“They’re gonna look at ya.  Might as well give them something to look at!” These were wise words of advice offered by Mary Washington’s Father.  Oh my, our friend gave us so much to look at and remember.

Mary Washington was born in Alabama on or near the Washington Plantation.  She travelled about the U.S. as a child (for as she says she was an army brat!) and then again as an adult when she taught school on a Navaho reserve and in Utah and many other places.  Her third husband proposed that she should have a name that honours her Nigerian heritage and so she took the name of Orunamamu!  The O signifies reverence and I think the rest means Morning Star.  O she brought surprises of the morning and all through the days and years to many of us – especially in Calgary and in Rockridge, California where she dwelt each half of the year.

“A feather is a letter from a bird!!”

It all began I shall boldly declare on the long weekend of September in 1997.  I stood on the lawn outside Reid’s Bazaar, revelling in my own review of a story that I had just told for the T.A.L.E.S. Fort Edmonton Storytelling Festival.  I think it was a magpie feather that dropped beside me that day.  I was enjoying Tololwa Mollel’s recounting of traditional death stories from Tanzania.

I felt warm hands make gentle strokes across my back.  I hesitated and then looked down at yellow legs standing in nail polish speckled sensible shoes.  I turned my head to see a glorious African Queen decked in an iridescent mauve and green crown and cape.

Care worn fingers with painted nails were stroking my back. There was a twinkle in her eye and on her silver starred tooth.

Her tall son Eddie was at her side.

We smiled in friendship.

I breathed deeply to surrender to the loving care I felt in those strokes.  I looked at her again.  She was a walking painting; multicoloured, she was handmade.

She traded stories for clothing she said.  She was larger than life.

That was my first encounter with Orunamamu.  I remember that Merle Harris had found her at the Fringe and invited her to join us.

We had a few visits in Calgary that summer and fall as we would year after year.

Her hands were never idle.

She vowed that she would not go into a home.

She was an early couch surfer.

She felt an affinity with the homeless.

Orunamamu held court on the front porch of her son Eddie’s house on Bowness Road, and on the front step of her Yellow Legs Story Museum in Rockridge, California.

“You see that bus stop over there!” said she. “That’s my office!”

She fell into a pattern of leaving our city for a Herbal Conference in Washington in early September.  Then she would retreat to the warmer climes of California to be with her younger son Santee.

I always thought to myself, “She is getting on in years.  Will she come back next spring??”

It seemed a miracle that she always did.  Anne Cowling faithfully sent her copies of our T.A.L.E.S. newsletters so she kept abreast of our activities.  Often she came to our retreats – sometimes showing up at the end, always a good listener, a fine supporter. She performed with us at World Storytelling Days.  Luckily we recorded her voice there.  She was a regular performer at the Calgary Spoken Word Festival in April.

She called herself A Story Bag Ladee!! She was loaded down with bags, suitcases, hatboxes and hand carved walking sticks.

What was in her parcels?

There was always the wooden frog, a head wrap, a Tina Turner wig, a Jester’s Hat, a Bowler hat, a Leopard skin hat, a dingle ball hat, papers with words of wisdom, scissors, books with scalloped edges and underlined passages – books turned into art, a knitting project in progress, fabric for fringing, for living on the fringe, strips of magazines and newspaper for weaving – Trash to Treasure.

How old are you? I asked.  Elusive answers…I am one, I am two, I am eleven, I am sixteen, 24, 40, 55, 73, 85. 91, 93….I am all of these.

Our friendship was growing.  She came with me to gatherings, met the family, the neighbours, fellow storytellers, introduced me to her world and to Eddie’s letter carrier.  She told me about her journeys on the AMTRAK Train, and how she delighted in meeting fellow travellers.  She gave and received stories on the train.

Some stories were on the very edge of comfort.  “Did you have to tell that one?” I remember thinking more than once.

“I’m a flirt and a show off”, she admitted now and then.  There were risks involved with hanging out with my friend Orunamamu.

She was a rascal and she was full of love.  If you phoned her, she would pick up and say “And then what happened??” Always on the hunt for adventure…

There is so much more to tell but no more room or time.  Orunamamu fell and broke her hip in June this year.  She went into hospital and after some small signs of strength, succumbed to her new weakened state, delighted in the company of loving visitors from near and far and died at last on September 4^th, 2014 shrouded three times in silk and sprinkled with rose water, according to the Bahai tradition.  Her life was celebrated with family and friends in Calgary and again in Rockridge California.

We can still hear her calling out even now the words of Brother Blue:

“Are you looking for me?

Are you looking for me?

Well, look on.

You won’t find me.

Cause I be dancing.

I be dancing to the thunder.

I be dancing to the thunder,

And the irrepressable rhythym of life!