My Brother, Wa Kanga Hoohega

Across the Fence #332

Two low-flying cranes flew directly over our house during the weekend. They were heading north. Every time I see a crane flying, I think of my friend, John Beaudin. He was a member of the Crane Clan.

I first met John at The Highground dedication of the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial at Neillsville, Wisconsin, in September of 1988. He was a Chippewa and was to represent the Native Americans during the ceremony. John was dressed in his Native American outfit, complete with Eagle feathers and his grandfather’s Eagle feather bustle and war club. He looked like he’d stepped out of the pages of a history book. We were behind the podium when I introduced myself and told him I’d let him know when he was to speak. As I watched him walking around, he had a regal presence and confidence in the way he carried himself.

After I unveiled the statue and talked about the design, he was to talk before the drummers began their warrior song. As John began speaking, the threatening rain finally arrived, and it poured. His notes on yellow legal paper turned to a garbled mess, but he continued speaking without the use of notes.

I was feeling bad about the rain spoiling our dedication. After he finished his portion of the program, I told him I was sorry the rain had ruined everything. He was smiling and his eyes seemed to glow with excitement. “This is wonderful he said,” lifting his face to the sky to let the rain fall on it. He then explained to me what the rain meant to him and to all the Native Americans present at the dedication that day.

“The Great Spirit and the Grandfathers made it rain. The power of the dedication, the power of the moment, had brought those loved ones left in Vietnam, Germany, Italy, Japan, Korea and other foreign countries back to view the dedication. And they had cried. Not tears of despair, not tears of hate for the sacrifice they made, but tears of joy that they would be remembered. Their tears had blessed and purified The Highground with their approval.”

John and I discovered that we lived within a few blocks of each other in Madison. That began a friendship that grew and lasted until the day he died from cancer at only 48 years of age.

John was a lawyer in Madison. It wasn’t easy being an advocate for “Indian’s” rights. He often found himself standing squarely in the center of problems between the Indians and whites. The spear fishing confrontations is just one example.

At the time of his death he was Chief Judge of the Lac Courte Oreillies Tribal Court. On his business card that he had me design, there’s a drawing of a crane flying into a circle that represented the circle of life. The crane was white within the circle and black outside the circle. We talked about nothing being entirely black and white, or red and white as he liked to say. Everything has some of the other within it, just like the Yin and Yang symbol from the Orient. In our talks I discovered many similarities in thinking and philosophy between Native American and Oriental teachings. Those are teachings that I had already embraced while studying martial arts.

The times I took him to University Hospital, while he was undergoing treatments for cancer, he seemed to be a favorite of everyone we met. I’d push him along in the wheelchair and staff would ask him how he was doing today. “Just great,” he’d reply with a big smile and then ask them how THEY were doing. He didn’t complain or show his fears to them, but voiced them to me in private. He didn’t want to die. There was too much to live for. He wanted to see his daughter, Kiana, grow up. I could only be there and listen. I couldn’t change anything.

One place he found comfort was in his spirituality. “Indian religion,” he called it. We often talked about our beliefs. I found his beliefs, that centered around nature, were very consistent with mine. The earth is sacred. Life is a circle, not straight lines. We both learned as we explored each others beliefs with an open mind. We also became closer friends.

John started calling me Ole Red Cloud, the Norwegian Indian. He’d introduce me to his friends as, “This is my brother, Ole Red Cloud.” They’d look at me and say, “Ole, that’s a strange name for an Indian.”

On April 4, 1993, just minutes into the new day, the Eagle picked John up and carried him across the water to join his ancestors. John Beaudin, Wa Kanga Hoohega (the Thunder of Many Voices), is dancing with the Ancestors now. He can ride the wings of the Crane any time he wants to return to The Highground, where he had me promise I’d spread his ashes on the dove mound. If you sit quietly and listen, his voice can be heard in the wind moving gently through the grass. You can feel him dancing on the dove mound as the wind caresses your face. You can hear him singing with all the other voices as the wind releases the music of the chimes. As long as the wind blows, the spirit of the Thunder of Many Voices will never be silenced.