Crystal Grandmother, Medicine Grandfather

White crystal beads were fashioned by grandmother in her wigwam of birch and skin grandfather built. The stones traded for meat and fur of the bison hunted and dried in pemmican, heaps stored in the clay and wicker baskets that lined the bottom of the cellar below. A small hatched opening that stored the roots, berries, dried corn and the meat.

All was quiet in the evenings when the fires were finally extinguished and the last cries and laughter were exhaled - in those moments of after sun set grandmother could sit and polish the crystals on the fine pumice tablet - criss crossing over and under, this way and that, light as a feather her touch, leaving no ridges or nicks - just smooth edges, like glass their sheen sparkled bright as she wet them each with a dip, first in fat, then in water - and back to the polishing.

Then after she was satisfied with their clear moon light she'd start the fastening of the knots that would hold them fast and steady. A knot, a tie, a wrap and a pull, over and through and around, each rung clinging to the next with a rosette of cedar twine, each topped with a final row of sinew to fasten the bead to the cloth - each last tie a different color - reds, ochre, indigo, black and white. Hard task work for the end of a summer's day but grandmother liked working with the elements of hard, soft and sinewy. Her hands were strong and swift, though she took time with each crystal as if it were a newborn being wrapped in a papoose and the colored layers each one being another blessing song.