Going on a Bear Hunt

We went on a bear hunt today, right after Bud shot a turkey, Sis netted fish, and I gathered green beans, berries, and squash (real decorative gourds from our farm!). Sis also made a salad. Yep, we were preparing for our big annual harvest feast.

They wore deer skins (brown flannel with ragged edges a la a real skin) and carried spears and bows (I wasn't appropriately dressed in my fleece). We had a wigwam, albeit two-storied (but at least not a Plains Indian tipi, which they made in art class in school this week as part of their holiday observances!), complete with a cooking fire, which tinder we gathered around the yard. "Everything we have comes from Mother Nature," except the things we traded with the settlers. Like our iron cooking pots.

It's the historically-accurate way to play Indians! Without pilgrims. Or cowboys. And we were specifically the Mashantucket Pequot tribe, remembering our visits to that fabulous museum (and the Museum of the American Indian in DC). Our neighbor, Miss J, who came out to say hi and request some of the bear meat (which was, hilariously, the big blue recycling tub) was of the same tribe but lived in a different village.

At our feast of thanks, Sis and Bud devised a ritual: "smooshing peace rocks." Inspired by our tattered Tibetan prayer flags, which blow prayers to the wind as the fabric unravels, they decided we would crush mud clots with our feet, while standing atop our turtle sandbox, and spread the dirt around "to spread peace and thanks."

Not a bad way to celebrate.

(Which we then did by going inside for hot chocolate and marshmallows. Now, they're inside playing in their igloos. Welcome back, Brother Bear!)