Indian Ann
(born 1805 - died 1894)

Rude children would chant, "Here comes Indian Ann,"
and they'd gawk at the "squaw" who wore pants like a man.
But, stoic old Ann never got too upset;
she'd puff her corncob pipe when they met. 
Townsfolk figured Ann near a century old,
and she'd led a fun, colorful life, it was told.

Lasha Tamar, Ann's father, a Brotherton chief,
raised Ann in traditional and tribal belief.
In Indian Mills they were the last of their race;
the rest headed West for a wide open space.
During her fruitful years, Ann was thrice wed.
Her husbands, as well as their children, were dead,
leaving poor old Ann to fend all alone
in a ramshackle farmhouse she'd claimed for her own.
Kind neighbors saw to it that old Ann got fed;
pork, at hog killin' time, and on baking day, bread.
Her hand-woven baskets for sale, on her arm,
Ann trudged down the country dirt road, farm to farm.
In season, she carried wild berries to sell
to town, where folks gathered to hear tales she'd tell.
Her mind wandered backward, reliving old days,
tho' often times Ann would just sit there and gaze.

One day Ann remarked she couldn't sleep in her bed.
She longed for a wigwam, like old times, instead.
A neighbor's son rigged one for her, the tale goes.
She entered it, chattering, with her bed clothes.
Next morning they looked in, and that's when they found
Ann's spirit had fled to the "great hunting ground."
You've earned your repose, so slumber on, Ann,
with the Great Manitou and loved ones of your clan.

- Lillian Arnold Lopez "Pineylore"

Indian Ann's house, Shamong Township, NJ
(Photo from Pinelands Folklife, by Rita Zorn Moonsammy,
David Steven Cohen, and Lorraine E. Williams, Editors)

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