Missionary Experiences

The Day the Dog Stole our Meat

During our ten years on the Indian Reservation, our family was growing. Of our five children, three were born during that time. Ed often stayed home to take care of the youngest while I took the older ones on outings. It wasn’t that I was better at it, just that I enjoyed it more. In winter, we went skating on the river, or made snow angels, or built a snowman. Sometimes we walked down in the willows below our house to see the tracks of rabbits and birds. Each spring, we hiked up on the hill. Indian Paintbrush peeked out at us from among the cheat grass and scrubby sage. The trail started behind the hospital and wound up the side of the hill to end at an old crater with its jumble of lava rock. That’s where the rattlesnakes lived. Actually, we saw only one during the ten years we lived out there. We were out in the middle the rock flow when I heard that unmistakable, chilling sound. I told the kids to freeze. As soon as I spotted the snake, we put distance between him and us as quickly as possible. That’s not easy over a tumble of boulders.

Cookouts were usually a family affair. We put the baby in an Indian cradle board and took a drive up the river. There were several places along the river ideal for building a fire of sagebrush or dry willow sticks and cooking supper. One time our Indian friend, Judy, offered to go along and cook for us. Judy was a short, plump Shoshone lady. I can picture her now, sitting flat on the ground beside her small cooking fire, legs straight out in front of her and back like a board. I don’t recall what she cooked, but I remember it was “pishakama.” That’s Paiute for “tastes good!”

One cookout I’ll never forget, nor will our three older kids. Instead of driving up the river, we walked to a place along the river closer to our home. We took a small fry pan, some hamburger, salt, and biscuit dough I had made. I was going to show them how to make biscuits-on-a-stick. As we started out, our neighbors’ dog followed. I told him to go home and we went on our way. At the river, I set the fry pan and the hamburger out of the way while the kids gathered wood for the fire and I cut willow sticks for our biscuits. With several matches and much blowing, I got a fire going.

“Bring the fry pan and hamburger,” I said, “and we’ll have supper in no time.”

“Mom, the hamburger’s missing.”

“Oh, that dog! Well, we’ve still got our biscuits.” I tried to sound cheerful as I wrapped the biscuit dough around the peeled willow sticks and handed one to each of the children. “Now hold it over the fire, but not too close. We don’t want to burn them.” 

“Mom, look.” I heard the agonizing wail as four stick biscuits slid off the willow sticks into the edge of the fire.

Trying to redeem a sad situation, I told them I’d heard that the Indians used to make ashes bread. We sat staring gloomily into the fire for a few minutes, then fished out our biscuits, brushed off the ashes, and ate our supper.

O.K., so I didn’t say I was better at it!

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