Dinétah: the Navajo Homeland

her manner is youthful, almost girlish. She calls her husband Papa (after his hero Hemingway) or DeGraz. He calls her Miss Mary.

Now she offers her opinion on the lily: "If real ones have six petals, then you should use six. This is a traditional type of statue."

DeGrazia hesitates, comparing the two flowers. "H--- no!" he chuckles. Why not give 'em somethin' to criticize DeGrazia about? Can't you just hear 'em? 'That idiot don't even know how many petals on a lily!' And then I can come back and tell 'em that the four are to symbolize the four cardinal points. The Mohawks are big on the four cardinal points."

Marion sighs: "After I went to all that trouble!"

And that's as far as I got back in 1979. The demands of a full-time job and young family left the rest of the story unwritten.

"Hi there, stranger." Marion stands before me, looking much as she did on the day she brought her husband the plastic lily.

After exchanging warm greetings, I tell her about the unfinished story and ask if maybe we could pay a sentimental visit to the studio in which it was written. "Bad idea," she says, "the place has been turned into a tool shed." But she's interested in the old prose fragment, so she sits down and begins to read. At the end she says quietly, "I'd forgotten all about that lily business."

"Did he ever add the other two petals?" I ask.

"Didn't you see the statue by the stairs? DeGraz had two of them cast from the same mold. He kept one for here; said Kateri brought him luck."

I can't believe that I'd missed Kateri on my solo tour of the gallery. But as Marion guides me down the cactus walkway, I almost overlook the statue again. Marion stops, folds her arms, and waits for me to take notice, which I finally do when she gestures to a pedestal in a corner.

Flanked by greenery, Kateri radiates sweet, shy, humble simplicity. Her featureless face is modestly downcast; her little hands hold a magnificent silver lily. I count the petals six. "So he did change the flower."

"Yes, probably late that night," agrees Marion. "He liked to go back to work around 11, after a few hours of sleep." There's a long pause as Marion gazes at the statue. "She was his last major sculpture, you know. He passed away in September, 1982."

I clear my throat to break a new patch of silence. "I heard there was a spectacular golden sunset at his funeral. And he had a plain wooden coffin, just like he wanted."

Marion looks irritated at my attempt to romanticize her husband's death. "I don't like to think about his funeral," she says. "His spirit is still alive, right here in the gallery."

romanticize her husband's death. "I don't like to think about his funeral," she says. "His spirit is still alive, right here in the gallery."

She gestures toward a group of young people approaching the statue of Kateri. "Everyone thought this place would close after Papa passed away. But we get more than 100 visitors a day from all over the world, and we don't even advertise. I think they come to feel DeGrazia's presence."

Marion leads me back through the art-filled rooms, stopping occasionally to tell a