“Boozhoo” (pronounced-Boe-Jhoe) is a formal greeting (like “hello and goodbye”) among the Ojibwe people. It was the first Native American word that I learned at The Red School House. Of course there is a story connecting that Native American word to this Dutchman, living in America, who had just come from living a few years among Finlanders in Michigan’s U.P. 

It was many years ago, in my elementary school in The Netherlands, that I first began to read and learn about American Indians. I was eleven years old and had just learned that we; mother, dad and seven children, would be leaving our home in Rijssen, The Netherlands. We were moving to Grand Rapids, Michigan. Dad, a pastor in the Reformed Church, had accepted a call from two congregations in America; and in a few weeks we would be boarding a huge ocean liner that would take us across the Atlantic to America. 

America? It was a place we knew nothing about. We had no idea what Americans looked like, what their language was like, what kind of food they ate, how they dressed, etc. etc. Where, in Rijssen, a small farming community in the north eastern part of The Netherlands, could I learn about this place that was going to be our new home? The school library of course!  So the very next day I went to the library and told the library lady that we were going to America, and I needed to learn all about it. She picked out a few books that she thought might give the answers to some of my questions.

It proved to be amazing stuff. I spent every waking moment reading about this America. It soon became clear that it was a terribly uncivilized place. The main mode of transportation for groups of people was to ride in horse drawn wagons. If you were alone you rode on a saddled horse. It seemed to be a lawless place and everyone, at least the grownups, carried “six shooters” to defend themselves from “outlaws.”

The native people living there were called Indians, and they lived in Tepees. The more I read, the scarier the place became. What at first had seemed like a great and wonderful adventure was soon becoming a rather dark and ominous future. Frankly, as the days wore on, we began to plead with dad about changing his mind, but to no avail. He was convinced that God wanted him to go to America, specifically to Grand Rapids, and we had no say in the matter. Besides, we could not or should not try to defy the Almighty.

We boarded the S.S. Veendam of the Holland America Line, and after many days and nights at sea, we arrived in New York harbor. We soon saw that not everyone rode in horse-drawn wagons. It was dark by the time we passed what we learned was the “Statue of Liberty” monument, and a never-ending stream of automobile lights lit up the distant shore. Perhaps it would be different in “The West” where the Indians lived and to where we were going.

I even asked our guest hosts in Paterson, New Jersey, about the Indians; but they just laughed and said “They live in The West”. A few days later, we boarded a train that would take us “West” to Grand Rapids, in the state of Michigan. I remember sitting by a train window most of the night looking for Indians and eventually falling asleep disappointed, but hoping that perhaps tomorrow I would see them. By noon of the next day, we pulled into the Grand Rapids train station. Still, no Indians. 

I remember, years later, dad Lamain preaching about “The Lord working in mysterious ways his purpose to fulfill.” I also remember him saying that “God fulfills his plans in his own time.” It would be many years before I would actually meet Indians. My journey led me from Grand Rapids, back to The Netherlands, back to the U.S, on to Michigan, then to Michigan’s U.P. and then to Minnesota, where I finally would came face to face with real Indians, In fact, I was destined to become a teacher in a school for American Indian children. 

In a previous Gerrit’s Notes, “A truck load of pizzas,” I related how my entrance teaching in the Minnesota education system had come to an inglorious end at the conclusion of the first year. Normally selling a truck load of frozen pizzas as a fundraiser would be considered a “good thing,” but in my case it displeased the “powers that be,” (the school’s administration) and it sealed my fate. I was not considered to be “a team player,” and was advised to start looking for another job, again.

Somehow, living expenses did not stop just because I was out of work. Fortunately, I was not totally destitute. I did have my choir director/organist job at a Woodbury church, and then someone told me about the Red School House in St. Paul. They were looking for a “part-time music/ classroom teacher.” I had no clue what the job was all about, and who the people were that were hiring, but I had bills to pay, and I needed to eat. Both great motivators. 

EDITOR’S NOTE: Gerrit Lamain is a former Copper Country resident who served as a music professor at Suomi College. He has published a book, “Gerrit’s Notes: A compilation of essays,” which can be found on Amazon. His email address is gerrit.lamain@gmail.com.