The last time I visited my relatives on the White Earth Nation, I walked along the empty space where the houses of my grandparents once stood. Their first home, a big log dwelling divided into three large spaces for living and sleeping, was later replaced by a modern structure with indoor plumbing. The homesteads, now gone, were sheltered by three pines on a small earth rise which served as a driveway roundabout for incoming and outgoing vehicles.
I noticed tiny flag markers around that cluster of trees and asked my uncle if they were surveying the property. He explained the flags were grave markers.
“I was at (the) land department in White Earth when they were going to work on highway 200 and I talked about the Graves there. She called in the historian…I told her about my dad digging to build there (when) he ran into what looked like 2 graves…he put the dirt back. 60 years later someone finally cared. Sonar and cadaver dogs discovered possibly six Graves so it’s been put on (a) designated burial site.”
It brought to mind the story of how a younger cousin would lay near the big pine with her ear to the ground because she wanted to listen to the singing.