I’m invited to photograph an Indian funeral for a 109-year-old woman. It’s a traditional affair, with a Pendleton trapper’s blanket on a casket lowered by hand. Even so, young punks surround me: “Don’t you think you’re crazy,” they ask, implying?
I look around for Kokopelli, who might intercede on my behalf. He’s nowhere in sight.
Later, with a Styrofoam cross and dozens of American flags, the casket rides the back of a pickup, viewed by faces in Cool-Ray sunglasses — ancient traditions side-by-side with the cheapest, most honky-tonk trinkets of the New American Way.
I wasn’t permitted to enter the house, either.
For more insights from the American Far West and Kokopelli, click here.
Jnana's Red Barn 