Never Before Known Native American Stories by Bernice Vanderhoof McCarthy

                                Bernice Vanderhoof McCarthy and the Paiute Indians

Bernice, Mother Artie, Baby Phebe, Father Giles, Lucille, Lee

   Another source of historical value came from a very early railroad family who pioneered the church and raised their family in Sparks.The Vanderhoof family contributed a great deal to the early church and railroad community. Their daughter, Bernice Vanderhoof McCarthy, found great pleasure writing essays of her early memories concerning her family, friends and the church of her youth. 

   Her writings include people and places in early Sparks that led to its distinct nature including the nearby Paiute Indians. The following is written by Bernice.

The Thanksgiving Buck

   “When I was just a wee girl, I remember my dear little mama baking a Thanksgiving turkey that did not please her. She said that it just did not smell right, and in no way was she going to serve it for her family’s dinner.

   We lived at 531 8^th Street (now Pyramid Way) and the Paiute Indian Village was less than two blocks north and a few blocks east of us. It was just below the County Road (now Prater Way) and situated on the bank of a small ditch at about 5^th Street. Their cabins were on the north side of the ditch.

   My folks were kind and friendly to the Indians and very fond of some of the special ones. Mama knew that after its long hours of baking, there was really nothing wrong with that turkey—its odor just “turned her off.” So she called daddy in and asked him to take it down to the Indian Village.

I adored my father [Giles Vanderhoof] and literally walked in his shadow, so I went trotting along beside him to the Indian Village. It was late afternoon and almost dusk at that time of year.

   That turkey smelled good enough to me—and I remember how proud I was that we were giving our Indians such a wonderful gift! As we arrived with it, we saw a big buck Indian standing outside his cabin. Daddy walked over to him and proffered his gift saying, “My good wife sends this present over to our Indian friends.”

   I was disappointed at the lack of enthusiasm – he just accepted it with a grunt. In later years, I learned that is always their way—so stoic. I empathize with our Indians and realize why they are unable-and unwilling to show gratitude for our favors. Once, this was all theirs. I remember that I felt quite a letdown, but all the way back home, I happily skipped along at Daddy’s side, in the dusk, holding ever so tightly to his big, strong, hand.

Mattie, the Indian Squaw

   Once when my mother was expecting my younger brother, Giles, she had a very fat, nice squaw, Mattie, come regularly to assist her with the household chores. She was training Mattie so she would be familiar with all duties when Mama’s “time of indisposition arrived.”

   Giles was born the evening of February 11, 1916 at 9:15pm. The next morning Mattie made no appearance. Mama was very upset. Mattie had always been such a good and dependable person and mama was quite fond of her. How could she let her down at this imperative time.

   She sent Daddy over to the Indian Village on the bank of the little irrigation ditch, south of County Road, and a few blocks east of our house to find out why Mattie had failed her.

   As usual, I went along too, trotting along at Daddy’s heels. As we approached their cabin, we saw Mattie’s big “buck” of a husband loitering out in front of it. At the sound of Daddy’s voice, as he asked for Mattie, we heard footsteps running across the floor inside the cabin and plainly the locking of the door.

   At Daddy’s inquiry, as to why Mattie hadn’t come to work today, when of all days she was needed most, with the arrival of the expected baby, the big “buck” slowly and solemnly said, “Oh, Mattie catchum papoose last night!” We could hardly believe our ears and hurried home to tell mama. Mama was just flabbergasted and exclaimed, “Oh, poor Mattie, she was as much in need of help as I was. We were both expecting at the very same time, and there I thought she was just a fat squaw!”

Old Ida

   Mama was very kind to the Indians, and some of them used to come to our house for handouts and never once were they ever turned away. Our most frequent visitor was “Old Ida.” She was big and fat, axe handle wide across the seat, and we loved her dearly.

   We children used to giggle to ourselves as she seated herself in our back yard. She really did get up and down just like a big, fat cow, her shoulders first, then balancing her big bulk, the rest of her followed. She came silently and unannounced. Often, we’d look out and there would be “Old Ida” just sitting out there on the ground. Always, we each went over to greet and welcome her.

   Once seated, she would take out her basket weaving materials and begin her artistry as she waited. I can see her now, as she drew the willow through her mouth to give it enough moisture to make it pliable.

   If the weather was cold or bad, she came regardless. She was always brought in our home and seated in front of the kitchen range. The range was an old Star Estate, with a knife-sharpener on the front, a water reservoir on its right-hand side, from whence came hot water for our baths etc. That was before there were yet any other water-heating conveniences such as we enjoy today. Across its top front were two warming ovens (as they were called), with closing doors. Cut into the bottom, below the baking oven and the soot door was an open warming oven above the floor. There new-born chicks were placed to keep them warm.

   We would put the oven door down for Ida and she would sit there and get warm and dry out from the ice and snow. She always had a voluminous skirt that had scads of pockets. I can see mama yet, tying all sorts of goodies and necessaries into little packages that Ida could tuck into those various pockets. It was amazing how fast they disappeared.

   As she seated herself before the stove, I can hear now, the doleful little sing-song, she used to say to mama, “No gottee no soogar, no gottee no coppee, no gottee, no gottee.” And mama would be bustling around, sharing whatever she could with “that poor old soul.”

   Ida would always say, “Oh, you nicee goodee lady, someday I makee you nicee basket.” And mama would just smile her sweet, kind, smile, knowing there never would be a basket forthcoming, but appreciating the thought anyway.

   One day, lo and behold, the basket DID come, in Ida’s pocket, a small one about 6 inches across and a couple of inches deep. How it warmed mama’s heart when Old Ida brought it out from one of those mysterious pockets, saying, “See, I makee you nicee basket.” But then how angry mama became, only time I ever saw mama cross with Ol Ida, when Ida completed the sentence with, “now you givee me twenty cents.”

   Mama was insulted, not for the amount of money, but to think that she would put a price on this long-promised gift. Mama replied, “No, I will not give you twenty cents, shame on you Ida, after all the years I have been good to you, and so shared with you!

   Old Ida just looked sullen and thoughtful for quite awhile, then Looked up and said, “You givee me ten cents!” Indignantly, Mama answered, “I wouldn’t give you one cent!” You keep your basket!” which is just what she did!

Old Ida's Beans

   My father’s whole life was wrapped up in three things, and he willingly and uncomplainingly, traded many of life’s luxuries for them. First, his beloved wife and children; second, his precious Rhode Island Red chickens; and his big garden. Over all, of course, hovered the courage of his religious convictions, with all the time and effort he devoted to that.

   His garden had the first green onions, radishes, lettuce, etc. And he gladly shared it with all. When Old Ida paid her visits, she was always welcome to anything in season therein. I can see Mama giving her some of this and that, and Ida hunting a place to stow it, she left with arms laden, too.

One time Mama gave her some freshly picked yellow wax beans. The next time she came, Mama said, “Ida, I’ll give you some more wax beans that I have just picked, did you like them?” Ida gave a grunt of disgust, “Oh, No, --too itty bitty!” Mama immediately got the picture and could visualize that poor old woman trying to get the wee little inner beans out of those yellow pods.

   “Oh, Ida, she cried, “You aren’t supposed to try to shell the beans out of the pods. You break them up in inch long pieces, cook the whole thing, and eat it that way. Now I’ll give you some more and you try them like this, you’ll like them!”

   But with those beans, Ida had had it. No way was she going to have any part of them again. No amount of mama’s persuading could tempt her to even look at a wax bean again.

   Both Old Ida and Mattie, along with many other squaws, had the blue, indelible marking forever imprinted in a pretty blue color, down to their chins. We wondered if they were “grief markings” of some sad experience in their lives. We never asked them, such personal things were never even considered for discussion. We deeply respected those brown brothers and the right to have their own private rituals. We had heard that those marking s were inflicted on themselves in time of great sorrow.

Pyramid Lake Indians

   The Indians at Pyramid Lake, a desert lake north east of Reno, Nevada, always knew they had a market with my father for their huge Pyramid Lake Salmon. Daddy was a good friend to them and they thought highly of him. They would drive up in their small wagon, chat with him a bit, and then select their largest and finest Salmon Trout from beneath a heavy gray tarp. This they sold to daddy for the massive sum of “two bits!” Mama baked them in her oven with the aroma filling the air.

   Those poor Indians, as badly in need as they were for a little ready cash, and the punitive bit they derived from the sale of those few fish were resented and begrudged. So a law was soon passed prohibiting the Indians from selling their hard-caught catch. My father, realizing their dire straits and knowing how much that little twenty five cents meant to them, made them welcome. After working for their catch, they had to make the long, slow journey to find a customer in their little old horse-drawn wagon, over 35 miles of powdery, fine-dusty, corduroy jarring road, was no picnic for sure!

   A most law-abiding man, Daddy refused to recognize that law, with its injustice, and the Indians knew that he understood. So they continued to drive up in front of our house and lift a beautiful, huge Salmon Trout from beneath its wet tarp. Those original, natural Pyramid fish were really something!