Nebraskaland

MARCH 2015 • NEBRASKAland 55 A tale of two Ottos. Grandfather Time By Amy Kucera W hen I first met Otto LeRoy, he was volunteering his time with youth at the Ponca Tribe of Nebraska office in Lincoln. He instantly reminded me of my own Grandfather – though mine was just as Czech as he was Ponca – both had a wide grin and a short stature, enjoyed the outdoors, music, visiting and dancing. In fact, they even shared the same first name. We also had much in common and became good friends. He was thin, with a wide grin and deep, booming voice. His graying hair was just long enough for a short ponytail. It was routine he would visit the office each morning, greeting me with an enormous coffee cup in hand. "Hello, Miss Amy." Talk would soon turn to the latest local newspaper headlines. Or the Oklahoma Sooners. Or the Lincoln Indian Center where, as a veteran, he was active in the Gourd Dance Society and Color Guard. He had enlisted in the Navy in 1963 and was honorably discharged four years later, after serving on the USS Canberra. Though he never once mentioned it, he had received the National Defense Service Medal, three Bronze Stars, Vietnam Public Campaign Medal and Vietnam Gallantry Medal. During coffee one morning, he invited me to join him at an upcoming powwow at the University of Nebraska. When the sunny Saturday arrived, I walked my bicycle through the campus and found him on the outer rim of a crowded circle with a seat saved for me. "Where's your shawl?" he said as his smile brightened. I laughed. "I'm not dancing today, Otto." As the spring afternoon went on, he would continue to share with me stories of his cultural experiences, as the sound of drumbeats filled the grounds. Food smells of warm frybread mixed with the burning of sage grass. Beaded jewelry, bells and shells on the colorful regalia of passersby competed for our attention with those moving within the dance arena. "Everybody, Intertribal!" the master of ceremonies announced, calling out an invitation for everyone to dance. Otto motioned for me to join him. I shook my head. "Oh, c'mon!" he said in a low tone. Not one to disrespect an elder, I found myself moving with him toward the forming circle. My feet shifted awkwardly, but it felt good to be a part of the dance. O The sun lowered slowly behind us as dancers continued their turns on the flattened grass. Suddenly, an eagle feather fell to the ground. It was a solemn moment. The eagle feather is sacred, shown the highest respect and honor at all times. Though each dancer makes every effort to ensure it is properly secured, it can still happen to fall. In an instant, the arena director moved to protect the feather until the drum song stopped. As a veteran and elder, Otto was chosen to give a blessing. The entire crowd stood in silence. A humbled man then spoke of his sorrow that it had happened, asked for forgiveness and in an act of respect and appreciation, he gave Otto the eagle feather. "This is a beautiful feather," he said upon return to his seat next to me. "It certainly is," I marveled. When the drum started up again, Otto suddenly leapt from his chair. "This is a good song! I've got to dance!" He smiled and readied his feet. "Here, hold this for me," he said. "And don't drop it!" I sat there paralyzed. As I recalled, The Bald Eagle Protection Act stated the possession of an eagle feather by a nonnative person carried a fine up to half a million dollars. My grip tightened. The song lasted longer than any song I could remember. When he finally returned, he brought with him an old, familiar grin. "Gee, you were white to begin with, but now you really look pale!" O We were making dreamcatchers with the Ponca Circle of Youth when Otto joined us at the table. "They said the cancer is spreading." He shrugged his shoulders. "By the way, there's a gourd dance at the Indian Center in two weeks." He smiled. "Bring your shawl." It would be a dance held in his honor. When I arrived, it was standing-room only; the crowd flowed out into the doorways, as his many friends and family were there to wish him well. Otto danced every song. "It's good to see you, Miss Amy." Though it would be the last time I would see him dance, it wouldn't be our final visit. Less than two weeks later, I would find him resting under the shade of the tall pine trees overlooking the Niobrara River Valley at the Ponka Indian Cemetery. As the buffalo graze the nearby grasses softly shifting under the prairie sky expanse, I go to visit him, just as I still do with my own grandfather, after the same fate took him to rest just a few hills down the road. Now, whenever I am invited to dance, I recall a number of people who took the time to teach me how. Two were Ottos. And though they came from different backgrounds and bloodlines, they shared the same name, love for life and land in which to forever call home. ■ PHOTO BY JON AUGUSTINE Otto LeRoy at his last Gourd Dance at the Indian Center in 2013.

• Cover