“The American Indian is of the soil, whether it be the region of forest, plains, pueblos, or mesas. He fits into the landscape, for the hand that fashioned the continent also fashioned the man for his surroundings. He once grew as naturally as the wild sunflowers, he belongs just as the buffalo belonged…” ~Luther Standing Bear
I grew up on sacred grounds. I roamed the land once inhabited by the Monacans. Can you see the large circle in the first photo and two in the second photo? These were perhaps created by the oils of the hides covering the wigwams. My father used to not mow this area…it is only noticeable when the grasses are cut and you can see a different type of grass grows in patches within the circle. In my father’s lifetime (82years), this area has only once been tilled. My cousin and I used to run through these fields…her home and mine, only separated by the creek that runs through the fields.
Occasionally we found artifacts such as arrowheads, spears, and bowls. Every time we found a mound in the woods we swore it was an Indian burial ground…my father got a chuckle out of our imaginations. We started a club called Monacan Indian Rattlers. She and I were co-presidents…there were no other members; we didn’t need anyone else. We actually didn’t think anyone could understand our obsession…after all, it was the marrow of our bones, the soul of our existence…We climbed their trees, swung on their wild grape vines, built tepees, waded their creek, and did our own rain dance version through their glades. The land melded the time between our beloved Monacans and the dreams of our childhoods. We believed with all our hearts our great grandmother was Monacan Indian. This information is now disputed, but still we hold our heritage close. We live and breathe this sacred land.