Where Eagles Soar

Where Eagles Soar

A Memoir

Written by

Bonnie Leon

© 2014 by Bonnie Leon

Smashwords Edition

Published by Leon Press

P.O. Box 774, Glide, OR

bonnie.leon52@gmail.com

Also available in print

Printed in the United States of America

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

ISBN 978-1-4951-2058-9

Cover design by Miller Media Solutions

Scripture used in this book, whether quoted or paraphrased by the characters, is taken from the King James Version and The New International Version of the Bible.

This is a true story. Names of people and places have been changed out of respect for family.

DEDICATED

to

The Brokenhearted

I will bind up the injured and strengthen the weak.

Ezekiel 34:16

Table of Contents

Dedication

Where Eagles Soar

Note from Bonnie

Acknowledgments

Bio

More from Bonnie

CHAPTER ONE

My People are storytellers. My dad was a story teller. And I’m a story teller too. But more than that, I am a truth teller. I know about life and death, hope and desperation, riches and bankruptcy. A bankruptcy of the soul, and the beauty of God and his truth—how it shines when it is held up alongside the twisted, ugly lies of the Evil One.

Sometimes the way we begin our life has little to do with where we end up or who we become along the way.

And sometimes it has everything to do with it.

There are people in this world who walk around all scarred up inside—angry and never able to find their way. But for some, scars make them stronger and show them a better way to live.

I’m one of those. And I want to tell you my story.

Most of my life I lived in a muddle of love and brutality, raging inside. Mama was good and kind and her life was one of sacrifice. Daddy didn’t know how to love. He only knew how to get what he wanted. And no one had better ever get in his way, not even family.

Living with ruthlessness can turn a person sour, like milk left out in the heat too long. That was me. I learned I could be better, only it took a great God, a lot of years, and a miracle to show me the way.

I discovered that a wounded heart does not mean an end to goodness, but can be like the rocks that sit in a riverbed. Week upon week, month upon month, year upon year water washes over those stones, so hard, so fast, and for so long that the jagged edges gradually and steadily are chipped away until the stones become smooth.

Some even turn shiny and one day become a treasure to someone who sees them glittering in a creek bed and picks them up.

When I was a girl, I used to gather stones. They were all special, some even valuable. And so pretty I could never decide which I liked best.

No matter what a person’s life has been like, it can change. Sometimes change is subtle like the quiet rustle of leaves on a tree and other times it charges at us, demanding we be made new.

I started out a jagged old rock, but I met a Man who changed me. Because of Him, I became special just like a stone resting on the bottom of a riverbed—a living stone.

Growing up, I never gave much thought to being thankful. I didn’t figure I had much to be thankful for. Life was hard without things like running water or electricity. And there was a lot of days I went hungry. I couldn’t even imagine that in most places people could walk into a grocery store and have a chance to buy most anything they wanted. And I didn’t know about things like baby dolls, toys, and pretty clothes.

What I did know was how to survive.

By the time I was eight years old, I knew how to work hard and how to lead a string of pack horses and mules over a high mountain trail. I understood the tricks needed to bring down a caribou or a moose, and I ran my own trap line. I recognized which wild berries and plants to eat or leave alone. And I could catch fish without a pole or a net.

I was also well acquainted with meanness, rage and hatred. Back then, I figured all that ugliness was just the way things was meant to be.

And I was only nine when I learned what happens between men and women.

CHAPTER TWO

Daddy was half Shoshone, and Mama was mostly Cherokee. They met through the mail and got married young. They lived in Wyoming where Daddy grew up … fierce and wild. His mama said he was always that way.

He was born on a Shoshone reservation back when the Shoshone were in a land dispute with some of the white folks in the territory up there. The Shoshone stole two boys from Charles Sanders so Charles Sanders stole one of the Shoshone boys—my dad. They named him Carl.

He wasn’t very old when he got taken. And although his new parents were the religious type and did everything they could to raise him right, he was always trouble. He wouldn’t stay in school, no matter what kind of punishment he got. He’d take off first chance he got, to some wild place where he would hunt or trap.

When he married my mama, they lived in Riverton, Wyoming. Often as he could he took her with him into the mountains to help out at the hunting camp.

One day Daddy came home all fired up. We’re moving to Alaska, he said. It’s time I made some real money and Alaska’s the place to do it. Mark Lowman told me they got free land up there—160 acres for people like us.

We moved that year, in 1947, when I was just one year old.

Mama packed up our things, which weren’t much, and we all piled into an old pickup truck and headed across the north of the country. We followed what they called The ALCAN Highway all the way to Alaska.

I think Mama was pregnant with my sister Jeannie then. Seems like Mama was always pregnant. She had fourteen kids in all—everyone of them girls except for one boy who died and my younger brother, Johnny.

Sometimes she’d talk about that trip and her dark eyes would turn warm as if she was remembering the hope she’d felt—hope for a better life and enough food for her family. Maybe even dream that Daddy would be happy in a wild place like Alaska.

He wasn’t, though, not most of the time. The only time I saw any joy in his eyes was when he’d tell stories. He used to talk about our trips into the wilderness, back when we lived in Wyoming. Lily, he’d say. When you were just a baby we’d head out on a hunting trip or do some trapping, and your mama would lay you in one of the pannier boxes we slung over the horses. Off we’d go and you’d be happy as could be, almost never cried.

When he talked about it, I’d think how nice it must have been, all cozy like that and swaying as the horse moved along a trail. I’d wish I was still that little baby snug in a box, feeling safe and warm, rocking like when Mama used to hold me.

Mama lived hard, but her heart was soft with us kids. When I lay in her arms she always smelled good, like baking and wood smoke. I was probably happy then … when I was a baby.

Mark Lowman told Daddy that a place called Dead Horse Creek was supposed to have some fine homesteading land and it was close to the Talkeetna Mountains where there’d be good hunting and trapping. It was near an Athabaskan village in the mountains outside a place called Palmer and was bordered by the Matanuska River.

Daddy fell in love with Dead Horse Creek and never got tired of telling us about how it was when he first found our homestead. Didn’t take long, he would say every time. We moved through the village and then I saw this real fine piece of ground at the edge of town. Behind it was a big ol’ mountain standing tall and proud. I knew it’s where we belonged. The blue in Daddy’s eyes would turn almost warm like a summer sky when he talked about those days.

Dead Horse Creek was the right place for Daddy, but Mama wanted a house for her and us kids. Instead, Daddy stuck her in a tent. The house didn’t matter to him—he had what he wanted.

It was real easy to homestead back then. All Daddy had to do was fill out papers and then prove it up, which meant he had to work real hard to turn it into a farm. Daddy knew how to work hard—so did us kids. We worked most every day, all day, all of our lives.

Dead Horse Creek wasn’t a regular town. People mostly lived in shacks, tents or wickiups. There was a trading post a few miles up the trail from the village, the only place to shop except for the Sears, Roebuck & CO. catalog. We lived real simple, no trappings.

Mama worked harder than all of us. She did the cooking outdoors over a fire and used a washboard to clean our clothes. She couldn’t wait for fair weather, neither. Sometimes cold winds would whip her while she worked. A lot of days her hands would bleed from all that labor. She’d coat them with bear grease and rub it in good, but they’d still crack real bad. She never complained, but I could tell they was hurting her by the way she used them gingerly.

When Daddy moved us to Dead Horse Creek, he didn’t give no thought to Mama or how hard it was for her. And she was used to that. Daddy had already moved her from place to place back when they lived in Wyoming. When he’d take out a hunting party, Mama would do all the cooking and take care of the camp too. That’s all she’d known since marrying him.

From what my sister Lucy told me, Daddy had promised Mama a cabin, but it took him a while to get it built. He did it, though. It was more of a shack than a house, but he stuffed the spaces between the logs with moss and built some benches and chairs. Daddy could do most anything he set his mind on. The house wasn’t much, but it kept out the bugs in summer and the cold and wind in the winter. Mama didn’t complain.

Some of the natives and missionaries who lived near us taught Daddy how to mush dogs and how to set his traps. They were real good to Daddy. They even took him up into the hills and different passes and showed him where the game was for hunting and how to build trails. It was hard work but Daddy must have liked it ’cause he was gone a lot.

When he was home, we always had enough to eat. Once Daddy knew all the best hunting spots in that wild country, he made sure there was plenty of game for his family. It wasn’t long before his skills at hunting and guiding paid off. Men came to him and offered to pay to be taken out to shoot mountain sheep, caribou, moose, and bear. They paid good, too.

He was away most all the time, leaving Mama and us kids at home to fend for ourselves. My stomach ached with hunger since there was never enough to eat when we were on our own. Mama tried to provide, but she wasn’t much of a hunter. Eventually my oldest sister Lucy learned how to use a rifle, and she did most of the hunting. She had a knack for it.

Daddy was gone for more reasons than hunting. He used to travel to places like

Canada, Wyoming and even all the way to Pennsylvania to get more guiding business. And sometimes he’d come back with another wife. He’d put her up in a shack or a wickiup close by. He didn’t see nothing wrong with it, but I didn’t like it and neither did Mama. I was just glad he didn’t bring none of them to our house.

Sometimes Mama and Daddy would fight about the other women and other things too. Daddy could get real vicious, and he’d beat on Mama. Fear flamed up inside me when his neck turned red and meanness filled his eyes ’cause I knew Mama was in for it. She would hustle us out of the cabin and tell us to stay outside until Daddy calmed down.

Me and the other kids would get out, but we never went too far from the house. I’d stand off at a distance, but I could still hear what was going on—thumping and slapping, Mama’s groans and yelps. Sometimes, when I heard her screams, my throat tightened and tears burned the back of my eyes. I’d get so mad that all I could think of was storming in there and making him stop. I knew better. All I’d get would be a lickin’ of my own. Daddy used a dog whip on us kids.

One day, though, I’d stand up to him. One day.

There was a time, after I was married, when Dad left for weeks and came back with another woman and Mama tried hard to draw a line. Dad got real mad and Mama herded us out of the house, but that time I stood in the doorway. I wasn’t leaving.

Dad’s back was to the door so I couldn’t see his expression, but I knew what I’d see—fury and hate. Mama faced him. She stood up as tall and straight as she could. Her eyes weren’t soft like usual, but pure angry instead. She made her voice real strong. That’s it. No more of this. I’m done with you. Me and the kids are going back to Wyoming.

My chest ached. Mama was right, she needed to leave. But what about me? I’d be left there with Daddy.

Dad stormed toward Mama, grabbed her by the arms and swung her around. The red came up in his neck and his face was almost purple. I don’t know that I ever seen him so mad. He smacked her upside the head, punched her a bunch of times, and knocked her around. I just stood there watching, feeling sick inside. Why’d he do that to Mama? She was so good and kind.

After he hit her a few times, he yelled real loud, You go on ahead to Wyoming if you want. But the kids are staying here. You hear me, woman?

Horror climbed up inside me. Mama couldn’t leave us kids alone with Daddy. It would be pure awful without her.

In the end, Mama accepted things as they were. She didn’t really have a choice. Daddy’d never let her go. He might even kill her instead of allowing her to leave. I wanted to stand up to him, but I wasn’t big enough or powerful enough.

That was foolish thinking, though. No one stood up to Daddy. Everyone who knew him understood that, including his kids. He’d make us pay—maybe beat us with a dog whip or do something like make us go out in the dark barefoot and carry in wood. Even after I got married and lived with my husband, Daddy’s rage afflicted me.

That first year in Alaska when it was time for Jeannie to be born, Mama was alone. Daddy was never around when the babies came.

I was just a baby myself then, but Lucy told me about it. Like all the times since I’ve been big enough to remember, Mama did her usual work and never said nothing to us kids, not until the time got close. Then she got a pot of water heating on the stove and put the birthing blanket on her bed and told us kids to go outside until she said it was all right to come back in. Sometimes I heard her laboring and moaning, but she never did no screaming.

And every time after the baby got there, she let us all come in and see our new little sister, except when she had Johnny, then we got to see our new baby brother. She was so proud of that little boy. And us girls were real happy too. It was good to have a boy in the family.

Every baby was celebrated. Us kids each took a turn holding the new baby while Mama told us what its name was and then she thanked the Great White God for the new life.

Mama had most all of her babies at home. Back then I thought that’s just how things were. Now that I know better I get this powerful feeling of pride inside of me at how brave and strong Mama was. I want to be like her.

Mama worked hard to take good care of us kids, but Daddy didn’t give her nothing much for us. Good thing Mama could do a lot with a little. Sometimes the missionaries gave her clothes for us. If they were too big, Mama would fix them so they fit. If she got some pretty material she’d sew us up a new dress even without a pattern. It was hard to keep the house clean with so many kids, but Mama tried. And she was always baking up something good to eat.

For all of us, life was mostly about work, especially when Daddy was home. He didn’t think children should be playing around. One of the good things about him being gone was that Mama would let us play some of the time. We were wild little Indians—climbing trees and fences, chasing after hares, and riding on the backs of the goats and pigs.

When it came to work, not having electricity or running water made everything harder. That’s how it was for everyone in the village. We’d haul our water from the river, cut and stack wood, and stock the indoor wood pile. We lived mostly off what we grew or gathered from the forest and what we managed to kill, so we all pitched in. Even with life being so hard, those were good times. They’re what I like to remember.

CHAPTER THREE

From the time I was big