Hanging Cloud (Ojibwa name Ah-shah-way-gee-she-go-qua (Aazhawigiizhigokwe in the contemporary spelling), meaning "Goes Across the Sky Woman") was an Ojibwa woman who was a full warrior (ogichidaakwe in Ojibwe) among her people, and claimed by the Wisconsin Historical Society as the only woman to ever become one. 

She was the daughter of Chief Nenaa'angebi (Beautifying Bird) and his wife Niigi'o. Aazhawigiizhigokwe was of the Niibinaabe-doodem (Merman Clan), of the Prairie Rice Lake Band of Lake Superior Chippewa. Her Band became part of the Lac Courte Oreilles Band of Lake Superior Chippewa Indians after the 1854 Treaty of La Pointe.

According to Morse, Aazhawigiizhigokwe wore war paint, carried full weapons, and took part in battles, raids and hunting parties. She was a full member of the war council, performed war dances, and participated in all warrior ceremonies. 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hanging_Cloud 
 

The Angry Ojibwe Woman has a side to her that their partners love, but others run when the subject comes up...except for Fellow Angry Ojibwe Women. Talking Dirty is a fundamental need for Angry Ojibwe Women.

When two or more Angry Ojibwe Women gather together, Talking Dirty is a given. Here is an example conversation:

Angry Ojibwe Woman 1: Pim brought me a new book with pictures and directions, asked if we could spice things up a bit...

Angry Ojibwe Woman 2: Howah! Pawk grabbed his pole and started dancing last night...

Angry Ojibwe Woman 3: Po knows what I like, he came at me with a gleam in his eye and whip cream in his hands...

The men had already cleared the area, any dawdling teenagers left with gagging sounds in their throat. Anyone not smart enough to grab the little ones on their way out usually comes back with earphones turned up high or they are singing loudly...with the area finally clear of all other “ears”....

...The Angry Ojibwe Women are then free to continue their conversation:

Angry Ojibwe Woman 1: ...he wanted to try out a new pemmican recipe.

Angry Ojibwe Woman 2:...it was a late night getting the rice finished up, we could of used some of that pemmican. We were starved but too tired to cook!

Angry Ojibwe Woman 3:..and a bowl full of strawberries. He knows how happy I get when I see already picked strawberries. Here, help yourselves!

The above may or may not be how the conversation continued. The important issue is that The Angry Ojibwe Women are able to sit down and have adult conversation without children or men. The men appreciate it too because NOW the children want to stay clear of ANY adults.

WARNING: Anyone not following these social cues are liable to receive not one, but simultaneous Stink Eye. 

A.Nana Mus
 

They used to hang out on the line like an American flag. Proud for all the neighbors to see. They had to rise above the hips and go past the middle of the thigh. Always white unless your were unfortunate to have rusty water then they were a beautiful creamy tan. To get them back to being white, you would scrub them on an old washboard with homemade lye soap. Your knuckles red and raw. People knew you meant business.

The blooms always were a center for breakfast, lunch, and dinnertime discussions with the boys. The boys would sure talk about how "perty" those blooms were hanging out on that line! Making their moms and grams blush with delight. It was shameful the way those boys talked, shameful. The Angry Ojibwa Woman would have to pray for them that night.

What they didn't know is that those Blooms were a touching memory of days gone past. They were a symbol of when she found the man of her dreams, the one she knew she would marry. You see, all her life she had to wash all their clothes. She would have to carry the water from the well. Make the fire to heat the water. Heat the water on the stove. Carry it out to put in the steel washtub. And then use the lye soap she had to also make to wash their clothes to a point where her knuckles would bleed. Until, one day, a man, not a young man, but a man never the less, came to her door asking for directions.

She was just going out the door with a tub of hot water. He grabbed the tub and helped her out to the yard. She gave him directions to where he wanted to go, but he stayed there talking to her and helping her as she continued to carry and heat water. She got him coffee and some bannock with homemade jam for helping her. The day swept by like a breeze. He watched her as she lovingly washed those blooms. He helped her carry the heavy wet clothes to the line. He then went on his way.

The next day, she was sitting at her kitchen window having coffee and playing solitaire listening to Canadian radio and fiddle music. She though about the stranger and how wonderful it was to have a man help her with the chores. There was a knock on the door. 

Years later, she would open the underwear drawer and see that he had lovingly folded her blooms into triangles just like the American flag. He put them side by side in a pattern that resembled nothing but beautiful pure love.

Moral of the Story: It is spring, get the Angry Ojibwa Woman in your life some blooms! Tease her about her blooms. Remember that the most loving act can be the simple act of helping the Angry Ojibwa Woman as she performs the ugly tasks in life.

Please share and have a great week,

Betsy McDougall
 

On our reservation, we called our grandfathers, Mishom. The grandmothers were called, Kookum. Mishom was always happy and loved to be around the grandkids. He could tell a good story just as easy to a young person as he could to an older person. He didn't differ himself from someone who was poor or someone who was rich. He was just Mishom.

He would help Kookum during the day and be with her while she went to visit her friends. He would sit there smoking his pipe while she talked in circles sipping tea. When she struggled with the chores and tasks of daily life, he was always there helping to lend her a hand and laugh with her about stuff that would happen to them during the day. At night, he would lock all the doors and shut all the lights.

He built a one room house out of wood from a house that was torn down. He got some black tarpaper from a neighbor for her roof. The windows were found by his son-in-law, they weren’t much, but Kookum could see the church from one window and sunset from another. She would sit there each day playing solitaire as he sat by her smoking his pipe waiting for her to make their next move.

As the children and grandchildren came into their lives, he would add rooms onto the one room cabin until it resembled a maze. As they left, each room still had to stay in place and held together a loving frame of memories for them as they grew older.

It is not often the Angry Ojibwa Woman finds two people like this Mishom and Kookum in her life; a man and a woman that live as if they were one. Watching a couple that was perfectly paired in every step was a blessing for her.

As an Angry Ojibwa Woman, you knew finding the right friend or partner always took caution and care. You always knew when you have someone you could trust, laugh with, and cry with in an instant of meeting them. As a spiritual partner, that person is someone who leaned on you and you were able to lean on them. You were able to say a prayer and in the corner of your eye, see them praying just as hard with you and for you.

Your Kookum and Mishom told you the secret of happiness was to find someone that lived by the seven teachings: wisdom, love, respect, bravery, honesty, humility, and truth. That all had to be present before you knew that person was the right one.

That in finding true love, the Angry Ojibwa Woman finally understood why eagles mate for life. She understood the importance of courting and why it is important to truly understand every good and bad habit of your mate. Why, once you choose that mate, you will soar until you cannot see them in the sky and fall towards the earth with them in a locking embrace not letting them go until the very end.

She understood that building the nest large enough to hold everyone you love is only another example of how big your love will be and that the nest needs to be constantly rebuilt to strengthen it throughout the years. She also began to understand that the nest would become so heavy that it would weigh down any structure; the perfect balance of understanding and care must be taken to ensure it remains stable. And that, during her lifetime, the nest might be destroyed, and if so, they will rebuild it in the same location.

The moral of the story is to take your time in finding the right partner. Your Kookum and Mishom built a strong stable nest and they told you how to find the right mate. Once you find that right mate, stay with him or her throughout your life. Your love will bring you to the greatest heights and the deepest lows but together you can rebuild anything that comes at you.

This story is told in honor of one of the greatest couples I have had the pleasure of meeting in my life, Andy and Mary Favorite. That Andy was a perfect partner for Mary. Their love shows us how to live a good life, the one that Gitchemanitou gave us to live.

All the best,

Betsy McDougall

Every Angry Ojibwa Woman has one true love. She is taught from early on what it should look like, how it should feel, and when to throw it away. Her grandmothers, mother and aunts told her what it takes to meet their strict standards. The said, “Don’t play with it because it will get hard!” Also, that if you do it right, it will be fluffy, moist, and hard on the outside. Hard enough, they said, so when you tap on the outside it sounds hollow. Then you will know.

The Angry Ojibwe Women in your life told you over and over that, “You will fall in love early and often!” I knew the very moment I fell in love. Grandma would pull the bread pan off the wall. She would get the flour out and her apron on while talking to me about life. She would add baking powder, salt, and sugar to the flour and mix it all up. My brown little face would be resting my chin on the white enamel kitchen table. I knew, if I stayed there long enough, love was coming my way.

She would make a well with the flour. Showing me how it has to be done; never veering from the process. She would pour her milk, add her eggs, and then warm lard into the well. Taking a fork, she would mix the wet ingredients and then slowly but certainly mix it into the flour. I knew it would only be a matter of minutes until it was time and I would fall in love again.

She always sang the same song while making her bread:

Oh, I wish I had someone to love me, Someone to call me their own.
Oh, I wish I had someone to live with, 'Cause I'm tired of living alone.
Oh, meet me tonight in the moonlight, Please meet me tonight all alone.
For I have a sad story to tell you, It's a story that's never been told.

I'll be carried to the new jail tomorrow, Leaving my poor darling alone.
With the cold prison bars all around me, And my head on a pillow of stone.

Now I have a grand ship on the ocean, All mounted with silver and gold.
And before my poor darling would suffer, Oh, that ship would be anchored and sold.

Now, if I had the wings of an angel, Over these prison walls I would fly.
And I'd fly to the arms of my darling, And there I'd be willing to die.

(The Prisoner’s Song, Dalhart, 1925)

I always thought it was a sad song, even when I was a kid. What was her life like to make her so sad? She would look at me and smile as she formed the dough into a perfect ball. I thought, “Why is she saying she was in a prison and how come she wanted to be an angel?” She would take a knife and cut markings into the bread and place the bread in the wood oven. I knew it was only a matter of minutes before I would be happier than I would ever be in my life.

She would sit with me by the kitchen table playing solitaire looking out the kitchen window. What was she looking at out that window? Who was she looking for so longingly? She would play another game. 

As she grew older; we would have less and less times like that together. Her cards were dusty sitting on a shelf in the kitchen. The wood stove was replaced with an electric one. Commodities were being stockpiled in the pantry waiting for them to be sung into a magical moment of love which seemed to never return. 

One day, my brother made a batch of love. She was sitting in the kitchen rocking in her chair. She had a big quilt wrapped around her. Mad, mad as hell. He said she could only have one slice of love. Her sugar was high and he was trying to control it. Meals on Wheels only gave her one slice of wheat bread with one pat of butter! Yes, she was mad as hell. He went into the living room and watched her. She watched him. I watched them.

Thinking she could make a break for it, she ran to the breadbox, grabbed the love and ran out the door yelling to the neighbors, “Help, I am being held prisoner!” My brother rushed out to the yard to grab her and the love fell on the ground. 

Now, if I had the wings of an angel,
Over these prison walls I would fly.
And I'd fly to the arms of my darling,
And there I'd be willing to die.

The moral of the story is, you never know what people mourn for in life or whom or what they really love. That sadness can be carried a lifetime and played out daily through a deck of cards. Life sometimes holds us as prisoners through our memories. As we grow older, our memories grow weaker, but our love never wavers.
This story is written in honor of my Grandma Betsy Allard Wilkie Davis who gave me a lifetime of love.
 

This page initially started on Facebook.  To keep files archived, we felt it was better to create an ongoing blog.  We want to teach, share, and create historical as well as hysterical memories for the Ojibweikwe as well as the women and friends in our lives.  Welcome our blog as we begin to rebuild our stories to archive them as well as to build new archives as we grow.