Tuesday came
with anticipation
and with unknown horizons. I packed what personal items the United
States
Selective Service had instructed by letter and I was ready to venture
out on my
new career: the U. S. Army.
Passing
my most prized possession over to friend, Ronald Koscielski, I said,
“Here,
take care of this and watch over my girlfriend as best you
can.” Reluctantly, I
handed him my Gibson acoustic guitar, the one which I first learned to
play.
My
girlfriend, Lois, proved to be
more troublesome to guard than my guitar ever needed.
Ron
had lived a few houses down on
Theodore Street
from me, and as
I
strummed and sang on the front porch stoop one afternoon, he had walked
up and
introduced himself.
Moments
later, he
left, saying, “I’ll be right back.” He
returned shortly with his arch top
acoustic over his shoulder.
Presently,
we began playing honky-tonk and Country tunes for the neighborhood.
Ron
and I were inseparable after our work hours, and
Theodore Street
also knew it by
the
free entertainment we gave each evening on my front porch. My friend
was the
favored singer for the blues as I was for the Country tunes.
The
porch steps, flanked by two concrete slabs, grew to be the normal front
porch
elevation for the old houses built in
Detroit
during the 1940s and 1950s.
The
slabs
were our perches as we filled those evening hours with low bass blues
runs and
high-treble leads.
With
the approach of winter, my house painting jobs became scarcer.
Perplexed and
frustrated with little income, I did the only thing
necessary—volunteer for the
draft.
My high
school R.O.T.C training
prepared me, somewhat, for my impending career.
I was not ready to enlist upon high
school graduation; I decided to wait
and work a couple of years first.
But
economics forced a decision upon me.
Wednesday
morning,
3 February 1960
, greeted me
with snow-covered streets
as I plodded out early to catch the city bus to the
Fort Wayne
Induction
Center
.
Saying my goodbyes the night before, I left early for my 0700 hour
appointment.
Ron,
Lois, and I wrote frequently during the next two years of my military
service.
While
stationed at
Fort Leavenworth
,
Kansas
,
however, Lois sent three “Dear John” letters to me.
After receiving each of
the first two
letters, I called long distance and begged her to wait for me.
Alas, as I opened the
third farewell letter,
I realized an important fact; she did not have the staying power needed
to be a
soldier’s wife.
Letters
with Ron faded away, too, and during my subsequent years of moving,
except for
a short period during 1966, I did not see or hear from him. Always in
the back
of my mind was my desire to see him and retrieve my old guitar. The
opportunity
did not come until 41 years after the day I enlisted.
Back to the
Future
In
2001, I changed employment from a mortgage
company to a financial credit corporation. Three weeks after I began
the new
job, my wife Liz left a voice message on my telephone answering service.
The message said,
“Greg, it’s
Sandy
.
Come home . . . and drive
safely.”
For
over six years, my middle sister, Sandra, had suffered from diabetes.
The
disease worsened when gangrene and infection forced her to make the
decision to
have her left leg amputated.
After
recuperating from her loss of leg, she began therapy.
Her spirits rose and she seemed to be on
her
way to living her life.
Her
status, however, took an abrupt downfall.
She needed heart surgery and her other
leg required amputation too.
Either operation, as the doctor had said, would certainly kill her. Her
body
could not withstand the stress of any surgery so the doctors decided
the best
action to take was none, except to make her as comfortable as possible.
Sandy
was comatose when I landed at Detroit Metro at
11:15 p.m.
on the 7
th
of June.
She also
waited for my arrival
before she gave up the ghost.
My
kin,
who had not seen me in years, treated me as a hero coming home from war
as I
entered the hospital’s waiting room.
The
war fought, however, was the dreaded eventuality of losing a dear
sister and a
mother to her children. They, too, knew that my arrival would begin the
gradual
process none of us wanted to face, for
Sandy
wanted me there before she died.
At
1:30 a.m.
on 8 June, I visited
Sandy
after the hospital nurse gave the go-ahead.
She had the customary oxygen tubes and
an I.V. needle in her body.
Her
eyes were blank, half opened, half
shut.
I barely
recognized her.
She
could not speak, but we all felt strongly
she could hear us.
Then
I spoke to her,
as if she would reply. “Sandy, this is Greg.
I am here and I came to hear you sing
‘Moonlight in
Vermont
.’”
Her
head twitched at my comment.
I
knew she
could hear me so I continued.
“
Sandy
,
I regret I haven’t spent much time with you lately, and I
miss our singing
together. I’ve got your song down pat, and I even play it in
the key of E flat.”
She
twitched again in recognition.
She
dearly loved her singing, more so sometimes, than life itself.
The tune
“Moonlight in
Vermont
”
was her special song because of the style needed to sing it and its
story about
her birthplace. In years past, she would belt the song out in her
crisp,
soprano voice as I provided guitar accompaniment.
Taking
their loss the hardest, her eldest daughter Dena, and youngest son,
Kevin,
stayed at her bedside in constant tears. I wanted to help ease their
pain and
in the only way I could, I clasped Dena’s hands from across
Sandy
’s
bed and prayed.
I
asked the Lord, in His
infinite wisdom, to grant her comfort and give strength to her children.
Brother
Bill and I stayed nearby too. Several times I said goodbye to
Sandy
,
saying, “I will be back in the morning to see you.”
Something tugged at me to
stay, however.
Bill
and I watched her blood pressure signs
steadily lower until
2:33
a.m.
The doctor’s assistant came in
to switch off the machines and remove the
oxygen tubes and the
I.
V. unit.
Painfully,
Dena and Kevin coordinated the funeral arrangements for their mother.
My oldest
sister, Barbara, could not contain herself as she broke down at the
loss of
Sandy
.
For much of her life, Barb
provided economic
and moral support to
Sandy
,
especially during her last years with us. I kept my emotions locked
within as I
attempted to console Barb.
My
purpose
for being there was to give support to Barb and to see
Sandy
one last time.
In
my way of saying goodbye to my sister, I volunteered to speak a few
words and
play
Sandy
’s
favorite two songs at the funeral service. She and I shared a special
bond with
our music through the years, so what better way to deliver my last
words than
by playing “Moonlight in
Vermont
”
and “My Way” for her?
As
I gave a few off-the-cuff words of love for my sister, my voice cracked
and
tears began to well up. Using a niece’s guitar, I managed to
perform without
too many mistakes.
I
shall always
remember how cold my hands were, and knowing the difficulty I had in
playing
the instrumentals.
The
Reunion
Backtracking
to Saturday, the day before the memorial service, I was chatting with
sister
Norma and her new boyfriend in her dining room.
The telephone rang.
Betty, an old
friend from the late 1950s, called.
I
asked Betty, “Do you ever see Ron anymore?”
“Of
course.
I see him
quite often.”
Flabbergasted
and excited, I asked for his telephone number and address.
His address was the same
since 1966, and like
an idiot, I failed to write him during those long, lost years.
When my conversation ended
with Betty, I took
my cell phone and punched in Ron’s number.
If
ever there was a time joy engulfed me, the time was then.
Ron, too, was ecstatic at
hearing my
voice.
He and his
wife
Florence
had four children, all grown and married.
I then asked the question that had been
on my mind. “Ron, do you still
have that old Gibson of mine?”
I’m
sure a twinkle came to his eyes. “Yep,” he answered.
“I quit playing
it years ago when I got into
bow hunting and fishing.
It’s
cracked up
in places and the tuning keys broke off years ago. The strings are
about ten
years old as I figure it.”
I
told Ron of the planned memorial and funeral services for
Sandy
.
He said, “Flo
and I can be there for the
funeral service. I’ll bring the guitar too.”
Sitting
in the funeral room on the day of the service, my thoughts were of
Sandy
.
Normie came up to me and,
with a gentle
smile, whispered, “Someone’s outside wanting to see
you.”
I
followed her outside to the front entrance
where the smokers congregated.
I
recognized my dear friends instantly. Betty had gained weight as she
had told
me on the telephone. Of course, I had put on extra pounds also. Ron and
Flo
looked as they had 41 years ago except for a few more wrinkles and
whiskers
brought on by age.
Ron
had the whiskers;
Flo looked radiant as always.
Although
a tad shorter than I, Ron’s slenderness but muscular frame
was still evident as
he stood before me in suit and tie.
Both
he and
Florence
shared a head full of blonde hair through the years. Although his hair
has
darkened and he now wears glasses, my mental picture of him as a
resolute,
square-jawed, blonde Polish man still stands.
We
embraced as old friends could only do. I was overjoyed at seeing them
again.
Minutes
passed in shared
conversation with the past revisited.
Looking to him I said,
“Let’s go get it.”
Ron
smiled as we walked to his vehicle. Raising the Suburban’s
back door, he
carefully retrieved the acoustic guitar, grinned and said,
“Well, it’s a bit
beat up, but here you are . . . finally.”
With
mixed, peculiar feelings, I took the old, familiar instrument from
Ron’s hand.
The guitar looked as if a pickup truck had dragged it down a dusty
road. The
fretboard and the upper bout still bore the black enamel paint I
foolishly
brushed on it in 1957.
The
uncut 6-inch string ends, at each tuning peghead, shimmered back and
forth as a
mishmash of spider legs would appear to make as if the creature had
sipped too much
wine. A large split in the mahogany ran its course along the underside.
I
laughed as I looked through the sound hole toward the side and saw
daylight.
The back, deeply scratched as well, showed bare wood. The Gibson,
however, in
its present form, was a beautiful sight to behold.
Its
top was no longer blonde; it was a dark, honey-brown.
A darkened spruce top, as most
guitarists
know, would only enhance the sound of the guitar.
Noticing a slight spackle of white paint
on
the chipped headstock I imagined it had been in Ron’s garage.
I was wrong; it had been
in his basement for
nearly 41 years.
Nevertheless,
I felt fortunate and happy that Ron kept the acoustic guitar all those
years
for me. He could have easily given up on us meeting again and junked it
long
ago. He had proved his friendship again. We joked about being careful
with it;
not wanting to cause a scratch or nick, as we placed the battered
instrument in
the trunk of my sister’s car.
When
the funeral services concluded, we traveled across the street to the
Eagle’s
auxiliary chapter.
Sister
Normie had
arranged a wake with food for us. I took the guitar in with me and sat
at the
table with Ron and Flo. A few others joined us at the round table that
seated
six people.
Borrowing
pliers, Ron twisted the naked tuning spindles as we raised the strings
to near
piano pitch.
Because
a string could
easily break from of its age and increased tension, we purposely tuned
the
instrument several steps lower than usual.
The guitar played well, given the
circumstances. The playing action was
high, partly due to a warped neck resulting from wood shrinkage.
Feeling the need, I stood
with the guitar in
hand and told the story of it to the whole gathering. Relating the
history
brought a sense of completeness as Ron sat nearby.
As
old the strings were, and the present condition of the instrument, it
emitted a
warm and mellow sound.
When
playing the
song “Kawliga,” however, the guitar buzzed like
bees because of the fractured
wood siding.
It
added a sense of down-home
traditional playing.
Ron’s
voice reminded me of the late Marty Robbins’s singing style,
and an entertainer
I admired. To this day he has musical talent so I encouraged him to
resume
guitar playing. Although he had no calluses at the time, his playing
showed he
remembered much of the instrument’s fretboard. Time had
reverted to 1959.
I
sat and enjoyed Ron’s singing and playing
once again. How I had missed these friends!
In Reflection
It
seems where there is grief, there is also joy. My trip to
Michigan
proved this rationale. Had I not made the trip to see
Sandy
for the last time and be there for her funeral, I would not have
reunited with
Ron and my guitar. I believe
Sandy
’s
spirit beamed with pleasure, of this I was sure, knowing she provided
the reason
in reconnecting two old friends with me.
Deciding
not to ship it via United Parcel Service, I carried the guitar with me
on the
flight home.
Ith
time on my hands in the
Detroit
airline terminal, I softly picked out tunes and melodies. A woman,
sitting nearby,
commented how well it sounded and how pleasing it was to her.
I told her of the story
behind the guitar.
The
lady, a bespectacled, portly thirty-something mother of two, said,
“What a
wonderful story!
Especially
the part of
you seeing your old friend again.”
I
replied, “Yes, the reunion of guitar and old friend after 41
years was exciting
to me.
It seems
like an imagined dream,
somehow.”
I
had forgotten how small the guitar was. From the time I was sixteen to
twenty
years of age, the instrument seemed sizable enough. When I picked it up
to play
again, four decades later, I realized the LG-3 model was of the parlor
guitar
type.
Since the
early 1930s, these
guitars have made a huge comeback in popularity with guitarists the
world-over.
Calling
the toll-free number in
Montana
,
the customer representative informed me of an A-One Service Center
close to
home.
The music
store would be able to
restore the instrument to a better playing condition. When I took it in
Saturday morning to leave for repairs, another great piece of
information came
my way.
Timothy
Quertermous worked as a luthier at a prominent music store until its
closure in
June 2000.
Tim had
his pick of music
stores because his reputation as
Arkansas
’s
best craftsman preceded him. Previously, he placed my electric Gretsch
and my
other Gibson flattop in their peak playing condition. I near jumped
with joy
when learning that the luthier, who would work on my poor, battered
guitar,
would be the same craftsman who made adjustments to my other
instruments.
I
learned of Tim when I moved to
Little Rock
in December
1997.
Calling
several music stores, I asked about a
good luthier. Tim, instantly recommended as the only reputable and
skilled
guitar builder in
Arkansas
,
became my guitar doctor.
Upon
leaving
the guitar at the store, he estimated my cost to be between $130 and
$175 for
the needed repairs.
Time
and patience began nipping at me again. Tim continued.
“I’ll have to order the
tuner keys, and unfortunately, they won’t be as the
originals, but they’ll be
close.
I’ll
also order the spruce braces
to reinstall.
I
should have it in
playable condition in, say, three weeks.”
Three
weeks compared to 41 years were drops in the waiting bucket.
I had to be patient, an
attribute which became
difficult to practice.
The
luthier was a quiet, unassuming bearded fellow in his mid-to-late
forties.
For all
his expertise in guitar
craftsmanship, he did not play the guitar. This could compare as
working at
building Harley-Davidsons, but not able or wishing to ride.
I don’t
understand it, but I accept it.
The
underlying thought, ever present in my mind, was not just the
repossession of
my old guitar; it was the reconnection with Ron.
Good
friends are few and hard to come by.
Ronald Koscielski had long met the
prerequisite
qualifications, for guys as he won’t drink your beer, take
your money, and then
walk away, not looking back.
Notwithstanding
the distance between us, he and I now communicate frequently. And in
those
special moments that envelope me, I bring out the treasured guitar
I’ve
subsequently named Sheila. For all her scratches, dings, and abrasions,
the old
girl plays and sounds better than ever.
***
FIREHAWK
by
Greg
Bruorton
Tatanka Edichoinska
(Buffalo Firehawk) and I crossed
paths twice before the opportunity to get to know him came along.
During the last of our eleven
years in Tucson, my wife, Liz, and I
visited a scheduled Indian Pow-Wow. Along the rows of tables holding
items
ranging from colored prints, jewelry, belt buckles and beadwork,
Indians stood
by ready to sell their crafts.
Dream catchers,
spider
webbed in appearance but decorated with feathers, cloth and beads, were
the popular Indian items on display.
One of the first tables
situated under a large tent at the
convention center was a display draped with an Indian blanket. As we
approached the covered area to escape the hot morning sun, Firehawk's
display
beckoned first.
Liz and I exchanged
pleasantries with the wiry Indian for a few
minutes. I immediately noticed the Sioux neck choker, braced with five
rows of
red and white elongated beads, and wrist gauntlets, equally beaded and
entrancing. He wore the familiar Army bush hat that was popular with
the
Special Forces during the Vietnam War.
Military pins of various U.S.
Army shoulder patches decorated the
majority of his hat. What caught my eye were the miniature Combat
Infantryman's Badge and the Master Parachutists' badge he displayed on
a
section of the hat separated from the other pins.
His hat also sported a single
feather and I was uncertain if it was
a tail feather of an eagle. I knew that possessing eagle feathers was
against
the law except during certain religious Indian ceremonies.
On his left hip he wore a
bone-handled sheathed knife. Judging by
the size of the sheath, I figured the knife was a major scalping knife.
Slightly protruding behind his leather vest was the butt of a .38 mm
pistol. This guy was ready for anyone.
While we talked, I tried to
identify the person that lurked in my
mind, but I could not. I should have known the person's identity had I
studied
Firehawk's distinct features a little closer.
For a few moments we shared
several stories of serving in the Army
Airborne as we both had been paratroopers. Shortly, my wife and I
thanked him
and moved on to watch the Indian ceremonial dancing.
Memorial Day 1995 was a
holiday for me, so deciding to get out
of the house, I put the Harley in gear and headed toward one of
Tucson's parks. Liz had departed for Texas in January so I was on my
own. The day was a
glorious and sunny one with motorcycles filling the streets.
The park had scheduled
Memorial Day Services for past and present
veterans. After a Color Guard ceremony, a distinguished veteran planned
to
read the names from a list of fallen comrades in past wars. I felt
gratified to
attend this special function.
Parking the motorcycle in a
shady grove of trees adjacent to center
stage I began ambling around, waiting for the ceremonies to begin. Then
I saw
Firehawk.
Dressed in camouflage
fatigues, he wore the familiar bush hat
filled with Army pins and sported his bone-handled scalping knife. He
was busy
chatting with another fellow as an Indian woman dressed in Navajo
fashion stood
near.
Firehawk welcomed me as I
saluted, commenting that it was good to
see him again. Noting his Ranger tab over the Special Forces shoulder
patch my
eyes rested upon his four rows of ribbons, worn not on his left, but on
the
right breast. My three rows seemed insignificant to the ones he had
earned.
I nodded toward his
decorations. "I understand your protest;
it's a valid one."
He acknowledged my
understanding the significance of his
decorations placement. Most of the decorated Indians wore their ribbons
on the
wrong side to voice their protest to the age-old ill-treatment by the
U. S.
Government, past and present.
Firehawk introduced me to his
wife and a friend standing by and
then asked, "Have you ever heard of the Strongheart Society?"
"Sure. They were the elite
warrior class of the Sioux years
ago."
"They still are to this day.
My full name is Tatanka
Edichoinska and I—”
I snapped my fingers and
didn't wait for him to finish. I blurted,
"That's the name, or first part, of the name for Sitting
Bull—Tatanka
Iotanka, to be exact!"
Firehawk rendered a polite
smile. "Yes, I know that. I am
Hunkpapa, and a direct descendent."
Flabbergasted, the person who
Firehawk resembled hit like a slap to
the face! Second in popularity to Apache leader Geronimo, pictures show
Sitting
Bull as a short, squat, but powerful man with a massive head and face
recognized the world over. Firehawk did not have the build, but he had
the
face of his famous ancestor.
He then pulled photos from his
wallet and passed them to me.
Firehawk had posed in his Strongheart vestments that I recognized with
the
familiar red heart on the white background of the warrior sash.
I returned the photos to him.
"I can truly understand you're
being a Strongheart member." I gazed over his elite patches, Ranger tab
and rows of ribbons. "Sitting Bull would be proud of you."
Firehawk and his wife's reply
in unison sent shivers through me.
"
He is.
"
I felt my skin tingle. I
contemplated that answer and recalled that
with many Indians, they speak usually in the present. Yet, their reply
still
unnerved me.
He, a few other veterans, and
I stood side by side during the
ceremony and rendered our salutes to the Color Guard. Aside from our
ethnic
differences, we were of one mind and I believe Firehawk enjoyed the
moment as
well as I had done. He had seen more fallen comrades in war than I had
seen,
so this event was special to him. At the end of the ceremonies I asked
for his
telephone number.
"I'd like to call you later
this evening. There's something I
want to tell you."
He did not ask what it would
be. Instead, he handed the note
bearing his telephone number to me. And then I sensed I had made a new
friend.
His eyes were still on me as I
threw my leg over the bike's seat
and brought the shovelhead to life. He was partial to Harley-Davidsons,
too. Later, I learned that on one of his rotations back to the States,
he had
purchased a Wide-Glide in California and rode it home.
By chance, a Highway Trooper
had stopped him, and out of curiosity,
asked him if he was an Arizona or a Texas Ranger. Firehawk glanced down
to the
Ranger tab he had painted on his saddle-bag, and spat his answer.
"No, dummy, an Army Ranger!"
He was not at all
diplomatic in his reply. As Firehawk wore his Class A's on this trip,
he added
insult to injury when he pointed to his right shoulder Ranger tab.
"See that tab there? That's
combat Ranger time earned!"
What happened next was vague,
but Firehawk told me he simply
re-started his motorcycle, kicked it in gear, and merged back onto the
interstate, leaving the State Trooper standing behind. Evidently,
arrogance
and bitterness prevailed through the years of Army service with him.
Many
called it a bad attitude.
Well before my second meeting
with Firehawk, I began experiencing
recurring dreams from March through the end of May. In them, I vividly
remembered the clouds of mist that partially hid the man I recognized
as
Sitting Bull. Emotionless, he stared back and said nothing.
As I approached him in this
vision, the mist grew so thick I soon
lost sight of the Indian chief. Then, I woke. This scene repeated
itself
several nights a week during those three months.
Through my own interpretation
of this, I saw myself attempting to
render an apology in behalf of the U. S. Government's treatment and all
the
whites that brought misery and death to him and his people.
I relayed this dream to
Firehawk that evening by telephone because
I knew he would respect the validity and importance of visions. The
line was
silent for a moment. Firehawk responded in such a way as he and his
wife had
done hours earlier at the Memorial Day Ceremony.
"
He knows.
"
That was the extent of his
reply. My knees gave way while I broke
out in a mild sweat, a cold shiver running down my back again. After
this short
telephone conversation, the repetitive dreams of Sitting Bull somehow
ended. I
have no logical explanation for it.
Visiting his modest home on
the south side of Tucson, I spent hours
listening to his stories as he worked on Indian beadwork or leather
holsters. He possessed many talents besides being a modern day warrior.
In his small house, cluttered
with military mementos and sacred
Indian decor, there were also live dogs, cats, and birds occupying
space. His
working area for artifacts, weaponry, and holsters was in the main
living room
near the front door. I pulled up a chair to watch and listen.
He had four tours in Vietnam
under his belt. Initially, he served
with the Special Forces units as an advisor, and later as a senior
crewman and
gunner on helicopter gunships with the First Cavalry Division. He had
been one
of the few twenty-three year-old soldiers in the U. S. Army's history
to have
attained the rank of Command Sergeant Major (E9).
The Viet Cong shot Firehawk
down eleven times from helicopter
missions and incarcerated him for six months as a prisoner of war on
one
occasion. When he escaped, he resumed his military duties as a soldier
and a
Strongheart member would do. The Silver Star was his highest
decoration, worn
directly under his Combat Infantryman's Badge that was emblazoned with
two
combat stars. He lost count of the parachute jumps he had made. Here
was a
real-life "Rambo."
He related the story behind
his refusal of the Medal of Honor.
According to him, Lieutenant Colonel Swarzkopff, his battalion
commander at the
time, had prepared to present the medal to Firehawk, but out of
protest, the
Indian declined the honor.
He tried to control an
unmistakable limp as he accompanied me back
to my motorcycle. He said, "You may not be able to tell, but my whole
body is messed up. I'm on full-medical disability." He patted his side
arm and added, "But I can take care of myself."
I had no doubts regarding that
statement.
He carried a full permit to
carry a concealed weapon, although he
could have easily worn it on his hip in plain view. At the time, all of
Arizona allowed the open wearing of a firearm except one city:
Tombstone.
He noted my curiosity over the
knife on his belt. My eyes must have
given my thoughts away. He asked, "Would you like to see it?" He
carefully removed the weapon from the decorated sheath, handed it to me
bone-handle first, and stepped back.
The knife appeared ancient,
yet balanced. The weapon was as large
as an authentic Bowie knife, but lacked the shine and luster of a
polished
blade. It came to him after it served Sioux warriors in hand-to-hand
combat. My imaginations took hold of me for a moment.
Returning to the present, I
gingerly ran two fingers along the
knife's edge. Both sides of the blade were almost razor sharp, as the
near-oval blade ended in a needle point.
Firehawk's black eyes
glistened. "I used it during my tours in
Vietnam."
He did not elaborate and I did
not ask as he returned it to its
sheath.
Firehawk had been the only
person able to converse with me in
Indian Sign Language. Additionally, he taught me a few more signs I did
not
know. He showed the different hand movements of the same sign for
wolf,
Pawnee,
and
scout.
The first and second
fingers, used to denote these three signs, had certain
movements that described the actual image desired.
He explained the Lakota
warrior's strategy with a lance attack. In
his approach to an enemy on foot, the warrior galloped crouching low in
his
saddle with spear point to the rear. Normally, the enemy would not get
terribly alarmed at the approaching
cutthroat
holding only a coup stick.
As the mounted Indian struck
the enemy with the wooden handle of
the lance, thereby "counting coup," he would thrust the lance
backward in passing—attaining a double coup.
Conversations with his second
wife brought understanding of the
Navajo, or
Dine'
as they call themselves. She
talked of the four main clans and their
significance in the daily lives of The People.
In one story his present wife
related, a woman had married inside
her clan, an act forbidden to the Navajo. As a result, she came down
with every
malady and disease imaginable and lived the rest of her life in torment
and
suffering. In their belief, only through a private cleansing ceremony
conducted
with her mother could she be restored to full health.
But, her mother, a Christian,
refused to take part in any tribal
"sacrilegious" ceremony and with this the afflicted woman had no hope
for redemption.
As I left his home for the
last time, just before leaving Arizona
for Texas, I shifted myself in the motorcycle's saddle and caught his
eye.
"If I ever get back here, I want to do the brotherhood ceremony."
Firehawk nodded, but the
blood-letting ceremony held popular in the
Apache era was not to be.
He and I corresponded
sporadically during my stay in Texas, mostly
by letter and occasionally by telephone. He felt less motivated as I to
maintain close ties, for communications between us ebbed. I wrote when
I could,
but he chose not to reply in kind.
The first link that brought us
initially together on Memorial Day
1995 was our military backgrounds with the emphasis on the paratrooper
vows we
shared. My interest in his ethnicity and general Indian culture was a
momentary
reason for his return of friendship. Aside from our military
backgrounds,
interest in weaponry, motorcycles, and Indian life, the task of writing
letters
and my fair skin was probably a few of the reasons why contact waned
and then
ended. On my last attempt to call Firehawk I heard the familiar
recorded voice:
“Sorry, this number has been disconnected.”
Indian peoples cannot forget
the years of treachery and deceit from
the hands of the White Father and his white citizenry. From the
Manhattan
Island purchase, the Trail of Tears, the Sand Creek Massacre, and
Wounded
Knee, the Indian suffered dislocation, destruction and death at the
hands of
the whites.
As with Crazy Horse, the
direct actions of his own tribesmen killed
Sitting Bull. In both situations, the tribesmen who killed the two
leaders
were Reservation Policemen, under the jurisdiction and control of the
U. S.
Army. Ironically, both of these famous leaders had visions at an early
age that
prophesied their deaths by their own people.
There were atrocities on both
sides and that fact we understand. But lingering in the hearts and
minds of many modern-day American Indians, a
heavy cloud of distrust continues to alienate the average white
person—just as my dream had done for several months.
I may not like it
but I understand.
FIREHAWK
is copyrighted by
& may not be reprinted without permission
THE
FIRST TELEVISION
by
Greg Bruorton
"C'mon,
Bill, we're gonna build
ourselves a television!" I exclaimed as I ran out the back door of the
house,
allowing the screen door to slam shut as usual.
"Whad'ya
mean, build a
television?" Bill asked breathlessly, trying to catch up with me.
"You
heard right, brother, a
television," I replied, and as I spun around, I braced for the impact
of him
running into me. Bill bounced off me and landed on the ground. "But
it's gonna be my kind of television!"
Television
had erupted on the
market during the year 1948 while living in Alabama. Only my Uncle
Clifford, of
all my relatives, actually had one in his home; an RCA PHILCO enclosed
in its
own wooden cabinet.
During that period when Mom and we kids lived with Uncle Clifford we
had the
opportunity to see a lot of wrestling, game shows, and soap commercials
of
women in the bathtub. During such events, my cousin, Marlin, often
craned his
neck toward the TV when that commercial came up.
But now, we had our own place again. Mom, as usual, worked where she
could and
baked cakes to sell on the side.
Out in the back yard sat a run-down old tool shed and inside was the
television
cabinet I dragged home from the local A & P grocery store.
Homemade entertainment
Lugging the large, cardboard box to the back yard, I pulled my throwing
knife
out of my back pocket and cut out a hole approximately the size of a
broom
handle on both sides of the box top.
"Bill, go get that old broom Mom is going to throw away," I commanded
as I
concentrated on my cutting. Flipping the box upside down, I cut
identical holes
once again.
Dutifully, he brought it to me. "Greg, Mom ain't gonna throw this broom
away.
It's still good!"
"Not any more!" I countered as I snatched it from Bill's hand and
leaned the
broom handle across a rock.
I jumped on the broom handle. "Oooh, Mom's gonna whup your butt good!"
he said.
"Ughhhh!"
I exhaled, landing with both feet on the handle. The handle splintered
but did
not break all the way.
I had to jump on it at least two or three more times to break it in
two. Then,
I resorted to using my knife to separate the broom straw from the
handle.
Bill watched as I whittled down the two broom sticks so they were equal
in
length. Fashioning the two sticks with my knife took time as I
sharpened each
end. Finished, they looked like two giant pencils. I was almost to the
half-point of my television viewing.
On the broad side of the cardboard box, where the word,
Tide
was emblazoned, I cut out a rectangular shaped box, about 12 x
16-inches.
Almost ready for viewing
"Bill, go get me a cup a' flour an' a cup of water. I gotta go get my
drawings."
We split at the stairs. I ran up toward my bedroom and snatched up my
stack of
drawings and watercolored pictures I had selected earlier for this
project.
These had been drawings of Walt Disney characters I had done at age
five
through seven, several pictures of cars, trucks, old houses, soldiers,
and a
lot of my new topic of interest, the
American Indian
.
I had drawn much of them on lined school note-book paper. I went
through
reams of school paper, not necessarily for school work.
I had experience mixing flour and water. It was my biscuits and gravy,
made
from only flour and water, that kept us three kids alive for several
weeks in
Alabama. We existed while waiting for word and money from Mom to board
the
Greyhound for Detroit.[1]
I don't really call myself an expert, because an expert is an ex, a
has-been,
and a spurt is a drip under pressure. But, I could mix up flour and
water
readily.
This part of my project would take time. Pasting a blank sheet of
school
note-book paper to each wooden handle, I then applied paste to each
edge of my
drawing or painting and attached one of them to the blank sheet.
Next, I pasted another drawing or painting to the edge of the previous
one, and
repeated the process until I was satisfied I had enough pictures for my
television. As I pasted one picture to the edge of the other, Bill
turned the
wooden stick so the pictures would wrap around in a loose roll.
Bill grunted. "Now, I see what you're doin'." I wound the last picture
on the
roll at one end of the screen. Bill asked, "Yeah, but where's the
audience,
huh?"
"You're it, smarty," I retorted while pointing to a spot on the grass
for him
to sit. Talk about a captive audience . . .
The first viewing
I slowly unwound one pole while winding up the other as my pictures
moved
jerkily across the screen. Bill sat Indian-style with his chin
supported by the
heels of his hands. Smiling, he actually seemed to enjoy the first
round.
For the next forty-five minutes or so, Bill and I took turns winding
and
re-winding my television screen film from pole to pole for the audience
of one.
The flour and water paste held each sheet very well. Seldom did I have
to
re-glue a picture to another.
Mom was perplexed the next day. She went through the whole house
searching for
her broom and, in exasperation, sent me to the store to purchase a new
one.
With some forethought and wisdom, I decided that to reveal the
existence of my
television to her was not a good idea.
Many years later
I had rummaged through the suitcase stashed away that held my old
artwork.
Searching for the old pencil sketch of the sawmill for the story,
Sawdust
and Doody-Taw
," I couldn't help noticing the pasted edges
still existed on many of those old
drawings.
Looking like spackled walls prepared for painting by an inexperienced
house
painter, those old drawings brought a smile to my lips as I carefully
turned
each one over.
I wondered: Where are the imaginations and creativity of the kids
today? They
don't seem to create for themselves what we kids in the 1940s did.
And the answer came quickly,
they're in the darned television!
[1]Mom and my
older sister, Barb, relocated to Detroit in search of employment.
Norma, Bill, and I fended for ourselves until word came in January,
1954 to
join them.
THE
FIRST TELEVISION
is copyrighted by
& may not be reprinted without permission
*******
VALENTINE VEXATION
by
Greg
Bruorton
14 February:
My wife returned home from the
drug store with a most compelling story to tell. She noted that the
aisles of
greeting cards were filled with women, but, most interestingly, she saw
that
the candy aisle was filled with late-shopping men. Why? To appease the
sweetheart, wife, or maybe both, of each man searching with anxiety for
the
perfect candy gift.
I can visualize what my wife was describing because I remember my own
early
shopping well. How many times had I been in the similar situation of
getting
the card and box of chocolates for my beloved in a timely manner?
Shopping
of any kind, early or late, is enjoyed by only one out of a hundred.
"I'd
druther mow the grass than this!" bemoans our fellow quietly.
Each man shopping for a Valentine gift picks up a heart-shaped box of
chocolates, notes its size and flips it over to reveal the price.
"$17.95? Too
damned much! I'll look at this one over here." He replaces the one in
his hand
with the smaller box. "Hmm, I wonder if she'll like this, and more
important,
appreciate what I'm doin' for her . . . ?"
At times, lips move in sync with the man's thoughts during the ordeal.
Drops of
sweat emerge and plop down on the box of chocolates, momentarily
staining the
plastic wrap. He casually wipes his shirt sleeve across the
perspiration drops
and then looks up and grins to anyone catching him.
The mind is processing millions of thoughts here. Primarily, "I looked
at that
one, and it looks great to buy, but I just don't think she'll like it.
Besides,
these prices have gone outta sight! An idiot would pay these prices for
just a
little bit of chocolate! But, she doesn't really need this fattening
stuff
anyway; she's constantly gripin' 'bout the weight she's been puttin'
on."
Knowing that a Valentine card will not be enough, he starts to observe
the
other men nearby, all of which are sharing his same dilemma. One fellow
compared his prospective selection with another's—price,
size, and amount of
chocolates in the box. Our customer grins wryly.
Humph, size
does matter after all . . .
Opening the card he scans the
verse. Satisfied with the phrase, he takes the matching envelope,
slides the
card under the envelope flap, and places it in the upper compartment of
the
cart. Realizing this selection was the very first card he selected, he
smiles
in triumph.
"She'll like this card. It says what I feel like sayin' but never get
around to
actually tellin' her." Departing the card area, he wonders, "How do
those
writers come up with so many different ways of saying I love you?"
"People writin' this stuff definitely have to have romance on their
minds," the
man says under his breath.
Unlocking the front door and walking in, he hears the missus. "Oh,
there you
are. I was wondering where you'd gone off to. Lunch is almost ready."
Placing the candy and card on
the dining table in plain view, he sits and waits. Carrying a platter
of
sandwiches, the wife notices the newest table decor'. She smiles as she
places
the platter down and picks up the card.
"Happy Valentine's day, honey!" he exclaims as he wraps an arm around
her and
plants a kiss on her cheek.
The task was worth the moment, after all, he realizes once more.
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