Free Wabanaki Blues by Melissa Tantaquidgeon Zobel

here in northern New England than they are down in Connecticut, City Gal. The land is broader, and the history is darker and deeper, like the woods.”
    â€œBut Bilki always said the Abenaki territory here was huge.”
    â€œIt is. That’s the problem. There’s enough land to make a colossal reservation, which is why the government won’t let your relatives have it.”
    I mutter, “I can’t help thinking about our tiny Mohegan reservation and all the things we have squeezed onto it: a pharmacy, casino, restaurants, hotels, shops, gardens, elder housing, museum, church, ceremonial grounds, sacred sites, and burial grounds. It’s a small piece of land, and I’m grateful for it. Yet we hardly have any trees. These Abenakis may not have a reservation but they sure have us Mohegans beat when it comes to trees in their territory.”
    â€œIndeed they do. But protecting those trees comes at a high cost. Remember that.”
    I nod; too busy focusing on my driving to engage in further philosophical debate about protecting trees. At the bottom of the next hill, Grumps signals me to stop.
    â€œYou made it, City Gal. Welcome to downtown Indian Stream.”
    I lay a hand on his shoulder. “ We made it, thanks. Mom never let me drive.”
    â€œShe has her reasons.” His words catch in his throat. “You’ll be a pro in no time.”
    I take in Indian Stream’s Main Street. This is not the Currier and Ives quaint New English small-town center I expected. There’s not a single white church or wood clapboard colonial house anywhere in sight. It’s nothing but a cluster of jaundiced yellow warehouses. A dozen beat-up pickups sit parked in this gravel lot. I wonder who repairs Grumps’ truck. It has to be forty years old but it looks better maintained than all the others, despite its multicolored bodywork.
    I pull up to one of the yellow warehouses and park beside a dented pickup with a muddy ATV loaded in the bed. The hand-painted sign in front of the warehouse says, “Indian Stream General Store.” The adjacent warehouse has a dent in it the size of a semi. A flimsy banner roped across the front reads: “Black Bear Bar and Grill.”
    One warehouse has sliding doors big enough to move tractors or snowmobiles in and out. The town municipal building has a sign hammered into the ground out front that says, “-own -all,” with the first letter of each word amusingly missing. I see a parking spot that says “-ax Collector.” Now I know what teenagers around here do for fun.
    The fourth yellow warehouse is so bad it makes me give thanks for Colt High for the first time. Hanging out front is a ragged piece of scrap lumber, wood-burned with the words “Indian Stream School K-12.” Apparently, the students made the sign themselves. I’m guessing Mom went here, which explains why she hates yellow. At least Colt High has a professional-looking sign out front, and we didn’t have to hang out with elementary school kids. COLT HIGH. I realize I’m missing my graduation tomorrow and mentally slip downhill.
    Grumps pulls me back up, with a shake of my arm. “Time to visit our fancy Indian Stream general store,” he snickers. “C’mon.”
    I leave Rosalita in the truck because I don’t want to make a bad first impression on his friends. I know what people think of musician chicks. They do drugs. They’re easy. The store smells oily and rusty like an auto-repair shop. Rows of red metal industrial shelves rise from a cracked linoleum floor to a water-stained ceiling. The shelves are piled high with fishing and hunting gear, car parts, tools, DVDs, locally made maple syrup, handmade quilts and mittens, yellowing books, wrapping paper, and weird Canadian food products, ranging from pork brains to a whole chicken in a can. These oddities shouldn’t surprise me. When I looked up the history of Indian