I’m back again. That’s the wind you hear in the background on the cassette tape. The wind blows very hard out here. Sometimes the dust is so ferocious from being whipped around by the wind that you can’t see even a yard in front of you. The blowing dust would be worse now, except that this year we had heavy rains during the spring. New growth of vegetation keeps down the loose dirt. The wind just now blew an empty pail off the box in front of me. I’m going to sign off here until the wind dies down.

A few weeks ago, Grandmother told me that I had to learn how to butcher a sheep if I wanted to be a  good Navajo wife. I wonder if she meant being a good wife to her son, Marshall.

Last week I butchered my first sheep. Morris grabbed the sheep’s legs, making the sheep fall to its side, and then he tied the legs together. Grandmother brought out her little brown leather pouch of corn pollen. She made a mark with the yellow powder on the sheep’s forehead, and then said a prayer, thanking Brother Sheep for giving its life so that her people could go on living. I said my own prayer to the sheep, asking for forgiveness for what I was about to do.

After the prayer with corn pollen, Grandmother directed me to slice the sheep across its neck. I shut off my feelings by focusing all my attention on what Grandmother told me to do. We let the blood drain out into a pan. Grandmother saved the blood for making blood sausage. After the bleeding stopped, I held the sheep’s head and extended the neck forcefully against my knee to break apart the vertebrae, and then I cut off the head, following Grandmother’s instructions.

Traditional Navajos eat every part of the sheep. Nothing is wasted. After I severed the head, I cut out the tongue—considered a delicacy—and then I placed the head on the hot coals to roast in the fire pit. The sheep’s open eyes looked up at me from the fire pit. I had to look away and swallow hard. The sight haunted me. I had been a self-righteous vegetarian before I came to live on the reservation.

Grandmother handed me a rope to suspend the sheep from a tree branch by one of its legs so that the carcass wouldn’t get dirty. She made gestures indicating that I needed to make a shallow slice from stem to stern on the underside of the sheep. After I made the long slice, she demonstrated how to peel off the hide from the flesh, using her fist to separate the membranes.

Once we had pulled the sheepskin off, I slit open the naked sheep’s belly and removed the innards. Grandmother squeezed out onto the ground the green, fibrous contents of the intestines, then washed them in a bowl and prepared them to be cooked and served as tripe.

The meat located over the breastbone is always reserved for the sheepherder since it is considered the choicest piece of meat. Fortunately I preferred this piece. I had a hard time with some of the other parts, especially the brains and the lungs.

Butchering is a big job. If Grandmother had not insisted, I would not have been willing to butcher the sheep. But I’m glad I had this experience to know exactly what is behind eating meat. From now on, I’m going to think about the animal that I’m eating and say a silent prayer of thanks.

After the butchering, we hang the sheepskins on a line to dry. Later we will tan the hides by rubbing the sheep’s brains on the hides, making them soft and pliable. The sheepskins serve as sleeping mats on the dirt floor, or as covers when it’s cold.

When a sheep gets sick, Grandmother goes up to the mountains and finds some special plants that she boils in a certain way. She puts the juice of the medicinal plants in their water and also rubs it on them. Virginia and Lee Tome use plants as medicine, following the old Navajo ways. Sick sheep usually get well with their concoctions.

There are two blind goat kids that Grandmother kept in the corral today while I took the rest of the herd out to graze. She had made some Navajo herbal medicine that she rubbed into their eyes. I will find out soon if it was effective. I don’t know how much you can do for blind goats.

Four miles from here, at the foot of the Lukachukai Mountains, there is a beautiful lake, called Big Gap. It has way more trout in it than the reservoir down the road. Sometimes my friends from Shiprock come and ask me to go fishing with them at the lake.

Grandmother is jealous about how I spend my time—especially when it is with boys. She would rather I spend all my time here with her, even though I am getting paid just to herd sheep. I think she is hoping I will marry her son, Marshall Tome.

Grandmother is rude to these Navajo boys. One of the long-haired boys was very polite and wanted to shake her hand. She refused to offer her hand, calling him a “tsii yogi,” meaning “hippie.” At first this presented a big misunderstanding between Grandmother and me. I felt like she was controlling my life. As a white person, I am not used to having somebody wanting me to stay home all the time and not allowing me to go off with friends on my day off.

Another point of tension occurs when I want to go to the trading post or to Shiprock to buy something I need. When I tell Grandmother, she says “t’oo dini,” which means, “you’re just saying that,” suggesting that I was lying. I think she suspects that I am going to meet some boys.

Virginia and Lee Tome have hired quite a few sheepherders in the past. Grandmother said they all lied, got drunk and ran away. Every time that I go someplace, she is afraid that I’m not going to come back, just like all the other sheepherders. She acts surprised when I do come back. She probably can’t get over the fact that a white woman would want to come way out here and live like a Navajo.

I know that I am the subject of a lot of conversations in the Red Rock area. Sometimes when I am out with the sheep I can see people in their pickup trucks stopped by the side of the dirt road, just staring at me for long stretches of time. I don’t own a watch, but I would guess they stare for at least an hour sometimes. They probably can hardly believe their eyes. When I’m at the trading post, I watch people trying to get a look at me without being too obvious. Sometimes the women and girls smile and giggle with their hands over their mouths when I walk by.

In spite of Grandmother’s protests, I usually try to get away for a little while on my day off for a change of scene. One weekend I went to a wedding that a Hopi friend of mine invited me to attend at her village high on a cliff. While I waited for the ceremony to begin, I played outside with the children. A little dog ran over to join in the fun, barking and wagging his tail, but within a few minutes he disappeared. I didn’t think much about it. Later on that day we had a big feast after the ceremony. The main dish was a thick stew made out of an unusual kind of meat with an unfamiliar smell. I noticed that the people around the table watched me as I ate. Someone asked me if I thought the stew was good and then everyone laughed. In that moment a wave of nausea passed over me as I remembered the little dog. My Navajo friends had told me that the Hopi people sometimes eat dog meat. I politely excused myself, walked to the edge of a nearby cliff, where no one could see me, and threw up.

Virginia and Lee Tome are off on their horses, checking on the cattle. Morris has gone to his irrigated fields in Shiprock where he grows his own hay for the horses, along with a few rows of melons, squash, and potatoes. This is the perfect time to talk in the tape recorder.

Right now I’m sitting at the little table in the shade house where we eat our meals when it’s too hot inside the cabin. I’m looking around, observing my surroundings. A little plastic bag containing dried sheep’s brains hangs above me from one of the poles. A bundle of sheep and goatskins hang from the branch of a nearby tree. Off to my right are some buckets, stacks of chopped wood, some bags of cement, two saddles stacked one on top of the other, a bridle, and a pile of lumber. Just beyond the cabin is a horse trailer. Over to my left are four water barrels, a dipper for the water, and a horsewhip. Underneath my chair are several plastic bags that are filled with wool that Grandmother spun with her drop spindle. Soon we will dye the wool with the plants she has gathered near the mountains.

Lee Tome planted two young elm trees in front of the cabin for shade. We pour all the dirty wash water around the base of the trees. I see that the little trees have already grown a few inches over the time that I’ve been here. Two of Lee Tome’s ducks are pecking at the dirt, looking for food. They are good at catching flies and eating them.

In the distance I can see the windmill about a quarter of a mile down the dirt road. At the windmill we do all our big washings. I go there on my days off to wash my clothes and hair. It feels so good to have clean hair, a clean body and clean clothes. I usually only feel clean for a few hours after the washing, but those few hours feel like bliss.

The excess water that comes out of the pump runs off into a little lake. Sometimes the dogs sit in there to cool off on the hot days. It can get killing hot here. Every so often we have to clean out the troughs where the animals drink because the sheep stand in them when they are drinking. They shit in the water. They also have some green stuff that looks like seaweed that comes out of their mouth and makes the water filthy.

I have to tie Lee Tome’s stud up securely when I take him to drink at the trough. If another stud came to drink, there could be a big fight. I can see a herd of horses that are drinking as I speak. They are some one else’s horses, not ours. Out here, most of the horses are allowed to roam around freely so they give the impression that they are wild horses.

It’s time for me to go take the sheep out again.

I’m talking to you right now from the top of Jimmy’s back. We’re out herding the sheep and marveling at the scenery. Off to the north are the La Plata Mountains over in southwestern Colorado. Just recently all the snow melted off the tops of the peaks. The big one is called Mt. Hesperus. The Navajo people call it “Dibentsaa,” or Big Sheep. It is one of the four sacred mountains that mark the boundary of the Navajo Nation. Navajos call their land “Diné Bikeyah,” meaning “The People’s Land.”

In the Navajo creation story, the Holy Ones, the Yé’ii, gave the Navajo people their homeland with the four sacred mountains representing the four directions. To the east is majestic Mt. Blanca in the Sangre de Cristo Range, known to the Navajo as “Sisnaajini.” To the south is Mt. Taylor in New Mexico, known as “Tsoodzil” or Big Mountain. And to the west are the San Francisco Peaks in northwestern Arizona, called “Dook’o’oosliid” in Navajo.

Virginia Tome is helping me learn more about Navajo history. She smiled when I pointed with my lips in all four directions to the sacred mountains and said their names in Navajo.

About a quarter of a mile west of here, Virginia and Lee Tome have their hogan where they used to live before they built their log cabin. These days the family members only use their hogan for traditional ceremonies.

Last Saturday, when Marshall Tome came for one of his surprise visits, I asked him to take me to a hair salon in Shiprock. I had decided to cut off my hair because it was too much trouble to keep clean—and my scalp had started to itch.

I said a bittersweet good-bye to the long, dark clumps of hair that lay scattered on the floor of the hair salon. I haven’t had hair this short since I was about ten years old. My Navajo friends in Shiprock are disappointed because now I won’t be able to wear my hair in a “tsii yeel”—a traditional Navajo knot—for the special ceremonies. 

The older Navajo women wear their long hair in a “tsii yeel” every day. Before I took off for Shiprock, Grandmother let me know that she did not approve of me cutting off my hair. She told me to gather up every last hair cut from my head in the hair salon, and then I was supposed to either burn or bury the hair when I returned home so that no one—like Weemie—could use it for witchcraft against me. I buried the bundle of hair yesterday near some sagebrush not far from the windmill.

I wish you could see the beautiful old Navajo jewelry I have on. Lee Tome pays my wages partly in jewelry and partly in béeso, meaning “dollar” in Navajo. Béeso comes from the Spanish word “peso.”

Lee Tome gave me a very old turquoise necklace, a pair of turquoise beaded earrings and a silver concho belt. I feel regal, even though I’m covered in dirt and dust and my hair is matted like the hair on the sheep dogs. I stood in front of Jimmy this morning and showed off my jewelry. I asked him if he liked it. He snorted and nudged me with his head.

A couple days ago Virginia and Lee Tome rounded up the cows and put them in the corral. Some of their relatives who are cowboys came over to help brand the young calves. We also gave penicillin shots to the ones that had pink eye. Lee Tome takes good care of his livestock. The trader told me that he gives the best price for Lee Tome’s cattle, sheep and goats because he takes such good care of them.

Virginia Tome said that she would take me out one day to show me the plants that I would need for dyeing the wool for my weavings.

The sheep and goats are resting just now in the shade house that Morris built for them. One of the goats wandered off and now he is right in front of me. He jumped up with his front feet braced on the little elm tree. He’s chewing off the lower leaves. I better go put him back in the shade house. Lee Tome would not be happy if I let the goat eat his young tree. I’ll be back.