"Departed" is the prompt over at
OSI this week. Due to my brain being constantly overloaded, this haiku for the prompt seemed very apropos. I also included a reprint of a famous Chicago cartoon and little story that has "departed" and is no longer published.
Fading memory...
It isn't what it once was
Now what was this prompt?
As we start November and Autumn hits her stride, the weather often becomes really mild, luring us all back outside for one more breath of summer before we nest in our home until spring. Here in Chicago, we have been enjoying our annual Indian Summer for the last few days. Windows have been thrown open, shorts dug out, and many have spent their weekend outside soaking up the glorious weather.
Growing up, I distinctly remember the fun we had raking the leaves, jumping into them and the wonderfully autumnal smell of them being burned. Now different communities have outlawed the burning of leaves and with it, the perpetual haze that hung above the towns until the first snowfall. Although, I now succumb to headaches when leaves are burned in close proximity, it still is a distinctive smell I associate with fall. (Ironically, leaves can still be burned in the community where I teach and you can smell it on the outskirts of town)
On the Sunday before Halloween, the Chicago Tribune always ran Injun Summer by John T. McCutcheon on the front cover of their Magazine section. Before long, many other newspapers around the company ran Injun Summer as well. My grandparents and parents read Injun Summer to me when I was little, and I anxiously looked forward to its annual appearance. What started out in Chicago in 1907, soon became widespread across the US as this cartoon and story grew in popularity. I even still have a copy of this from the early 1070's that I have saved. On certain Autumn nights, especially one like tonight, when we have the windows open enjoying the Indian Summer and the waning moon, if I listen hard enough, I believe that I can hear the ancient war cries of the Indians who used to occupy this land.
INJUN SUMMER
John T. McCutcheon
Chicago TribuneSeptember 30, 1907
"Yep, sonny this is sure enough Injun summer. Don't know what that is, I reckon, do you? Well, that's when all the homesick Injuns come back to play; You know, a long time ago, long afore yer granddaddy was born even, there used to be heaps of Injuns around here—thousands—millions, I reckon, far as that's concerned. Reg'lar sure 'nough Injuns—none o' yer cigar store Injuns, not much. They wuz all around here—right here where you're standin'.
Don't be skeered—hain't none around here now, leastways no live ones. They been gone this many a year.
They all went away and died, so they ain't no more left.
But every year, 'long about now, they all come back, leastways their sperrits do. They're here now. You can see 'em off across the fields. Look real hard. See that kind o' hazy misty look out yonder? Well, them's Injuns—Injun sperrits marchin' along an' dancin' in the sunlight. That's what makes that kind o' haze that's everywhere—it's jest the sperrits of the Injuns all come back. They're all around us now.
See off yonder; see them tepees? They kind o' look like corn shocks from here, but them's Injun tents, sure as you're a foot high. See 'em now? Sure, I knowed you could. Smell that smoky sort o' smell in the air? That's the campfires a-burnin' and their pipes a-goin'.
Lots o' people say it's just leaves burnin', but it ain't. It's the campfires, an' th' Injuns are hoppin' 'round 'em t'beat the old Harry.
You jest come out here tonight when the moon is hangin' over the hill off yonder an' the harvest fields is all swimmin' in the moonlight, an' you can see the Injuns and the tepees jest as plain as kin be. You can, eh? I knowed you would after a little while.
Jever notice how the leaves turn red 'bout this time o' year? That's jest another sign o' redskins. That's when an old Injun sperrit gits tired dancin' an' goes up an' squats on a leaf t'rest. Why I kin hear 'em rustlin' an' whisper in' an' creepin' 'round among the leaves all the time; an' ever' once'n a while a leaf gives way under some fat old Injun ghost and comes floatin' down to the ground. See—here's one now. See how red it is? That's the war paint rubbed off'n an Injun ghost, sure's you're born.
Purty soon all the Injuns'll go marchin' away agin, back to the happy huntin' ground, but next year you'll see 'em troopin' back—th' sky jest hazy with 'em and their campfires smolderin' away jest like they are now."
