Trail of Tears
America is a beautiful thing…
Covid killed Todd Yannayon in September. He was 59 years old. I stopped to take pictures of his abandoned store and Gina came out of her trailer. She lives alone across the Trail of Tears from the store with dogs and chickens. She lived in that trailer with Todd for 14 years. He was her fiancé.
She gave me a copy of Todd’s funeral program. It includes a picture of Todd on the motorcycle they rode together. She misses the riding. The program includes her as “girlfriend” in a list of kids, sibs, steps and in-laws. It includes a page dedicated to a poem that Todd wrote when he was in high school. Gina’s grief sits between two comas.
The store includes five or six ancient wooden buildings deteriorating rapidly. She has asked his sons to help, they’re in their thirties and living their lives. It’s theirs, not hers, and they don’t have time but she lives across the road.
There is barely noticeable concrete bridge that crosses a tiny stream just down the hill from the store. Gina lobbied the state and the bridge is now the Vincent “Todd” Yannahon Memorial Bridge.
It was her willingness to be vulnerable with a stranger, her gentleness with the dogs, her overwhelming loneliness that make Gina such a wonderful subject to write about. She deserves better words than mine.
Following the Indian Removal Act of 1830, a group of Indian nations consisting of the Cherokee, the Chickasaw, the Choctaw, the Muscogee and the Seminole (the “five civilized tribes”) were forcibly relocated from their ancestral homes in the southeastern United States to areas west of the Mississippi by the United States government. Along the way, thousands died of exposure, disease and starvation. I rode parts of the Trail of Tears.
