Niwakash' 01.12

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Ta un akwankek unen'ke n'wti kantay' tusk heutiya'tayeistahkwa' ne hwti'sks, ne' hatiwnutatye's.

Then we lived on the south side of town near a Missionary Baptist church.


Unkta'ke katyashtahkwak kathtatye'skwa' n-untnutatye' wahstakwk.

I would lie in bed and listen to them singing late into the night.


Ne'hu ausk'a hati'tsi' hne's.

Only Blacks went there.


Tethnhn'nethak huntnt wis k tekny ny niatiwnk aay' akwas nynishe'kk.

They would line out hymns in five and eight-part singing hour after hour it seemed.


Ta un untnt ka'tsikh' hn'nya'eskwa' hnshta'skwa' khu.

Or they would sing spirituals and clap their hands and stamp their feet.


Hatthni niyu't hatnutha'.

The preaching sounded almost like the singing.


Tewash wis-sk' thsa'ushya'k ne'hu hwa'kwt khwak aknhkwa' khu.

Twenty-five years later I went there with my wife and daughter.


Thsa'kt ahs' ne heutiya'tayeistahkwa', ahs' hntntha' hntthni khu.

The church was still the same, and so was the singing and preaching.


Ne' kw unhsukat'ke ythuwstahkwa', ne' kwa' th' te'uty ne utkathwasyu'sh' thsiuntnt.

Only they had put window units in for air-conditioning, so they did not sing with all the windows open any more.

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