My youngest son was born while we were living at Anahim Lake.
The Ulkatcho community was nearby and I couldn’t help noticing how handy their baby baskets were, so I got one for my baby. It was a wonderfully smart move.
I wished I’d had one for my older boys. The basket was cosy. It was made of willow branches, covered in pretty cloth, lined with something soft, and it had two bands of buckskin to tie baby in.
It was easy to carry. There were no rules for kids' car seats back then, but the basket could be safely secured with a seat belt.
Son was born in August, and on nice days I’d hang the basket from a tree branch in the front yard for his nap. Some people thought I was a bit kooky, but he was in the shade, safe from wandering animals, and mosquito netting kept the bugs away. Every breeze rocked him in the basket. He rarely cried.
Recently a friend posted a history on Facebook of a well-known lullaby. It seems many years ago, Effie Crockett, Davy Crockett's sister, was helping some women of the Muskogee Nation. She was surprised to find mothers hung their babies in baskets in trees. They sang to them. Effie was fascinated. She had the words of the song translated, kept the tune, and shared it with everyone.
The English translation?
Rock-a-bye baby on the tree top,
When the wind blows the cradle will rock,
When the bough breaks the cradle will fall,
And down will come baby, cradle and all.
The story? The bough would break when the baby outgrew the basket. The cradle falling referred to the child becoming an adult, no longer needing a mother.
I’d never made any connection between my baby and the lullaby.
