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Extra resources for A White Heron and Other Stories
Page 11 Jack Wilson or Wovoka and Christ My Lord Native American heritage is something I don't like to get into. You see I have as much white blood as red. I shouldn't be talking but it's hard to be quiet. Not really that either because it was years before I started saying what I thought. The fact that I had opinions that mattered took me from Oklahoma to Minnesota to realize. I remember in school being small and brown. Someone would mention the freckles on my face. Pecan-Face would have been my Indian name if I had one.
I'd have an antique store if I could afford it. " "Turn here. The open socket of the crater still sputtering years after the divorce. The moon-surface of her sides, the treeless airless feel. I've seen old photos of her reflection in Spirit Lake, snow on the summit like a white veil. When she blew she shipped ashes to Fresno and filled the lake full of dead trunks as a toothpick holder on oilcloth. It must have been too much. The lonely outpost, the responsibility of holding down a corner of Washington, the lava buildup for years.
In the afternoons when the weather was warm I sat under the large elm at the curb and watched the samaras flutter down like angel eyes. Only others were left to the ravages that stalked the earth, never us. There were times when things nearly happened. My father worked for the stockyards. He and the other foremen loaded trucks when the union wouldn't. They broke picket lines and got the work done. One night during the strike a car stopped in front of our house. My mother saw it from her dark window.