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Father Emmett Hoffmann
His First Experience with "Gumbo Mud"
Father Emmett looking at St. Labre Mission - 1954 |
February is one of the coldest months on the northern plains. In another month or two, the snow will melt and the ground will turn to gumbo. Believe me, you have never experienced mud until you have been stuck in sticky gumbo. Let me tell you about my first encounter with it:
I'll never forget my first spring on the Northern Cheyenne Reservation back in 1955. Palm Sunday at St. Labre Mission began with three feet of snow, and we were snowbound for three days without a telephone. Of course, there were no televisions at that time, but we did have an old short-wave radio to pick up the news.
In those days priests wore heavy, brown, wool robes, and we couldn't wash the wool. When we got dirty, all we could do was rub out the dirt. After two weeks in one of those robes, everybody knew what a priest had for dinner and all of his other weekly activities. I was out there chopping firewood, working on the boilers and helping in the barn so I must have smelled and looked pretty ripe!
A few days after the Palm Sunday snowstorm, warm Chinook winds blew from the southwest. By Easter Sunday, the snow was gone. We had water everywhere, and the once hard soil had turned to greasy mud. I was always eager in those days, and I took the blessed occasion to drive down to the Ashland Indian camp to visit the sick people who couldn't get to church. Since it was Easter, I had on a spotless robe.
Father Emmett with Chief Charlie Sitting Man, Sr. - 1960s |
I went from tent to tent and to three or four dilapidated log cabins. Everyone was very friendly and kept smiling and smiling. I congratulated myself on what a good job I'd done. When it was time to leave, I jumped into the car. All the Cheyenne, young and old, came out to see me off. At least that's what I thought they were doing.
I only got about a third of the way up to the main dirt road. I had to drive around the deep wagon ruts; and before I knew it, my wheels started spinning. I kept hitting the gas, but there was not traction at all. Great globs of gumbo flew up and covered the windshield so I couldn't see out. I opened the door and jumped into ankle-deep gumbo. After a few minutes my shoes felt like heavy lead and the hem of my robe, now weighted down with sticky gumbo all around, made walking difficult. I felt like I was sinking in quicksand. Meanwhile, the Cheyenne onlookers stood in absolute silence until, unable to move, I grinned sheepishly and shrugged my shoulders. Seeing that, they lost their stoic composure and doubled over with laughter.
Learn more about Father's Northern Cheyenne friends by reading the elder stories.
