes:  The general uniformity of "what happens" is underscored by
the appearance of common themes or uniformities in outlook and interpreta-
tion. These might also be referred to as the basic assumptions of Pomo life.
Perhaps the most striking theme, to an outsider, is the assumtion that
living is an end in itself rather than a means to an end. This is reflected
in the failure of the women to formulate ambitions for themselves or to view
their lives as leading toward some goal. It is also reflected by the small
role that frustration of desires plays in the life accounts. Frustrations do
occur: Sophie Martinez wished to attend school and was prevented by the
laughter of other Pomo; Ellen Wood desired Stan Day, who would have none of
her; Jane Adams planned a college education for her son, who preferred to
drive around in an expensive car. But the Pomo seem more impressed with loss
of what they already have, with the disruption of their settled ways, than
they do with the failure to realize some cherished scheme.
The Pomo instead of planning for the future and organizing their lives
to contribute toward the realization of a goal, seem content to accept what
life itself brings them without attempting to control events. This is not
true of all--it is least true of Jane Adams as far as these three women are
concerned, and she describes herself as a hard-working woman struggling to
improve her economic position. Yet even her goals seem weak in comparison
with those found in other cultures. In 1942, I collected a number of brief
life histories from Makah Indians who partake of the Northwest Coast culture
with its idealization of the man or woman who struggles constantly to improve
his social position through acquiring wealth and performing notable deeds.
Women are not far behind the men in their drive for success, although it was
a man who said to his close friend, "Let us strive all our lives to become
big men.
Such behavior is completely incomprehensible to Pomos on the testimony
of these three life histories.   They do not announce goals nor do they train
intensively to achieve success in any direction. Or, if they do, they are
careful not to indicate this in their life histories. Makah men and women
began their life histories with a description of how in childhood they
learned the things which they would use later in their struggles for prestige
and dwelt at length on the lectures addressed to them by their elders which
emphasized that they belonged to the upper class and had a duty to achieve
great things and to make a name for themselves which would increase the family
prestige. They regarded childhood as a training ground for adult life. The
Pomos showed scant inclination to reconstruct their early lives and did so
only when prodded. Even then, they described childhood as a time when they
had spent most of their waking hours playing with other children in games
which they never identified as preparatory to adult pursuits. They mentioned
that the older people told them about Pomo customs, but they seemed to feel
that what they had learned, they had learned on their own initiative in imi-
tation of the adults but not at their prompting. They do not indicate that
their older relatives or others in the group urged them on to learn new
activities or to become outstanding in any way.   The only suggestion of this
seems to be the occasion when Sophie Martinez's grandmother suggested to the
child that she learn to drill bead money: "A good thing. Someday somebody
might want to buy some." On the whole the adults seem to have taken a
220
permissive attitude, allowing children to learn if they wished. But there
is no hint that the adults ever rewarded children for any achievement. (1)
Now these statements may be true only because we are dealing with Pomo
women, all of whom were born after the great disruption of Poro life when
presumably much of the old training had become pointless. Moreover, women
apparently had never been exposed to the conscious training which the men
underwent as apprentices in the old professions. However, it is probably
safe to assume that the goals presented to the Pono were in general passive
ones. Sophie Martinez and Ellen Wood mention that as children they heard
the chiefs lecturing the people of the rancheria. In these addresses, the
chiefs told them again and again, "Be good to people. Don't hurt anybody.
Be good to everybody." Even here there is no suggestion that they attempt
to outdo each other in "goodness."
It is possible that this inhibition of goal-oriented behavior is due
to the development of widespread anxieties which seem marked among the
Pomo. These people tend to view the world as filled with potential dangers
originating either in other individuals or in supernatural powers. The
latter perhaps are the sources of the least anxiety since there appears to
be a certain logic in their actions, whereas people may work one evil with-
out being given cause. Nevertheless contact with either is regarded by
the Pomo as something to be avoided rather than courted with the hope of
obtaining some advantage.
This again may not be as true of Poro men who sought the aid of the
supernatural in their enterprises, particularly in gambling. Even in these
life histories there are instances of positive control of the supernatural.
Sophie Martinez twice mentions mem who had obtained luck for gambling.
Ellen Wood mentions the use of love magic. And all three women mention
doctoring which necessarily involves the idea of a positive supernatural
force. But there is no reference to women ever attempting to control the
supernatural. Ellen Wood says she knows love magic but does not dare to
use it, just as she does not dare to perform other rituals for obtaining
her desires. Ellen Wood also is becoming a dream doctor, but it should be
noted that she regards herself as a passive agent of her power, which has
come to her unsought and gives her instructions which she must carry out
unless she wishes to suffer. She apparently has no control over her power,
nor does she seem to think that other dream doctors control their power.
Although possession by a power is probably a source of satisfaction to her,
it is also a cause of anxiety for there is always the possibility that she
will be ordered to do something which she cannot do. The same idea appears
in Sophie Martinez's account when she describes the maru dreams of her uncle
who was ordered to have the people of Chiptown dance the old Pomo dances.
His power assured him that he would die if the people failed to dance.
Ellen Wood believes that Sophie Martinez's husband died because he refused
to become a dream doctor as instructed by some controlling power. The early
stages of possession by the power may also be marked by sickness and emo-
tional instability. Both Sophie Martinez and Elaine Martinez suggested that
Bernice was to become a dream doctor--to them this was a reasonable explana-
tion for her drunkenness and general unruliness. Outfit doctors apparently
controlled the supernatural for curing purposes, but women could only become
221
the dream or sucking doctors who were largely agents of their power control-
led through threats against their well being if they failed to obey.
In the life histories, one of the principal concerns is with negative
rites which protect the individual from contact with the supernatural. Care-
ful observation of taboos is stressed by all three women, and their reasons
for the observations are usually that in this way one prevents illness or
other misfortune, rather than by such observations one improves one lot. The
only positive rites seem to be those in connection with pregnancy and child-
birth. A study of the life histories certainly gives rise to the impression
that the Pomo are chiefly intent upon protecting themselves from some danger.
Their taboos, or protective devices, however, seem based on the assump-
tion that the supernatural is not malevolent to men. If one rigidly observes
the rules, there is no reason to fear the supernatural. Observing the taboos
is therefore an anxiety reducing device, but at the same time there is always
the possibility of unwittingly breaking some rule.   Then punishment is seem-
ingly automatic though not necessarily immediate. Thus, Sophie Martinez's
uncle is confronted by the water monster when he goes fishing during his
wife's menstrual period although he was not aware that his wife was menstru-
ating and had no intention of breaking the taboo. The effect of his act is
essentially the same as that of the deliberate breaking of the menstrual
taboos by the relative of Ellen Wood. A friend of Ellen Wood becomes ill
after killing a snake during her menstrual period although she had no inten-
tion of killing it. But on the whole, there is some assurance that a careful
observation of the rules will eliminate danger. Sophie Martinez formulates
the theme best in her frequent statements that she was afraid, therefore she
obeyed the rules, therefore she never saw the water monster or suffered any
of the other penalties for breaking the rules. All her misfortunes seem to
be caused by the malevolence of other human beings or by their contact with
the supernatural.  Only once does she admit to responsibility -- when she
unwittingly ate some food she should have avoided and thus caused the death
of her child.
Anxieties about personal relationships seem to play even a larger role
in Pomo life than do anxieties directed toward the supernatural. There is
the constant expectation that other people wish one ill and are actively
working to encompass this end, and at the same time hints of aggressive
actions by the individual against others. Sophie Martinez can generalize,
"Everybody always hated us," or "They hated us and poisoned our children.
That's why all my children died, and all my mother's died too." Ellen Wood
stresses the same theme.
Their method of dealing with this anxiety are verbalized as essentially
passive again. Sophie Martinez maintains that from childhood she feared
other people, and therfore she was good to them in the hopes that they would
not hurt her. Ellen Wood says that she fears other people and therefore she
tries to have no contact with them. Jane Adams does not formulate her
motives in this manner, but she does say that she sees little of the other
Pomo and knows little about them. Ellen Wood describes how she was taught
as a child never to jeer at people for fear that they would poison her or
injure her in some way. Yet, despite all attempts at avoiding the notice of
222
other people, there is apparent an assumption that people are malevolent and
will harm one without cause. So, though both Sophie Martinez and Ellen Wood
refer constantly to poisoning attempts against their families and live in
terror of them, neither ever indicates that she feels herself in any way
responsible for inciting others to such attempts against her. In some cases,
undoubtedly, the poisonings go back to old family feuds.   But in other cases,
probably there is no such reason known to the individual.
Anxieties regarding individual relationships may be the result of the
difficulties of adjustment which the Pomo have known in recent years. The
in-group hostilities which now beset every rancheria and the Pomo as a whole
would certainly have made coop.eration difficult. Probably the feuds can be
maintained today only because of the dependent position of the Pomo in which
each Pomo adjusts himself to the white economy, and there is no need for
general cooperation of a group. In their adjustment to the whites, aggres-
sive feelings must be controlled, and these possibly find their full expres-
sion diverted back into the Pomo group where they can be expressed with more
impunity. At least one may note that throughout the life histories, while
there is a general tone of antagonism to the whites, there is never or almost
never any expression of antagonism toward an individual white. The only case
which comes to mind is the knifing of Fred Littleton by Stephen Martinez.
In this case, Mrs. Martinez emphasizes again and again that her husband had
not recognized the man as a white, had had no intention of hurting him, and
that he had acted in self-defense. She makes this defense, and insists that
other whites recognized the justice of their defense. But nevertheless the
Martinez family fled from Littleton, and did not dare to return to Oak Valley
until Littleton himself sent for -them and forgave Martinez. Perhaps this
instance alone is an explanation of why one hears almost nothing of aggressive
actions toward the whites--apparently the Pomo expected that any such expres-
sion of their feelings would bring immediate punishment which they were help-
less to resist.
Yet we know, both from these three women and from other sources that the
Pomo have a generalized hatred of whites and that they resent Pomo treatment
at the hands of whites and feel them the source of much of their discomfort.
They would probably echo the statement made by a young Tanner Valley woman:
"Sometimes I get so I hate every white person in the world. I hate them for
what they've done to the Indians and the way they treat them now. If every
Indian was honest about it, I think he'd say he felt the same way. We just
can't help it. We're brought up that way. We hear our people tell what the
whites did to them, we see the way the whites treat us now, and it makes Us
mad. We hate them. . . . Sometimes I don't feel that way. Sometimes I despise
the Indians and the Indian ways and want to be a white person. I could be a
white person if I wanted to except for my skin. And then I feel bad about it
and turn around and start hating the whites again. Mostly I just hate the
whites." (2) All three women mentioned the early treatment of P8mos by the
whites, all three at some time mentioned that whites were now preventing them
from gathering acorns and materials for baskets, that they now refuse to hire
Indian women to work for them the way they used to do. But when individual
whites are mentioned, they are almost invariably praised. Whenever Sophie
Martinez mentions a white, she appends to his name, "they were good whites,
good to Indian people."  The stress on goodness is slightly less in the
223
accounts of Jane Adams and Ellen Wood, but it is still there. Now, certainly
in their long lives they must have worked for whites who dealt with them
unfairly, or suffered in some way at an individual white's hands. But the
only case mentioned is that of Fred Littleton, and even here Sophie Martinez
carefully says that Fred was a good man who never would have done what he did
unless he was drunk, and that he later made amends. (3)
When one turns to in-group relationships, the picture is entirely changed.
There is evidence from the life histories that aggressive feelings find an
outlet in three forms: physical violence, poisoning, and gossip. And there
are the dominant phenomena in interpersonal relations among the Pomo, contra-
dicting the customary picture of the peaceful, nonviolent California natives.
In the three life histories, there are references to a relatively large number
of violent attacks against individuals, and almost invariably these are di-
rected against other Pomo. Sophie Martinez reported that her first husband
and his nephew were sent to prison for murdering a Tripton County Pomo, and
that Martinez's brother was murdered by another Pomo. In addition she
describes the trouble between Littleton and Martinez in which a beating and a
knifing are involved. In 1941 Ruth Post attempted to attack Mrs. Martinez--
at least she was attempting to break down the door with a large chunk of fire-
wood when Ellen Wood's husband intervened, and Mrs. Martinez lived in fear
that the attack would be repeated. We also know that Bernice Martinez had
been arrested several times for attempted knifings and that when drunk she
beat her mother and daughter. There is some evidence that she threatened to
kill them if given the opportunity. Ellen Wood reported a fight between her
mother and another woman in which a good deal of hair was lost if the injuries
went no further. She also said that her first husband had attacked her with
some weapon which laid open the side of her head and knocked her unconscious.
Her nephew was accused of shooting the poisoner of his father. In 1941, she
remarked that her half-brother had had a fight with a man now living at Brush-
ville, and that she was afraid whenever her sons drank with the man because
he had threatened to beat them up in revenge. Jane Adams said that her first
husband went to prison for murder. In this case, we failed to learn whether
the victim was another Pomo.
Now in all, save the last case, violence flared up during drinking
parties or when the participants were drinking. I do not know of any case
in which a Pomo who was not drinking deliberately started a fight. Instead,
the Pomo believe that the normal way of satisfying one's aggressive feelings
toward another is through poisoning. Though there is no evidence in the
life histories that they were ever punished for fighting when they were
children--indeed any adult intervention in children's fights is denied and
the women seem to take it for granted that children would quarrel and then
become friends again--by the time they were adults, they are expected to
substitute indirect methods for direct methods. Every Poro is convinced
that these are efficacious as direct methods; and every Pomo is certain
that at least some of their neighbors are conversant with the methods and
are using them against their enemies. (A) Sophie Martinez mentions ten
deaths in her itmmediate family which she ascribes to poisoning. Eight
were of children who could have caused no one harm, and who were poisoned
simply as a move against the family. The other two deaths were of grown
224
men: her father and her first husband. From Ellen Wood, we learn that
Mrs. Martinez's last illness was interpreted by the Pono as the result of
a poisoning attempt directed really at Beatrice Martinez. From Rita Day,
we learn that the Pono attribute the death of Stephen Martinez, Mrs.
Martinez's husband, to poisoning.   Throughout, Mrs. Martinez's life history,
she seems a prey to the threat of poisoning which is always hanging over her
and her family. In 1939-41, she could be thrown into a panic by the thought
that her granddaughter was among a crowd of Pomo where she could not be
watched and protected from a poisoning attempt.
Ellen Wood seems even more preoccupied with poisoning than does Mrs.
Martinez, though she dwells on poisoning attempts directed against herself
whereas Mrs. Martinez never openly attributes an illness of hers to poison-
ing. Ellen Wood refers to poisoning as the cause of ten deaths in her
iediate family, and speaks of three attempts by other Porno to poison her,
and two attempts against close relatives. She also mentions another illness
caused by poison and a death due to poison. She accuses ten individuals of
poisoning others, and more than hints that she herself may have had something
to do with the death of a number of her enemies or their children and that
she has been trained by her older relatives in poisoning arts which she now
intends to teach to her daughter.
Jane Adams makes no mention of poisoning in her life history, but we
know from other statements of her that she believes in it and fears it.
It probably affects her relationships to other Pomo as much as it does that
of the other two women. In general we can say that the Pomo fear each
other and assume that others hate them and are eager to work them evil. This
may be but a projection of their own individual animosities--they finding
some outlet for their aggressive feelings by projecting them on to other
people. Nevertheless, it has a paralyzing effect on Poro social life.
It is probable that some of the anxiety displayed by the Pomo is gen-
erated in the unstable family relationships which surround the Poro child.
A glance through the life histories show that the only constant social
relationships are those based on blood. Otherwise couples break up, new
marriages are formed, and these again break up. Children are brought into
contact with step-siblings, and then are separated from them again. They
grow fond of some adult and he disappears because of the breaking of mar-
riage ties. During the time that Sophie Martinez was a child, her father
had three other wives besides Mable Brown. Her mother had one other husband.
Mrs. Martinez went from one family to another; from her mother and step-
father, to her mother's sister, to her father and paternal grandmother, to
her stepfather's relatives. Ellen Wood's mother was married five times,
twice to Mrs. Wood's father. Ellen Wood's father was married twice. Her
aunt was married to three different men after Mrs. Wood could remember.
Her grandmothers had different men. Mrs. Wood seems to have spent her child-
hood moving among three or four households. Yet there was some attempt made
to give stability to the social relationships which the child encountered.
Both Mrs. Martinez and Mrs. Wood mentioned that they took their step-
parents' relatives for their own. In some cases, even after a couple broke
up, the step-children would still "keep relations'! with their ex-step-parents'
families. But the frequent disruptions of a household attendant upon the
225
breaking of the marriage of some of the inmates, must have given rise to some
doubts in the children as to the adults' omnipotence to control the universe
in their interests since they could not even secure permanency within the
household. Nor could the child always count upon the protection of parents.
Sophie Martinez indicates that her father made no attempt to prevent her step-
mother from being "mean" to her. Ellen Wood's mother did not intervene when
her husband began his nightly prowls until the affair became too public.
Then she married her daughter off rather than speak to her husband.
Feelings of insecurity generated in this way were probably reinforced
by the deliberate attempts of adults to frighten small children. Children
were told that the owl would get them if they cried at night, or that some
supernatural would punish them. They were told of poisoning, and warned
that any one who was not a close relative might poison them. As a tiny girl,
Ellen Wood was told by her sick mother to report any one who came close to
their house; Sophie Martinez would wake frightened by dreams in which she
saw people attempting to poison the family. If Ellen Wood is right, adults
even attempted to make small children fear close relatives of the opposite
sex. There is little to wonder at in the fact that these children grew up
suspicious of other people, and in general frightened of the world.
This emphasis on the negative side of the life histories, should not
blind one to the fact that there are satisfactions in Pomo life and that
these too play a not insignificant role in the accounts of the three women.
Probably in aboriginal days, the satisfactions were more abundant and largely
outweighed the fears and dissatisfactions. But, the presence of the whites
have introduced some satisfactions which are not despised by the Pomo. The
whites have brought them Catholicism, and have underwritten Pomo subsistence.
This last fact may account for the relatively little concern evinced
in the life histories for subsistence. The Pomo standard of living is not
a high one, but it is relatively secure. Before the coming of the whites,
the standard of living may have been higher, but despite the rarity of
periods of scarcity, the Pomo were haunted by the thought of famine. "The
older informants often said that things were much better today, for in the
old days they were continually fearing starvation. Now they have little
fear, even when they have no funds, because at least food can be charged
against the expected summer wages for hop picking and fruit gathering.
The younger people have never experienced real starvation or fear of it."
(5) This has been true for the Pomo ever since these three women can re-
member. The only one who shows any real preoccupation with subsistence prob-
lems is Jane Adams, whose whole life history is a description of how she
obtained food, clothing and other necessities. She too complains that they
were poverty stricken and had little to eat when she was a child. Neither
of the other women ever says that they went hungry. References to their
working life and to ownership of property are introduced casually in con-
nection with other events. Sophie Martinez commented several times that
she and her husband had nothing, but in each case this referred to beads,
baskets, or money which they needed to pay an Indian doctor or which they
wished to place in their child's coffin. Ellen Wood said that after she
married Wood, he gambled his money away, and she therefore began to earn
money to support herself and her family. She said also that the past year
226
had been a hard one and that for the first time she had been forced to seek
assistance from the Catholic Sisters and other sources.
In general then, it may be assumed that the Pomo suffer no great
anxieties over subsistence. Instead, they derive some satisfaction from
the thought that they are better off than their ancestors. Sophie
Martinez once said that it always made her sad to think of her old people
living without good food and clothing before the whites came. In their own
lifetime, they had seen conditions improve, and although the depression had
slashed wages and introduced the competition of white labor, they were rela-
tively secure in 1939-41 through work made available by the government. (6)
Another source of satisfaction to them seems to be the Catholic reli-
gion. Their Catholicism may be reinterpreted to fit Pomo life, but it seems
to be an integral part of their lives. It seems to have a role in reducing
anxiety and promoting peace. Sophie Martinez says that when she prays,
she feels "good." "When I pray a little, that helps me a little bit." She
uses the holy water she gets at the Convent as a protection against evil
spirits. Sophie Martinez and Ellen Wood had visions of Christ which seem
to have reassured them. Ellen Wood and Jane Adams are reassured that their
dead are happy; Ellen Wood through a vision in which her two dead daughters
told her they were in a better land than this, Jane Adams by the statements
of her dying husband that he could see the land to which he was going and
that was really home. Catholicism has also offered itself as a means for
obtaining one's desires. Sophie Martinez is told by the Sisters to pray to
Christ for what she wishes, and that he will help her to obtain it. Ellen
Wood and Ruth Post after discussing the relationship of the dream doctor's
power to God and Christ, decide that God does not give his power to the
dream doctor, but is willing to use his power himself to help anybody who
asks for help. (7) This is contrary to the old beliefs, but the Pomo
find the thought that they can ask for help and receive aid, a comforting
one.
At the same time, the Catholic church seems to have introduced no new
anxieties. No Pomo, to the best of my knowledge, has ever become ill from
breaking a rule of the Catholic church even if this is done all knowingly.
They have taken over new taboos from Catholicism, but the sanctions enforcing
them are difficult to discover. They eat no meat on Friday and compare this
with the taboo on meat eating during menstruation or after childbirth. But
they give no penalty for eating meat on Friday, while they are definite as
to the penalty for breaking the old time rules.
There are positive satisfactions also to be found in the beliefs and
practices which the Pomo regard as their own. Indian doctors are called
in for every illness, and despite years of contact with schools, with the
graduates of medical schools, and with hospitals, the Pomo are convinced
that their Indian doctors have the ability to cure them. Commonly they call
in also the white doctors and the priest and Catholic Sister, but they give
the credit for the cure to the Indian doctor. They are thus fortified not
only by the thought that in Pomo culture they have a defense against illness,
but also by the comforting belief that the Pomo are superior to the whites
for their doctors can cure where white doctors fail. There also remains the
227
belief in deities other than those recognized by the Catholics, though how
much remains of the aboriginal concepts is difficult to say. Ellen Wood
refers to some being "we Indians think of as superior" and declares that
the Indian way of believing is the best. Sophie Martinez makes no mention
of such beliefs in her life history but from other material it is obvious
that she too believes in some deity other than the Catholic one. None of
the three women seems to feel any conflict between her acceptance of the
Catholic beliefs and her continuance in the old observances. They derive
satisfaction from both.
Perhaps the disruption of Pomo society and the resulting loss of con-
trol over the individual have made social contacts largely nonrewarding.
But there are instances in the life histories of kindlinesses, of sympathetic
responses to other individuals. Sophie Martinez, for instance, was present
when her uncle came home after being "scared" by the water monster when he
was fishing during his wife's menstrual period.   His wife says to him, "I
came after you went, and I'm so sorry."   Sophie Martinez herself is most
solicitous of her husband's welfare when she begins to menstruate again
after a long interval and is careful to instruct him how to behave so that
he may come to no misfortune. Mrs. Martinez comments on her last illness
and says that she never talks about it to her mother now because thinking
of it makes her mother feel sad. Stephen Martinez refuses to abandon hope
during her illness, and insists on using their last money to get an Indian
doctor for her. Earlier you have the whole Chiptown rancheria participating
in dances to prevent Charlie Hill from being killed by his power. Sophie
Martinez mentions how good two of her mothers-in-law were to her, that her
first husband was good both to her and her family, that her step-brother still
keeps "relations" with her and helps her. In her life history there are
other instances of a similar nature. Ellen Wood too mentions that people
have been good to her: her aunt's husband who gave her candy and treated
her like a daughter, her father's wife who was always good to her, her step-
father's mother and father, her cousin who took the smaller girls about with
her, her old grandmothers and an old grandfather who told her stories and
fed her, her first husband before he began his affair with her sister,
friendly old men who talked to her in the hop fields. She mentions the fear
of her stepfather that his half-brother had come to some harm and his
insistence on going to look for the man. She likes to dwell on the fact
that when a person is dying, all the relatives gather and help the survivors
and that at such times all family difficulties are forgotten. She mentions
friends beside whom she camped in the field and with whom she joked, and who
came to share in her sorrows when her children died. Jane Adams has less to
say on this subject but she indicates that her second marriage was a happy
one, and she emphasizes the care with which she nursed her dying husband.
All three women seem also to have achieved some stability in their married
life after an initial period of experimentation. Jane Adams lived with Adams
thirty-seven years; Sophie Martinez said that she lived with Martinez forty-
eight years and although this is undoubtedly an exaggeration they were together
more than thirty; Ellen Wood had lived with Walter Wood about thirty-eight
years in 1941.
Although the Pomo view of human beings may be a pessimistic one, not all
contacts with other Pomo are productive of anxiety. From some they derive
considerable satisfaction.  They also mention, and fairly frequently, activi-
ties which they have enjoyed. As children, they spent their time along the
228
river or on the rancherias playing games, oblivious of rain or hunger.
There were Indian dances and American dances for the two Oak Valley chil-
dren to watch. Later they too participated in the dancing. For all three
children, and for all three women, there were carnivals and circuses in
the neighboring towns. They saw gambling games: the bone game and card
games that helped to pass the long hours when there was little work. In
these activities they participated with other people. They have also had
an outlet in another direction, through their basket making. All of them
had worked carefully and made good baskets.   They were sure of themselves
as craftsmen, and enjoyed thinking about the baskets they had made. All
of them had worked carefully and made good baskets. They were sure of
themselves as craftsmen, and enjoyed thinking about the baskets they had
made. All repeated with satisfaction the fact that they had sold their
baskets for good prices and that the whites had told them that their
bakets would be treasured by collectors.
This dwelling upon the sources of satisfaction in Pomo life may seem
to invalidate what was said earlier about the dominance of anxiety as a
force controlling the Pomo. There is no way of objectively measuring satis-
factions and dissatisfactions and coming to some definite conclusion. How-
ever I have gone through the life histories and tabulated sources of satis-
faction mentioned by the women, and sources of anxiety or threats to happi-
ness. This is a rough measure, but there is a slight predominance of
threats over satisfactions. The actual figures are 375 to 295. (8) This
say be significant. My impression was that the dissatisfactions would loom
much larger proportionately. This may have been influenced by the fact
that the women seem to have referred more spontaneously to the threats
against their happiness, and the references to satisfactions occurred more
comonly under the prod of questioning.
Through the life histories, one can see something of the taking on of
white culture by the Pomo over the last seventy years and the gradual fading
out of the old Pomo customs. The women are aware of the change going on,
but curiously enough they do not seem to be aware of a conflict between
the two sets of customs. Conditions have changed. They can no longer do
as their ancestors did. But there is little feeling that they themselves
have been responsible through a rejection of old customs or the acceptance
of new.
Perhaps the only conscious rejection of Pomo custom which one can
see is the repudiation of the old subsistence patterns. All three women in-
dicate that they prefer their present methods of making a living, even though
it entails the presence of the whites, and that they have no real wish to
continue the hunting and gathering life of their ancestors. They prefer their
present houses to the brush huts or shacks which they knew as children.
Otherwise there has been no general rejection of customs. Jane Adams it is
true commends the present custom of a young couple having their own home as
superior to the old custom of a large family dwelling in which many relatives
lived, but this seems to be the only such comment recorded in the life
histories.
Instead, there are frequent references to the need to continue the old
taboos and a tracing of the disappearance of the Pomos and the increase in
229
illness to the failure of the young people to keep the rules. Ellen Wood and
Sophie Martinez seem to prefer the old forms of social organization. They
regret the disappearance of the chief whose lectures in the early morning
used to make them "feel" good. Ellen Wood indicates that she preferred the
old method of relatives living together instead of the present scattering
out of relatives. Sophie Martinez and Ellen Wood keep up the old kinship
terminology and teach it to their grandchildren, and desire to keep up the
customs of "keeping kinship." They seem to approve the old ceremonial ex-
changes between families on every possible occasion. Both keep up with
funeral exchanges at the present time. Ellen Wood corents that she still
brings gifts on the birth of her grandchildren as she is supposed to accord-
ing to the old rules. Jane Adams apparently knows little about such
exchanges, since these had disappeared largely in her group before she was
born.
All three of them accept fully the old beliefs in poisoning and believe
in the power of Indian doctors to cure. Nothing in their lives has disturbed
their complete belief in such matters.
But they have been willing also to accept new customs from the whites.
Their whole economic organization and methods of obtaining a living are based
on introduced customs. They have accepted not only the jobs, the food, and
the clothing of the whites, but also such alien organizations as banks.
The only place where the old economic organization survives is in the use of
baskets and shell beads for certain types of exchanges and to pay the Indian
doctors for curing. Even in such exchanges, American money and wool blankets
or lengths of cloth are acceptable substitutes. They have also accepted from
American civilization much that lies beyond the field of subsistence. Each
of the three women expresses at some time her belief in education. Jane Adams
and Ellen Wood were eager to see that their children went on to school.
(Walter Wood told another member of the laboratory that he had wanted to send
his sons to college, but they had refused to go--he regretted his own lack
of education and could not understand his sons in their lack of ambition for
more education.) Sophie Martinez attempted even after her marriage to go to
school, and she now says that she would like to have her granddaughter go on
to school. They have accepted medical service from the whites. They have
accepted religious ideas in the form of Catholicism. They have accepted
the idea that the government is in some way responsible for them, and all
are eager to receive their pensions, and are willing to make use of the
government to control their unruly relatives. Sophie Martinez has threatened
to have the sheriff arrest Ruth Post if she attacks her again and has already
turned her daughter Beatrice over to the authorities. Ellen Wood allowed her
son to go to prison for forging a check on their account, and later allowed
him to be imprisoned again for theft without attempting to intervene. Jane
Adams complained to J. Lombard that the woman in charge of the Indian Service
Employment in Oakland would not be able to give her granddaughter proper
supervision in the city.
They have also accepted forms of entertainment from the whites. Aieri-
can dances are crowded, and ever since they can remember they have seen
Pomos dancing such dances. When they were young, they played card games.
Later they began to attend movies and to listen to radio programs. All of
them thoroughly enjoy carnivals.
230
Where they have, rejected consciously customs of the whites, is in the
realm of marital stability. Jane Adams lectures her son and grandchildren
in the attempt to persuade them that they should postpone marriage until
after they had lived with a person long enough to test out his true charac-
ter. Ellen Wood proclaims the superiority of Pomo custom where if dis-
satisfied with a mate one can leave without difficulty and "none of them
think anything about it." Sophie Martinez dwells less on this subject,
but she too seems to think that the Pomo somehow had something which was
superior to what the whites brought when she says nostalgically, "In those
days we were good people, good to one another."
Individual Dif ferences
So far we have dealt largely with generalizations which one might make
about Pomo culture on the basis of the uniformities in the life histories.
All three lives are undoubtedly tarred with the same culture, yet the dif-
ferences among the three are striking. Uniformities of culture apart, the
three women emerge as distinctive personalities with little in common.
A glance at the autobiographies given in the appendix will corroborate
this statement--for here where they were allowed to speak for themselves
without guidance from the recorder, each emphasizes a different motif. Sophie
Martinez is largely concerned with a picture of herself as rejected by one
person after another until finally she finds security with Martinez. She
introduces the desertion of her first three husbands, and interprets the
desertion of her mother by her father as a desertion of herself. Another
theme which is of almost equal importance is her frustrated motherhood.
Almost the first statement in her autobiography concerns the theft from her
of her pet dog. Later her life is a catalogue of one childbirth after another,
to be followed by the death of each child. And she emphasizes again and again
that she wanted children, and could never keep them. Finally in her fourth
marriage she finds a secure relationship, and throughout the work on her
life history she could rarely mention Martinez without appending the statement
that they had lived together more than forty years. And with her last child,
she is successful in rearing it.
Further work on her life history emphasized the same motifs. Again and
again she referred to the desertion of her father, always with considerable
emotion in her voice. It may be noted too, that first she interprets his
desertion of her mother as a rejection of herself, and that later on she in
turn rejects him in the role of father by refusing to call him "father" and
insisting on addressing him by his name. She is also inclined to interpret
her mother's attitude toward her as one of rejection, and responds with tears
and anger. At least when her mother allows her father to take her for a
while, the child wept and regarded herself as a captive. When asked why,
her mother had allowed her to go, she suggests, "Maybe she didn't want to
keep me." Later on, when her mother forces her into her first marriage,
she again feels rejected by her mother, and again she weeps and regards
herself as a captive. Her first and third husbands seem to have been some
years older than herself. Their separations seem to parallel her early
experience with her father. She emphasizes that they too left her for
another woman, as herfather had done before them. Then they return for her,
231
and she in turn rejects them in the role of husband. For some reason, she
returns to her second husband after he has left her for another woman, and
his final desertion is met with the comment that she could not prevent this,
"Men always do that to me."
Her fourth husband she refers to constantly as the man who stayed with
her. Her appreciation of him seems largely to be based on this fact, rather
than on some more positive treatment of her. Possibly their relationships
were made more secure by the fact that Martinez seems to have been younger
than his wife, and she therefore had less reason to cast him in the role of
deserting father. One other instance of rejection, however, does occur in
her life after her marriage to Martinez. During one of her illnesses, she
has a vision of Christ. She addresses him as "Father" and he vanishes with-
out saying anything to her, although she thought that he would tell he
something.
The other major theme seems to be her love for children. This might
even be generalized to a love of any small helpless creature. She loved
pets of all kinds, and could sit and caress a kitten or puppy with both
hands and voice. She is the only one of the three women who mentions spon-
taneously the birth of a baby during her childhood--and the tone in which
she talks of the birth of her half-sister is the same as that in which she
talks of the birth of her own children. And this child too dies, and she
lingers over its illness. She mentions the trips of the women to the baby
rock and the use of the bull snake ritual for inducing children. In the
account of her later life, she refers to the birth and death of each child.
But strangely enough, she gives no details of the child's life in the period
between birth and death, she does not describe its appearance, or repeat any
of its actions. True, most of the children died as babies, but one boy lived
to be nine or ten and his life still consists largely of birth and death.
She adopts her granddaughter because she wanted a baby. And often in refer-
ring to a dead child, she conxents that by now it would have had children.
Finally she remembers and relates the comment of a white doctor that she was
still a young woman at sixty and could still have a baby, and then adds
regretfully, "But I never did-."
Ellen Wood's life history does not dwell on either of these themes.
It is difficult to analyze her life into simple terms. Her major preoccupa-
tions seem to be with sex, incest, poisoning, and doctoring. Her preoccupa-
tion with sex and incest are particularly noticeable in view of the reticence
of the other two women on the subject. (9) Yet these are preoccupations
with certain ideas rather than the presentation of a consistent view of her
life. We are assured, however, that Ellen Wood regards herself as an excep-
tional person and thinks that this has been noticeable from childhood on.
She mentions a number of times that as a child she was regarded as differ-
ent from other children and was carefully protected by her family for this
reason. She refers to her appearance, saying that as a child she was lighter
than most Pomos, that she had long beautiful hair. And once she said with
satisfaction that when she was a young women her picture had been taken
showing her with a dark cloth over her head and her baby in her arms. This
was entitled "the Indian Madonna." She mentions that a man praised her for
her courage, that another said she was wise, that a third said that she must
232
be "some kind of a woman." She comments that her neighbors know that she
will help them whenever she can unlike the other Pomos. This desire to
establish herself as an important person does not appear in the life history
of Sophie Martinez.
Jane Adam's in turn discloses a third point of view. She seems chiefly
concerned with presenting the picture of a hard-working woman who spent her
childhood in poverty and later improved her economic standing. Even in her
brief history, she makes it clear that she regards herself as an independent
person capable of managing her own life. She refers to the fact that she
arranged her own marriage, that she deserted her first husband after deciding
that he was no good, and that she later was able to make her own living and
to gather her own basket materials instead of waiting for someone to get them
for her as most women did. In his final illness, she alone cared for her
husband. She also proclaims that her views on marriage are her own based on
her own experience, and she urges them though she realizes they are counter
to the teachings of her church.
The difference between the three women appears perhaps the most clearly
if one considers their reactions to the saame event. All three were deserted
by their fathers when they were still infants. All say that they were too
young to know of the desertion at the time. The reaction of the three women
seems characteristically different. Sophie Martinez, as noted above, reacts
with a feeling of outrage which seems to set the dominant motif of her life.
Ellen Wood seems to accept the fact without emotion, and her subsequent
relations with her father seem to have been cordial but unemotional. Per-
haps she is overeloquent in her assertions that such separations are normal
among the Indians and much preferable to the rigid marriage bonds of the
whites. But she makes these assertions without particular reference to the
separation of her parents. Jane Adams does not specify whether her mother
or father was responsible for the separation. She coments that when she
was a child, her father was still alive, but that he spent all his money on
drink and cared nothing for his children. Perhaps it is significant that
she later left her first husband because he drank too much and did not pro-
vide for her and her child. But to neither Ellen Wood nor Jane Adams is the
father an emotional figure, at least on any obvious level.
Sophie Martinez rebelled at her first menstruation, and wept and declared
that she did not want this change in her life. Neither Ellen Wood nor Jane
Adams seems to have made any outcry. Instead they took it for granted, and
both commented that the second time was nothing and the first period itself
little more. Sophie Martinez declared vigorously that she had never had any-
thing to do with a man until after her marriage. Ellen Wood and Jane Adams
took for granted that girls would have a period of experimentation before
they married, though Jane Adams had a matter-of-fact attitude on the subject,
and Ellen Wood enjoyed enlarging on the matter in line with her desire to
talk about sex.
The end of their first marriages seem again to have been met in differ-
ent fashions, although both Sophie Martinez and Ellen Wood seemed fond of
the men. Sophie Martinez wept, then turned against her husband, and fled
the house when she heard that he had returned to the rancheria hoping to
233
avoid having the matter out. When they met, she tells him she will have
nothing more to do with him. Then she implies that she lived quietly at
home until she remarriedd Ellen Wood upbraids her husband, probably
threatened to kill her half-sister with whom he was carrying on an affair,
and finally told him that she would now live as she pleased and go about
with other men if she liked. Then, though she insisted that she did not
mind and did not love her husband, she proceeds to get drunk for a two-
week period and then spent four or five months traveling from one drinking
party to another. Jane Adams indicates that she decided to leave her
husband after careful consideration, and that she felt no particular emo-
tion regarding the matter.
All three have different reactions toward pets. Sophie Martinez
reacts to themas tbou4hthey were small children and is very tender to them;
Jane Adams likes them in a matter-of-fact manner and says that she likes
dogs and cats to keep the rats down. Ellen Wood says that she has always
hated animals and never wanted to have a pet of any kind.
The three women are different in their willingneqs to talk about other
people. Ellen Wood is a gossip who enjoys tearing down the reputations of
the other Pomo. Throughout her life history she seemed willing to name the
individuals who appeared in incidents, and she would throw in comparable
incidents involving other people. She was not overly scrupulous about
using the names of the dead, although there is a strong taboo against their
use. She had few inhibitions, although there were subjects that she was
little interested in and here she had to be prompted. Jane Adams declared
that she was not a talkative woman having never learned how to talk much
because her mother "never growled with me." Nevertheless, she was not
above referring to her neighbors, though this was not in a malicious fashion,
and seemingly without hesitation she uttered the names of the dead. Sophie
Martinez refused to gossip. She declared that if you "spoke anyway, something
will happen." She was careful about the names of the dead, and had to be
asked before she uttered them--in some cases she refused to name the person
even then. She was almost equally scrupulous with the names of the living,
and working with her was likely to be a laborious charting of one's way
among "that man," "that woman," "he," "she," "that woman over there," and
so on.
The three women were different even to their dreams. Jane Adams simply
declared that while she dreamed she paid no attsntion to her dreams because
only the bad ones ever came true. Sophie Martinez though she talked in her
sleep never remembered her dreams once she woke up. Ellen Wood dreamed con-
stantly and believed in them--they were messages from her power, and in
them she learned of what was to come. Her dreams are an important part of
her life.
Sumary
Pomo life, as portrayed in these life histories, emerges as a fairly
simple one from the point of view of its participants, for they live through
much the same events with little variation in happenings to distinguish their
lives. To some extent Pomo life is also dominated by uniform themes which
234
integrate the culture in terms of basic assumptions regarding the nature of
the universe and human relationships. But despite these uniformities, a
group as small as the Pomo with a culture offering few alternatives, could
still produce three women of widely differing personality types. Though
they live through similar events, they are quite capable of reacting to
them in a different fashion and interpreting them in differing ways. Pomo
life has been sufficiently flexible to allow these women to survive for some
sixty years. It undoubtedly has also been able to shelter other personality
types as well.
NOTES
(1) Is this possibly related to the control of Pomo society by the old men
and women, and the belief that a man or woman was not a responsible adult
until approximately middle-age? The old could have been in no hurry to
hasten the maturation of the young who might then force them to abdicate.
Pomo culture was certainly not so complex that one needed to spend a
life time in mastering its intricacities.
(2) This statement was made to A. Parcell. Alice Gustav recorded a short
antobiography from this woman which is in the unpublished files of the
Field Laboratory.
(]) I have gone through the life histories for statements on whites, and
have found a total of fifty-nine. These cover references to both whites
in general and to specific whites. Sophie Martinez referred favorably
to whites nineteen times; unfavorably to them twelve times; Ellen Wood
referred favorably to them eleven times and unfavorably, eight; Jane
Adams referred favorably to them three times, unfavorably six. It might
also be noted that Jane Adams, who is the most acculturated of the three
women, is the only one to make an unfavorable generalization about a
white person. She has a white daughter-in-law whom she refers to as
"cranky. "
(4) Whether there is actually any such practices as "poisoning" is another
question. Naturally we have no objective evidence on the point. We
only know what the Pomo beliefs on the matter are. That the Pomo are
not completely assured of the efficacy of the magical poisoning methods,
however, is indicated by their statements that recently battery acid
has been substituted and found most effective.
(5) Aginsky, 1939, 210.
(6) All three women had been hop workers. But although they date events
by hop picking seasons and where they worked that year, they do not
refer to the success or failure of the crop. At the most, they mention
how long the hop picking season lasted that year. They are not farmers
concerned for their crops, but workers in another man's field.
It might be noted here that they also fail to mention floods or brush
fires although both are fairly frequent phenomena.
235
(7) Neither Ellen Wood nor Sophie Martinez seem interested in Mary. The
figure that appeals to them seems to be Christ.
(8)  Such tabulations are actually of little value.   For one thing, they
deal largely with what the tabulator defines as threats or satis-
factions. The informant might not necessarily classify the material
in the same way.  Next, there is the impossibility of weighting the
statements in terms of importance. Though Sophie Martinez mentions
frequently that she was afraid--the reaction appears twenty-three
times in her life history--in the tabulation, she is credited with
referring more often to sources of satisfaction than to threats:
102 to 95. Jane Adams, who gives the impression that she is not unduly
weighed with anxieties, refers to forty-five dissatisfactions and only
thirty-four satisfactions. Only the tabulation of Ellen Wood's state-
ments emerges as one would have predicted from the general tone of her
life history: 234 threats to 156 satisfactions.
(9)  She is the only Pomo woman I have ever worked with who was willing to
discuss these topics freely, and it was only with difficulty that she
could be restrained from discussing them. On the whole, I should
imagine that there is as much reticence on these subjects as in the
average white community. Ellen Wood is not a unique phenomenon among
the Pomo, however, for Ethel Aginsky once had a Vineland informant
whose sex life was detailed with much satisfaction.