Christmas, 1968

The Navajo winter of 1968 was exceptionally cold. Tribal elders across the reservation were unsure about the meaning of the bitter winds and deep snow. While they thought about these things and put more firewood into their stoves, a great wind howled down through Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, and finally howling across barren stretches of the Bisti badlands in northern New Mexico.

In the middle of these badlands, at a lonely section of Highway 371, tufts of Indian grass and Juniper trees poked through snowdrifts. In the sky, storm clouds darkened out the sun so that in the distance a light from a kerosene lamp could be seen at a window of a hogaan, the traditional Navajo dwelling.

Standing at this place by the road, Marine Cpl. Keyanni looked toward the hogaan a half a mile away in the distance, the collar of his military issued jacket turned up against the wind. In 1966, William Keyanni was one of the first boys to stand up at the tribal boarding school when a Marine recruiter asked if any young Navajo men wanted to become a US Marine. Two years later on Christmas Day, Billy was finally home standing by the road and looking at the light in the window.

Inside the hogaan Billy’s aging mother and father sat at a table covered with cloth hand-sewn from cotton sacks that once held Blue Bird Flour. The table cloth was a beautiful pattern of blue birds sitting on top of golden wheat bushels, and if you looked long enough you could imagine hearing the bluebird’s summer song.

On the cooking stove a pot of mutton stew with potatoes and dumplings was coming to a boil. Sitting by the stove were the twins, Billy’s youngest brother and sister named Sally and Sam, warming their faces and playing Navajo string games. As quick as Sam would show Sally different string design he would bring his hands together and make another design and Sally would laugh. Turning from flattening dough into perfectly round tortillas, Billy’s mother would shush her saying in Navajo, “Do not be too loud. Sit quietly,’ and soon the sound of the boiling stew would fill the silence again.

Out side by the road, Billy started out for home walking across a snow covered field, his foot steps crunching along the way. At a small rise, he turned and looked back at his foot tracks and clapped his hands, rubbing them together and placing them over his ears. It was cold. He looked around to the Chuska Mountain range in the west and the tip of Mt. Taylor to the southeast. He took a deep breath and held it and then let it go. He was finally home. Last winter Billy was sat behind walls of empty ammunition crates filled with dirt and huddled under roofs made of olive green sand bags as two divisions of the North Vietnamese Army pounded Khe Sanh with mortar and artillery fire for 77 straight days and nights. Now he was on a small hill near home and it was so quiet he could hear his heart beating and he found peace unsettling.

After stirring the pot of boiling stew and lifting the last tortilla from the smooth cast iron surface of the old cooking stove, Billy’s mother wiped her hands on her apron and ordered her family to wash their hands and to get ready to eat. She reminded her family by saying in Navajo, “A long time ago, it is said, a holy person was born named Jesus. Because of that we are going to have a special meal today.” At the wash basin, Billy’s father waited patiently while Sam and Sally splashed water on their hands and giggled, causing their mother to shush them again. When their father washed his hands his turquoise ring banged against the enameled wash basin, making an odd metallic sound.

The small Navajo family sat down at the table and steam rose from the stew pot and the children looked at the tortillas. Billy’s mom sat down and took a deep breath and looked to the wall where a picture was hung of Billy in his Marine uniform. She bowed her head and prayed in Navajo for her son. At the Navajo words for, “across the ocean,” she stopped praying and held her breath a moment and cried. Billy’s father took her hand and continued on with the Navajo prayer. At the end of the prayer Billy’s father intoned the Navajo holy words, “It shall all be returned to beauty,” repeating these words four times to the four directions as he had been taught by his father and grandfather years ago.

Billy stood at the hogaan and waited, putting his ear to the southeast wall and listened. When he heard his mother stop praying his mischievous smile disappeared and he thought about how fortunate he was to make it home. He heard his father praying and whispered along. Only at the end he wiped his tears and thanked the holy people for brining him home safely.

Billy turned the door knob and opening the door he shouted, “Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas!” The twins were out of their chairs and running to Billy before mother and father lifted their heads from prayer. Billy’s mother started to cry, “Shi yazhi! Shi Yazhi!” my child, my child, as she got up from the table and ran to him. Billy’s father sat frozen in disbelief. Every one stood at the doorway hugging and crying.

For generations of this small family winter’s bitter winds and deep snows came to mean the love and rejoice for a son once lost returning home.