Photograph by Brandee Simons
Since Time Immemorial is a recurring series featuring community members whose families have been here since time immemorial. The ancestral knowledge carried by Lhaq’temish, Nooksack, and other Coast Salish peoples is knowledge about how to live in our shared home in a good, life-sustaining way. We live in a time when we need to restore our relationship with Mother Earth and with one another. We are grateful for these stories, told in the words of each featured individual.
Skwetslatse’ mot Tammy Woodrich is a traditional Nooksack storyteller. She has worked internationally to bring Indigenous and Native knowledge and perspectives to school curricula. Along with her daughter Skwetslatse’elhot Si’li’xw’tunawt Angela Letoi, she has founded the non-profit organization Healing Through Hope, the mission of which is which is “mending hearts, lifting spirits, and building connections to create space for love and laughter.” Tammy and Angela are currently working on a children’s book based on the Blue Jay story that was gifted to Angela by a Nooksack elder.
Skwetslatse’ mot Tammy: I grew up next to the river, but the river’s changed, it’s not there now. We had a shack over the track, a cabin that was rolled down from upriver from an encampment for the logging industry. Rolled on logs all the way down to where it sat. Four rooms made out of cedar logs that were interlocked. It was put down there in 1876 by my great-great-grandfather. My grandpa grew up there and my dad grew up there. I grew up there. Angela was born and she went home from the hospital to that house. The house burned down, but that’s another story.
Photograph by Brandee Simons
Skwetslatse’elhot Si’li’xw’tunawt Angela: Every story comes with another story.
In our ways, a person is given a name to be recognized by our ancestors. When I was gifted my name, Angela became my name too, because she’s following in my footsteps. She’s my blood, she’s my child, she’s the storyteller. We became the same name.
At any kind of gathering, if she’s called to the floor, I go with her. Because we carry the same name. The “mot” at the end of her name means mother, and the “elhot” on mine means daughter.
So when we got the call to do this interview, Angela came with me.
Since we’ve had our Indian names, it’s been like, we don’t even really have to talk. It’s a connection. Like I could think, “I wonder if mom needs blah blah blah” and then my phone will ring and it’s Mom calling to answer my question.
I’ve always told Angela, you have all your ancestors with you. They’ll give you strength to be truthful in storytelling and honoring the stories.
We don’t have to do much now when we’re up there telling stories: It’s just the spirit telling us what to do. We’re just willing to listen to the whispers.
Everybody’s hungry right now. Hungry for this spirit quest. For that connection to Mother Earth.
A connection with the land.
My dad used to bring us for rides. Little did I know that it was a training. We’d go up to the mountains, we were hunting for deer, or looking for blackberries, or gathering wood for our wood stove. Different trips for different reasons. But every single time we went up to the woods, there would be a plant and dad would say, “Oh, you know this here can cure pinkeye,” or he’d pull he’d pull up a root and say, “Chop it off right here, put it in tea for your lungs,” or “You can’t eat that berry. It’s poisonous.” We were getting an education and didn’t even know it.
We have to listen to what the land is telling us in order for us to get the medicines that we want. We learn by listening.
My grandma used to tell a story about a skunk getting picked on by the kids until it died, and then the kids played hot potato with its stinkbag. One boy went back to his grandfather and told him what happened. His grandfather said, “You disrespected Skunk, so now he will haunt you for the rest of your life. You’ll see him everywhere.” That’s why there’s so many skunks on the river. But these days, now, you can’t tell kids that version.
It’s too harsh.
Grandma was just telling us to be nice to animals. But I created a whole new story about Skunk, how he’s conceited and gets fooled by reflections in the water. The lesson is: you can’t always believe what you see.
Photograph by Brandee Simons
All the stories have lessons.
Th’oxiya—Basket Woman—who eats bad children. The story teaches that you better listen, you better do what you’re told. Or, sometimes Basket Woman is told to explain why there are so many mosquitos on the river. The mosquitos are the ashes from when Basket Woman was pushed into the fire.
A lot of our stories explain things, but there’s a spiritual part, too. Like once I walked into the woods with one of my daughters and said, “I’m gonna tell you how Crow got his voice.” Pretty soon a crow comes over and gets on the tree. He’s talking kaw kaw kaw and I hadn’t even started the story yet! My daughter said, “How did you do that?” I said, “I don’t know. I never did it before.” Crow went back and forth and back and forth on the tree until the story was done, and then he left. That right there was something that made it spiritually alive to me. Mom, of course, knows about the spiritual part of it. I get to learn by walking behind her.
It’s our way of life. Tl’o Stam Sta’a. It is what it is.
About the Writer:
Julie Trimingham is grateful to make her home on traditional Lhaq’temish territory, and to work for the Sacred Lands Conservancy (SacredSea.org), an Indigenous-led 501c3 nonprofit organization dedicated to protecting the life, culture, and sanctity of the Salish Sea.
