Tree Was Foundation Of Old Cabin

By Christine Staton

The following story, a slice of Miami and Linn County history, came from Christine Staten, formerly of Paola and currently a resident of Linn County. She lives south of Parker. Using a Native American story-telling technique, this one about a tree, she found an effective way to tell the story, via the tree’s point of view, about the building of a log cabin by the Diehm family, early pioneers to this region. This cabin once stood on the property of George and Loretta Diehm south of Beagle.

As it has been told, our people lived at peace with the land and all that grew and roamed there. It was a hard life, but nature taught them what they needed and how to make a good life.

Long ago, before my family moved here, I had an older family that cared for me. My older family loved nature and knew they were a part of it. They were the children of the people.

My older family loved nature and knew how to live with it. Small children would play with the tree seeds and in thanks they would press the seed into the soil. That is how I came to be next to a creek by a grandfather tree. They used all parts of grandfather as his limbs dropped and with great age he finally fell.

I loved their camp fire. It was grandfather’s spirit that rose as smoke from the glow that had sheltered me.

Many seasons came and went as I grew. The older family would stop in the spring going north and in the fall going south. Now, I was tall, strong, and I sheltered them.

The young girls would sit beside me and tell stories of mountains in summer and of trees that never lost their leaves of warm protection in the winter in villages far to the south. They did not know I was listening and that they took me on a journey with them.

Small boys play around my feet, they hoop and howl, and they make war on grasshoppers and field mice. They practice with bows and arrows. They shoot at me, but it doesn’t hurt. The small nicks and sometimes an arrow head is left for me to remember them when they are gone.

My old family is growing fewer. They still sing and tell stories that I am now a part of, but there is a sadness. They do not come this way as often. When they do, the Elder calls to me, “Thank you for sheltering us.”

I am now the grandfather.

The old family calls them “white men.” I do not know them. They stop to drink from my stream. Sometimes, they sleep at my feet, but they are not family. They do not tell me their stories, nor do they sing. They do not thank me for my shelter or the firewood I drop to keep them warm.

It has been many seasons that I have not seen my older family. I see white men in wagons with big wheels I’ve never seen before. They also come in long lines of two that ride very fast. They all wear blue coats.

A big-wheeled wagon stopped today. These white men sound funny to me and not like my older family, who had soft music to their words. But to my joy, they have children. It has been too long since small ones have sat at my feet.

The mother has tied a rope around me, and it tickles as she hangs the clothes she had just washed in my stream on the rope. My old family used to do this. As she works, she is singing, and the children join in. I do not know the song, but it makes me feel good.

I do not know how I know, but this is my new family. They are so different. I am beginning to know them and the songs and stories. Some are very much like those of my older family.  They tell of creation. Instead of sending sage smoke to the Great Spirit with an eagle feather fan, they kneel together and with heads bowed, they send prays to Our Father. Both of my families give thanks and ask for the same things.

I am worried about my new family. Do they not know of the heat and no game to hunt; it is summer. The older family would have to be gone by now to the mountains, where it is cool. They are staying now and this winter. I can shelter them from the sun with my leaves but not in the winter cold and wind. Even if I am very old and very large, my leaves will be gone by winter.

I am called Grandfather because I have stood here for 200 years. I am not alone. I stand in this creek valley with my brothers. We have grown tall with straight-out stretched limbs. In the spring, it floods, and we catch the mud around our roots. In the fall, we drop our leaves. We have helped build deep, rich soil around us.

My older family planted many trees in the spring, where creeks were good for camps, acorns could be used for oak trees and to make acorn flour. Hickory, walnut and pecan also grow here. Black locust makes fine fire wood. My brothers and I are not alone. We have many cousins. This is a good place to live.

I know how I will shelter my new family. They are clearing the grove to make a homestead. They are leaving all the trees by the creek to the south and west. They are cutting the downed trees to make a cabin, but I am the most important because I am the Burr Oak, a very fine building wood. I do not mind.

I am so large I will not be a single log in the wall. My branches will make wall logs, but my trunk will be sawn into the floor and roof boards. More will be made into doors and windows to keep out the cold.

The men who are building me are brothers. They are very good at building cabins. While they cut trees and saw the boards, the women bring rocks from the creek and stack them to be ready for the first logs to be set on.

This is hard work, and my woman is going to have a baby. They want the cabin done before the baby and the cold weather arrives.

My family is from Baden in the Black Forest of Germany. This is also the same style of cabin they are making. They cut and shape my logs to fit perfect at each corner and to lock tight. Small branches are cut and fit between the larger logs. The women and children pack mud in tight to stop leaks and rain.

There is no ring of stone for their fire; it is in a metal box with a brick chimney.

I watch as I am chinked tighter around them filled with warmth. I can now provide more than shelter, I can protect.

Some of my boards have been used to make a beautiful table that my new family will sing songs of praise and thanksgiving around. They will tell stories of their old life in Germany and new stories that I am now a part of.

As the sun goes down, they start to close the shutters on the windows. I had not noticed an old way I had almost forgotten. The latch at the window was done the same as my old family. Two loops of leather on each side pulled together and fastened with a locust thorn.

The seedlings that the children of my new family planted are watching and listening. They will not grow old with the memory of my passing, a wisp of smoke to the great spirit. They will not stand and wait for the old family to come again. Their stories are only of the new family.

I was grandfather when they were seedlings. They are now grandfathers, and they are staying. But, I am going. There will be a new house where I stand, even though the family is still the same.

I have a new family. They are putting me on big wheels and taking me to a new land. I have been in that valley by my creek for hundreds of years. Now, I am at the top of a hill in the tall grass prairie with trees to my back. I now see sun rise to sun set. The world is bigger than I knew.

My new family does not live in me, but they gave me a new roof and porch. They came to camp in me and sit on my porch to visit with friends. I now have gardens and fruit trees around me. People come to see me, and they tell my story.

They call me Old Diehm after my builder almost 150 years ago. They tell my story because there are no more like me.

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Posted by admin on Aug 3 2011. Filed under News and Updates. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0. You can leave a response or trackback to this entry