My great-unci (grandmother) was a midwife back in the day, delivering Native babies on the rez, and a few white babies in town. On her 83rd birthday she brought one last new born into the world, the Creator journeyed her home in her sleep. I honor her by keeping her story alive. 
When my mother was a girl, she accompanied great-unci Rose as her helper, birthing babies on the reservation. It was great-unci Rose who hid my mother in her basement when the Jesuits from the boarding school came to take her away. Such acts of heroism were commonplace back then.
Great-unci Rose owned a home and a small plot of land on the outskirts of Rapid City, South Dakota. During the freezing winter months she would leave baskets of food and blankets in her fields for the Indians still living “in the wild.” The next day the baskets would be gone.
It was at the St. Louis World’s Fair in 1904 where my great-unci (grandmother) as a young woman, played the piano. It must have blown their minds, the rich white people, with that look of awe and bewilderment, as this little Lakota “savage” ravaged Chopin with beautiful melodies.
These are precious memories of my great-unci Rose, passed down to me by my beloved mother. This is what the Lakota mean by keeping our ancestors spirits alive. By sharing part of her story, with you, I graciously uphold the Lakota oral tradition. And grant her life—immortality.
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