Ken Masters, MD


The Lost Birds of Wounded Knee

March 05, 2010

I remember as a child gathering wild greens with my Cherokee grandmothers, 2 generations of them, and hearing the lilt of spoken Cherokee. I can still see myself listening quietly in the corner of the room while others came to visit my great-grandmother, a respected traditional healer. We were poor. There is no other way to say it. My mother carried water from a well in the middle of the field, and I remember before going outside to play in the snow that we wrapped bread sacks around our feet to keep them dry. But as a child, while life was hard and even harsh at times, it felt safe and constant.