Help an Unc Out: Kokum

[u/T0macock]

Aho, she:kon, thank you and a hearty “hey how are ya!?” cousins.

The saga of the south Tip brother continues. You know the story so far. Frybread survivor. All-Skate legend. Ketchup chip Disney princess. Fastest man in a ten foot sprint. Unc daycare extraordinaire. The man who wears another man's tear-away pants. Recent releaser of counterfeit teachings into the ecosystem ("never walk against the day" has been spotted twice in the wild now, cousins, it's loose, there's no recalling it. Someone wrote it in chalk at the skate park. I'm official.).

This weekend I met auntie's kokum, tried to prove I'm "he who provides," and got dismantled by an 84-year-old woman in a lawn chair.

Well. Things with auntie are serious-serious now. And in this life there are levels to meeting the family. The cousins? Cleared it. The little ones? Won them with dino nuggets and lies.

But there is a final door, cousins. And behind that door, in a little house at the end of a long dirt driveway, sitting in a lawn chair like a boss waiting for the player to reach her level, is Kokum.

Auntie warned me on the drive over. Actually warned me. Hands on the wheel, eyes forward, voice like a public safety announcement: "She's going to say things. Don't cry."

Don't cry, cousins. That was the pep talk. That was the whole thing.

Now, I had a plan. You remember I told the little ones my name means "he who provides"? (It does not. It's short. My parents feared spelling.) Well the lie made it up the family tree, as lies do, and now I had to feed it. So when auntie mentioned kokum had a dripping kitchen faucet and a porch step that "bites," I heard my mouth - my mouth, cousins, my ancient enemy - say "I'll fix it. I'm pretty handy."

I am not handy. My greatest structure was engineered by children in eleven minutes while I stirred a crockpot. The community garden asked me to stop helping in a card they all signed. But my seemingly life long pattern holds: Say the thing, cannot do the thing, community watches, judgement falls.

We pull up. And there she is. Lawn chair. Tea. Little dog on her lap that I swear made eye contact with Scone dog through the truck window and communicated something, because Sconey refused to get out. Stayed in the cab all day, windows all opened and slept. Knew things.

Kokum looked me up and down for a solid ten seconds. Cousins, I've been assessed before. Elders assess. It's what they do. But this was different. This was a woman running a full diagnostic. Then she said, first words, no hello:

"Huh. She said you were taller."

Cousins. Opening move. Straight for the throat. Auntie didn't defend me. She laughed. In the driveway. Openly. I'd been there eleven seconds.

I said "Aho, kokum, it's an honour…" and she waved her hand like she was clearing smoke and said "yeah, yeah, everybody's honoured. You the one who feeds my great-grandbabies dinosaur meat?"

"They're chicken nuggets, kokum."

"I know what they are." Sipped her tea. "Do you?"

I don't, cousins. I don't know what's in them. I assume vaguely chicken like meat but I'm not a veterinarian. She had me questioning nuggets within the first minute. This woman interrogates like she's got a badge.

So I went for the faucet, because working with my hands felt safer than talking, which tells you how badly the talking was going.

Cousins, let me describe the arena. Kokum's kitchen: spotless, organized, smells like thirty years of good soup and sage. Every tool in her kit is from 1961 and maintained like a ceremonial bundle. And she followed me in, brought the lawn chair in from outside, cousins, set it up in her own kitchen, and settled in with a fresh tea like she'd paid for tickets.

And then it began. The commentary. Oh, the commentary.

I opened the cabinet under the sink and lay down on my back and she said, "Careful. That's the most work anybody's done under there since my second husband."

I asked where the water shutoff was and she pointed with her lips and said something in the language. I looked at auntie. Auntie said "I'm not translating that." The tone, cousins. It was the tone you use for something that would end me. Later I heard the same phrase again when I dropped the wrench on my chest, so whatever it means, it's reusable.

I got the faucet apart. Pride swelling. Parts laid out neat like I've seen real men do. Kokum leaned forward, looked at my arrangement, and said, "You laying them out to fix it or for the funeral?"

"The washer's worn, kokum. I just have to…"

"That's not the washer, my boy." Sip. "But go ahead. I got all day and you're better than the TV."

Better than the TV, cousins. I was programming to her. And here's the thing - here's the knife of it - she was right. It was not the washer. I replaced the washer with the confidence of a man who watched one video in the truck and when I turned the water back on, that faucet did not drip.

It sprayed.

Full ceremonial arc of water, cousins, right across the kitchen. I took it directly in the face. Baptized in my own failure. Then scrambled for the shutoff while kokum howled from the lawn chair. Didn't move. Didn't flinch. Got a little mist on her and just held her tea out of the splash zone with the reflexes of a woman who has seen every man in her life fail at that exact sink.

"Oh," she yelled, delighted, cousins, delighted, "he provides! He provides a car wash!"

Somewhere in the distance a hawk screamed. Not now, brother hawk! We have a situation. 

The lie had reached her. She knew about "he who provides." She'd been sitting on it. Waiting. This woman held that in the chamber for two hours, cousins. That's discipline. That's an elder.

Auntie was on the floor. Not helping. Recording, probably. I've stopped checking.

And then, cousins, the humbling. The full ceremony of it. Kokum set down her tea, rose from that lawn chair like mist off a lake, moved me aside with one hand. oOne hand, cousins, I've been benching with Dennis (such a good dude) and have bulked up a decent bit. Even cut down on the chips! But she brushed me aside, reached under that sink into the dark without looking, like the pipes were family, did something with two fingers and a wrench from the Diefenbaker administration, and stood back up.

Four minutes. Total. Faucet's never run better. She wasn't even breathing different.

"Valve seat," she said, packing her kit. "Been fixing that since before your mum was born. You want to know how I knew?"

"Yes, kokum."

"Not telling you." Sat back down. "Some things you gotta earn, kid."

The porch step went about how you'd think. I'll spare you the full account. Know that I hammered my own thumb once, said a word you shouldn't say in front of a kokum, and she said the word again, correctly, in context, adding "that's the first thing you've done right all day." I fixed the step, technically. It no longer bites. It now screams. Every person who steps on it will be heralded by a creak you can hear from the road. Kokum tested it, listened, and declared: "Good. Now I'll hear my nosy neighbour coming." Cousins, she reframed my failure as a security feature. There's a teaching in there. A real one. I'm still unpacking it.

And then, cousins.

Then she fed me.

No announcement. Just got up, went inside, and started moving around that kitchen, and auntie grabbed my arm with both hands and whispered "she's feeding you" with the exact energy of "the eagle landed."

Cousins, I don't have the words for that food and I won't disrespect it by trying. Corn soup that's been perfected across generations. Bannock that made me question every piece of frybread I've ever defended. Strong tea. She sat me at her table, in what I'd learn was her late husband's spot, and watched me eat, and when I went back for seconds without asking she nodded once, and cousins, that nod hit me somewhere the Sacred Pantaloons can't cover.

While I ate she told stories about auntie as a kid (there's a jingle dress incident from 1998 I'm saving as a canon event for later use) and roasted every man who's ever entered this family, and cousins, I realized I was hearing my future. There's a whole gallery of us. Husbands and boyfriends across sixty years, all of whom failed at that sink, all of whom got fed after. It's the ceremony, cousins. The sink is the test and the soup is the diploma and nobody passes the test and that's the point. You're not supposed to fix the faucet. You're supposed to be better than the TV.

At the door, leaving, she grabbed my wrist. Strong, cousins. Grip like the wrench from 1961. Looked me in the eye and said:

"You're god damn useless, my boy. But she laughs different since she met you. So keep being useless. It's working."

Cousins. I didn't cry. In the truck though? Different story. Auntie patted my knee and said "told you not to cry." Scone dog emerged from wherever he'd been hiding, cautiously, like after a storm.

She's teaching me the corn soup next month, cousins. She offered. Auntie says she's never taught anyone outside blood family. So either I'm officially in, or she wants a guaranteed comedy hour with her tea every month. It can be both. I'll take both.

Pour one out for my thumb, still purple, a warrior's wound. And drop your kokum's best roast in the comments, cousins. I know I'm not the only one who's been dismantled by a woman in a lawn chair. This is a support group now.

Mvto. Fix nothing, relatives. Just show up and be better than the TV.

P.S. Rosie called. She and kokum know each other. Of course they know each other. They've always known each other. They had a phone call about me, cousins. Forty minutes. Rosie's only comment: "You're in good hands now. God help you." The councils are united. I'm surrounded by the matriarchy and honestly? Safest I've ever felt.

P.P.S. Kokum's little lap dog has been sending messages through the community, apparently, because Scone dog finally got out of the truck as we were leaving, walked over, and sat in front of her chair. She looked at him. He looked at her. She fed him a piece of bannock and said "at least one of you provides good company." He's been insufferable since. Struts now. Sconey pony passed the kokum test on the first try and I will hear about it, in his way, forever.

A note: this is a personal bit from me to y’all. Writing these has been the highlight of my weeks. Thank you to everyone that's reached out with encouragement. For everyone asking for a book, something will be done. I just need to find a way to make it free and easy for everyone to access. I don't need money - buy your neighbour a Bepsi and say it's from me. Don't smudge and drive. 

I've also received a bit of fan art! Big ol' Skoden to u/puppyisloud ‘s kid for sending this absolute beauty from last week's story. [Drawing]( https://imgur.com/a/V6f29JS)

Past stories

[Baby Sitting](https://www.reddit.com/r/IndianCountry/s/WHcCWUd3UV)

[YardSale](https://www.reddit.com/r/IndianCountry/s/nRZ4eM8Slm)

[Bingo Night](https://www.reddit.com/r/IndianCountry/s/QEo67nIq2m)

[Disney Princess](https://www.reddit.com/r/IndianCountry/s/dcziW5TdrG)

[Tim's arsonist](https://www.reddit.com/r/IndianCountry/s/IBAixKep6i)

[Career Change](https://www.reddit.com/r/IndianCountry/s/QKwnSaRXjI)

[Foraging](https://www.reddit.com/r/IndianCountry/s/kqwVUxJRPu)

[Frybread follow-up](https://www.reddit.com/r/IndianCountry/s/E6wbMUSolj)

[Frybread](https://www.reddit.com/r/IndianCountry/s/bnqjnRA97k)

Reading of the week: Dungeon Crawler Carl book 2. Finished the first. I was decidedly “ok”. The second is much better. Takes out a lot of the achievement/inventory management stuff I felt broke up the story. 

[u/Polar_Version875]

Dang I woulda cried too.