Journey Into Fear
The Village Road was ice & snow covered as the dark suburban wound it's way through the Mountainous foothills, over burned out forest and past frozen marshlands.
The vehicle climbed above the 3,000' level and settled into a steady 50mph pace leaving a swirling wake of fresh fallen snow, the temps in that environment were at -40'F.
The driver checked his watch, only 95 minutes left to make it to the Village with the new Officer. The council meeting would start at 1300hrs.
"So you are Lakota Sioux? or it is just Sioux." theDirector asked.
What to say at a time like this?
I've only known him a month and only saw him on paper from his job application.
"Lakota is the proper name", the young Man said.
"Sioux is a French word actually. It means 'snake people'".
"But the Natives that were telling the French their names long ago. They were referring to basket making, doing the weaving motions with their hands." the young Officer explained.
"So, what about Little Bighorn?, did your family take part in that?" gestured the Director as he adjusted the music radio dials. No coverage out here for the next 40 miles.
Salt & Pepper
The Officer sat back in his seat, remembering the Old ones explain to him, as it was told to them by their Grandfathers, as it was seen by their Grandfathers before them.
It seemed that every White person in the world that he ever met would somehow refer back to that infamous battle of long ago. When General Custer met his doom along with his 200+ men at the battle of the Little Bighorn.
Greasy Grass was the Lakota term. As the river near the battle site is called Greasy Grass River.
And most of the Natives that fought there that day had no idea that Gen. Custer was there. And it wouldn't have mattered anyway.
All the Officer knew, from the accounts as handed down by the Old ones and from the several accounts in history books and as of late; the Internet, that the US Army suffered a major defeat and the Whites in general got a black eye from the Natives that day.
In the mind of the young Officer sat his long deceased Grandpa. A big, tall muscled Lakota man seated quietly at the kitchen table stirring his antelope and vegetable soup.
Mama in the background cleaning off some unused meat and washing it in the kitchen sink.
Grandpa would literally cover his soup with salt and then black pepper until he couldn't see the soup. He'd scrunch his face into wrinkles for his little grandson and inhale the soup flavor.
Then quietly chuckle at his grandson staring open mouthed at him.
Grandpa had passed his hearty laugh onto his grandson.
It was a full rich belly laughter that said to everyone.
"I'm at ease with you. I'm happy and I trust you. Share this joke with me."
Later that evening Grandpa would let his grandson hold a fixed blade skinner knife.
"You stab a man in the back and he tenses up like this", and grandpa would mime the action.
It seemed funny but Grandpa was dead serious.
And over the years the same War stories from the Second Great War would be told.
The killing techniques and disabling strikes would be repeated verbatim and then a stern warning of right and wrong when even thinking of using such information.
"See that spider up there?" Grandpa pointed out after his Charge lost interest in the hunting knife.
"where Grampa?".
It was dark and impossible to see the spider on the side of the house but his little childhood eyes would search the darkness, trusting that IT was there if Grampa said it was there.
For in his Lakota culture "Iktomizila" was the spider. He was a trickster, a liar, a robber and a lazy creature that fed upon other peoples woes and misery.
At times Iktomi could play a trick on you and other times he could set you up for injury or death.
Years later after the Young Officer was in the Village he'd hear that same rich, vibrant voice behind him before he went into a dangerous situation.
This time the question would have new meaning.
Often the main aggressor in the Domestic Violence event, or the bloody Assault would be the quiet one.
"who me??, I was sleeping VPSO!!" gestured the blood spattered intoxicated man.
It was still dark in many situations that he had to sort out and Stay Alive in and he always looked out for the Spider in the corner.
For the one key player of the Group to spring to action and attack, or to speak up and reveal themselves as guilty.
Blood Lines
It seemed that struggle was everywhere. Conflict raged across this great land in every city and town, in families and down through generations.
Soon the Officer would face battles of his own in the Village that he was being driven out to.
As a child his older relatives would somberly intone their family's part in that Battle long ago.
That when Reno pushed across the River he met resistance from the Natives encamped along the banks of the Greasy Grass (Little Bighorn).
The camp composed of several bands and led by at least 4 famous War Chiefs was almost 4 miles long.
And the Hunkpapa, which was the Officer's Lineage, were the first ones to be attacked. First to fight, first to die before Reno was pushed back across the River and forced to engage the Native camp from a distance.
"Our ancestors horse's were so fast and running so swiftly that our family name came from that day in battle." an older cousin would quietly speak.
As a young boy the Officer just squatted in the dirt holding onto a live frog with both hands and feeling a smaller garden snake wiggle in his pants pocket,
His young mind would imagine the scene as best as a young boy could. And he would later crawl through culverts and sneak through the grass of the city park in his home town playing and pretending that he was there at the Battle.
Now adays, such stories from history long ago didn't really matter as much.
What was done long ago was done and I am here now on earth to do my part for my family, for my people and for my self. Let history record what it may.
He explained what he knew to the Director, his boss and let things go as the SUV's engine labored and the snow covered trees whizzed past.
It seemed that most people just wanted to hear him speak, to boast of the proud accomplishments of his people.
One ignorant white man said "that the Little Bighorn was a One Hit Wonder for the Sioux and now look at 'em."
Did it matter that the ignorant white was a fellow Church missionary serving his mission at the same time that the Young Officer was serving?
Didn't this Christian church teach that being so insensitive to other peoples cultures like that was frowned upon?
The young Officer reflected upon his own life's accomplishments up till that day of travel to the Village. "Now look at 'em". He thought.
Look at the track record of most of the Returned Missionaries that he served with long ago. Most aren't even active, most have fallen away and almost none have ever kept in contact.
His own private website and his lifes work, his credentials were quietly listed for all the World to see. "Now look at him".
Broken Warrior
"How about you sir, what did you do?" the Officer asked of his Boss.
The Boss reflected for a few minutes and then spoke.
"About 10 miles from here I want to show you something when we reach the 4,000' Willow Peak"
After another 5 miles had passed in silence, the Boss spoke.
"In Vietnam, I was Force Recon."
"Most everyone in the books at Walden's and Barnes & Noble can talk about being safe on fire base while under attack."
"Most, not all, but most" he emphasized and rubbed his legs above the knee, touching an itch that only he felt.
"You'll see." the Boss continued.
"Just before Khe San, that seige, 4 of us were out on patrol.
We were laying low in the grass and were covered up pretty good when it happened."
"Suddenly the jungle just came to life around us as the NVA literally ran over us."
the Boss looked at the Officer.
"literally".
"they were carrying artillery, mortars and ya' know?,
those guys were smaller than you and me".
"tough as nails."
The Boss breathed inward a bit and continued.
"All of us Recon got shot up pretty bad escaping that clearing."
"messed up my legs and I'm still missing part of my right lung and I'm coasting
along still on one kidney."
"ahh. Up here" the Boss smiled as they crested the Pass.
Steep slope rose into the foggy mist above on either side of them and then to the left the Valley opened up.
You could see to Nome, or at least it looked like that.
Off on the horizon were dark blue shadows just 1/2" above the trees.
"That's part of the Alaska Range" the Boss gestured.
"And see that?" he slowly braked the vehicle and pointed out on the immediate landscape towards a small inlet just West of a huge frozen-over lake.
The Village, the Officer knew.
It was just a speck in the distance, and for now a new experience to start.
The SUV edged forward again and then stopped.
The wind buffeted the vehicle an instant and subsided then rocked the vehicle again.
Just a gentle reminder to the Officer as if to say, "I'm here",
"I matter".
"I am in your Universe now and there's nothing you can do about it."
Funny how other Factors would later on push and pull at the young Officer.
I'm here, I matter, Look at me.............. "Help me".
The Boss stepped out and climbed into the back door,
reached under the seat.
He pulled out an M-4 rifle. Chambered in .223 and with a simple Leupold scope on top, it was a grim reminder of his service years in the Jungle.
He tested his cheek weld and focused on the center dot.
A gallery of faces from the past played out before his Right eye then became a
tangle of waving branches.
Off to the side of the Road sitting in some willow trees were a group of White mountain Ptarmigan.
All white bodies except for a splash of black on the chest and around the eyes like a small mask. Black claws and beaks.
The Boss sighted in on a large Ptarmigan, inhaled-exhaled and sqqquuueeezzeed.
*BANG!!*
The birds head popped off in a small fountain of blood.
After stepping outside of the SUV and seeing his Boss shoot the bird, the Officer immediately stepped into the ditch and sunk up to his knees-then waist in snow to go look at the dead Ptarmigan.
Clad only in T-shirt, jeans, black 8" boots.
"Wow it's cold out here" his thoughts screamed at him.
His bare arms went numb and his high & tight faded hair cut exposed his skin on the back and sides of his head-ears started tingling.
The temperature felt like -5'F but with the wind gusting it was probably colder.
Half-way to the dead Ptarmigan the Young Officer looked back and saw that his Boss was striding towards him on Snow shoes-together they would look at the dead bird and examine the trees around the kill-site.
The Boss looked at the Officer hard for a moment from behind Oakley shades, then picked up the limp Ptarmigan.
He would later tell other Oficers and State Troops of seeing the Officer head into the cold without flinching.
The birds head, craw was gone, no neck to examine the contents and see what the birds were eating.
The Boss noted light, fine beach-like sand speckled the birds back, it made the feather soft texture rough.
A clutch of high-bush berries clung to the red snow 15' away.
These berries were probably in the birds neck and these berries grew in the summer and fall. The birds probably dug deep in the snow for these berries as some of them did stay on the stalk through winter.
After about 10 minutes both men walked back to the parked SUV.
The Officer rubbed his arms briefly but didn't complain of the Cold.
"you want to see??" his Boss quipped.
He looked over not sure what to expect.
"the right leg isn't so badly damaged" he said as he pulled up one jean covered leg.
The leg was visibly crooked from boot top to below the knee. as the bones had been badly broken and had healed back again knotted like a Diamond Willow cane.
"It's the same with the upper thigh", his Boss continued.
"We would have stayed concealed if it hadn't been for the fact that we got stepped on as I told you earlier.
Just like that small bird, we snuffed out many NVA lives in an instant while at the same time we got hit in return pretty bad.". the Boss finished as he covered his leg up and started the vehicle.
"You can be doing your job and suddenly you're in a world of hurt and fighting for your life.
Just remember that when you do your job in the Village, I'll be there in the Office for you. Just call when you need help." the Boss stated.
With the birds body in the back of the SUV nestled inside a spare plastic grocery bag the Boss revved the vehicle and the two men continued the trip to the Village.
Painful needles jabbed at the young man's head, his ears and biceps.
His nose hairs unstuck by themselves and he wiped his running nose on his jacket sleeve as his body adjusted back to the warm temperatures in the vehicle.
Later on he would do that again and again.
Head on out into the Storm.
Into the dangerous situations in the Village that needed going to, often alone and without protection or backup.
Why?
He had gone out before into such events.
His life had prepared him for much of the Domestic Violence calls that he would respond to. He didn't need training from the State Troops for that.
Didn't need the power-point presentations and hand-outs regarding the many 'Cycles Of Violence'.
Didn't need the lectures regarding Sex Offense and Tendencies. For he had seen it in other people on the Reservation back home while growing up. Had seen the Older boy in high school that acted like a girl and eventually grew up to Transgender himself-into a Her.
He even experienced many of the same feelings as he grew up and started to become aware of his sexual identity. Blondes were nice but the Brunettes held his attention.
As he still carried HER in his memories alive all these years.
Ms Congeniality
She was his first school crush in 1st Grade.
Her Grandpa owned the town gas station where his White stepdad worked.
She'd smile at him and wave when ever she came 'round the station.
And at school she'd wave and say "hello sammy".
If she only knew now how much her words meant to him.
They were an anchor in the storm of life when things got rough.
And life on the Reservation was rough. It was dysfunctional and terrifying at times when alcohol and drugs had it's victims under the influence and made them do more evil to each other and to themselves.
He saw it, heard it, had been touched by all of it and rejected much of it to the point of NOT passing it on to others by Doing what he saw.
And it was that one girl of his childhood, the brown haired girl that was nice to him all those years that did help anchor his mind and soul.
What was it that the young Officer had read somewhere on the Internet?
"Must be Brain damage, to see it in others because it was in himself" was the phrase penned by some military officer.
Indeed.
He'd been injured while riding his bicycle on winter in his hometown on the rezervation.
He was pedaling fast and braking with the rear wheels and then jerking the front wheel to the left-or right and making snow-plow furrows over the Ice.
Down he went on his 3rd attempt and smacked his head at the temple.
His eyes, his visin went bright yellow and then clouded gray.
Pain shot into his head then up top and slowly settled as his vision returned to normal.
"Hurry up!" chided his companion, an older friend.
"Gramma's driving to the delivery store, she'll buy some chips and candy!!" before pedalling away.
He got up from the snowy ground and slowly pedaled home.
Must have been some kind of damage. Mind like a sponge to soak in all that music, the smoke odors, the coarse language.
Yet it would harden him too for what lay ahead many years later.
Even the stacks of nude mags he'd found one time.
He was intrigued by seeing one of the "Harley's Angel's" girls as Centerfold.
wow. to be so young and have feelings stir inside him when looking at the magazines was a new experience.
He felt hungry, like wanting food and yet his lips burned too.
He touched his mouth but nothing was amiss.
He kept looking and reading.
What were those women doing all lined up and looking at Mr Heffers crotch as he sat in a lounge chair reading the newspaper??
He wouldn't fully know the answers till almost a decade later of what he had looked at and absorbed.
He loved that "Harley's Angel's" tv show and also admired the "Six Zillion Dollar Man" too, but got confused when reading about the real life of his idols.
They were married and then were divorcing.
But they looked so happy on tv.
His learning process of real life and "television" was hard and fast.
Once an older male relative of his stayed with his family on the Rezervation.
That older male had long hair, was pro-Native and talked the Lakota language fluently.
This male relative would practice the Lakota fancy dances, the Grass dances in the living room and he would watch the dance with glee.
The shuffling of the feet was graceful, the bending of the knees was rhythmic.
And the way the arms were picked up over the head like adjusting a heavy jacket-that fit loosely. The male dancer made light of his prancing and his audience (me) fell to the floor with laughter.
The once sacred dance had descended to parody, it was like one of his Lakota aunties was waving her arms to ward off the vengeful fist pounding from her husband that he had witnessed.
She was screaming and crying and fighting off the attack and getting bloodier in the process and her husband was winning.
Later on the town police would make the husband do that same dance as they beat HIM and maced his face before hauling off to jail.
It was painful to see such violence in many homes. Even in the homes of his White school friends. One of his favorite High school girls that he admired from a distance was getting slapped around by her boyfriend.
From such pain he drew humor as a buffer. Often it let him stand off and think of what he witnessed. Hindsight for him WAS 20/20. Because it let him see the clues and see what people had really meant at the time. Such powers of observation never left him after that.
It was painful to see a favored Grandma getting punched around by HER son, a young daughter getting kicked by HER mother, a sobbing older Auntie sitting nude at the Bar next to her White husband just after he had beat her in front of Everyone.
"Get me a cold one Marge, please!" he huffed.
"And one for her too".
Like she was in need of refreshment after bleeding for Him!??
Going to the town Bar and playing pool wasn't fun anymore after that incident.
Violence was a way of life amongst everyone around him.
No wonder he saw those LDS missionaries as being totally different when they came to visit his family one day.
He identified with them and desparately wanted to be like them when he grew up.
A Journey of a Thousand Miles begins with a Single Step-the Asian proverb says. Other times such a journey can begin with a single key stroke.
Else it can be a long dormant event invading the Sleep at night that prods the first steps too.
It can be the embracing scent in the air from a Young Girls sweet perfume as she rings up the cash register and hands change back to you.
What ever your Journey is, make sure that your life experiences prepare you for what lies ahead. Because the discoveries of Self that you find will surely expose What Lies Beneath in your heart and in your Soul.
My Journeys through the Eternities have been marked by milestones I will see in my Life. I've passed many of these markers.
And have yet to pass many more; Of marriage, of children, of family.
Of loss of my loved ones, of sickness, wealth, poverty, of Leadership, of Betrayal.
My Grandpa also hinted at clues to look for throughout my life.
And he provided guidance and wisdom to me by asking simple questions and even miming certain things.
By my Lineage and Heritage I run to violence.
I run to gunfire, I run to conflict. I never back down when I make a stand.
Perhaps of being immersed in filth and moral sickness as a child, I now see dysfunction in People if they have it. I sense it like salt and pepper in my nostrils.
The shock to my nervous system when I need to be cautious and alert is like a chill up the spine and down to my hands and feet.
It must be brain damage yes. But I'm damaged for a reason. Because I can go and do things that few people in this world can. Just look at any seasoned War Veteran and hardened Policeman. They do what they do because they can.
The need for my presence may be urgent and I'll go where I am needed at the time regardless of my immediate preparedness.
Just like my stumbling out into the cold of the Mountain Pass to kick a waist deep trail through the snow to look at a dead bird.
I knew the warm SUV was close by. I knew my Boss was a friend and he wouldn't leave me. And later on I too drove out into many Winter storms and found a few stranded people near that same Pass and I helped them.
I'll write some more of that Village Road because of some other experiences I had along that highway.
Happy New Year 2006.
theSam!!
The vehicle climbed above the 3,000' level and settled into a steady 50mph pace leaving a swirling wake of fresh fallen snow, the temps in that environment were at -40'F.
The driver checked his watch, only 95 minutes left to make it to the Village with the new Officer. The council meeting would start at 1300hrs.
"So you are Lakota Sioux? or it is just Sioux." theDirector asked.
What to say at a time like this?
I've only known him a month and only saw him on paper from his job application.
"Lakota is the proper name", the young Man said.
"Sioux is a French word actually. It means 'snake people'".
"But the Natives that were telling the French their names long ago. They were referring to basket making, doing the weaving motions with their hands." the young Officer explained.
"So, what about Little Bighorn?, did your family take part in that?" gestured the Director as he adjusted the music radio dials. No coverage out here for the next 40 miles.
Salt & Pepper
The Officer sat back in his seat, remembering the Old ones explain to him, as it was told to them by their Grandfathers, as it was seen by their Grandfathers before them.
It seemed that every White person in the world that he ever met would somehow refer back to that infamous battle of long ago. When General Custer met his doom along with his 200+ men at the battle of the Little Bighorn.
Greasy Grass was the Lakota term. As the river near the battle site is called Greasy Grass River.
And most of the Natives that fought there that day had no idea that Gen. Custer was there. And it wouldn't have mattered anyway.
All the Officer knew, from the accounts as handed down by the Old ones and from the several accounts in history books and as of late; the Internet, that the US Army suffered a major defeat and the Whites in general got a black eye from the Natives that day.
In the mind of the young Officer sat his long deceased Grandpa. A big, tall muscled Lakota man seated quietly at the kitchen table stirring his antelope and vegetable soup.
Mama in the background cleaning off some unused meat and washing it in the kitchen sink.
Grandpa would literally cover his soup with salt and then black pepper until he couldn't see the soup. He'd scrunch his face into wrinkles for his little grandson and inhale the soup flavor.
Then quietly chuckle at his grandson staring open mouthed at him.
Grandpa had passed his hearty laugh onto his grandson.
It was a full rich belly laughter that said to everyone.
"I'm at ease with you. I'm happy and I trust you. Share this joke with me."
Later that evening Grandpa would let his grandson hold a fixed blade skinner knife.
"You stab a man in the back and he tenses up like this", and grandpa would mime the action.
It seemed funny but Grandpa was dead serious.
And over the years the same War stories from the Second Great War would be told.
The killing techniques and disabling strikes would be repeated verbatim and then a stern warning of right and wrong when even thinking of using such information.
"See that spider up there?" Grandpa pointed out after his Charge lost interest in the hunting knife.
"where Grampa?".
It was dark and impossible to see the spider on the side of the house but his little childhood eyes would search the darkness, trusting that IT was there if Grampa said it was there.
For in his Lakota culture "Iktomizila" was the spider. He was a trickster, a liar, a robber and a lazy creature that fed upon other peoples woes and misery.
At times Iktomi could play a trick on you and other times he could set you up for injury or death.
Years later after the Young Officer was in the Village he'd hear that same rich, vibrant voice behind him before he went into a dangerous situation.
This time the question would have new meaning.
Often the main aggressor in the Domestic Violence event, or the bloody Assault would be the quiet one.
"who me??, I was sleeping VPSO!!" gestured the blood spattered intoxicated man.
It was still dark in many situations that he had to sort out and Stay Alive in and he always looked out for the Spider in the corner.
For the one key player of the Group to spring to action and attack, or to speak up and reveal themselves as guilty.
Blood Lines
It seemed that struggle was everywhere. Conflict raged across this great land in every city and town, in families and down through generations.
Soon the Officer would face battles of his own in the Village that he was being driven out to.
As a child his older relatives would somberly intone their family's part in that Battle long ago.
That when Reno pushed across the River he met resistance from the Natives encamped along the banks of the Greasy Grass (Little Bighorn).
The camp composed of several bands and led by at least 4 famous War Chiefs was almost 4 miles long.
And the Hunkpapa, which was the Officer's Lineage, were the first ones to be attacked. First to fight, first to die before Reno was pushed back across the River and forced to engage the Native camp from a distance.
"Our ancestors horse's were so fast and running so swiftly that our family name came from that day in battle." an older cousin would quietly speak.
As a young boy the Officer just squatted in the dirt holding onto a live frog with both hands and feeling a smaller garden snake wiggle in his pants pocket,
His young mind would imagine the scene as best as a young boy could. And he would later crawl through culverts and sneak through the grass of the city park in his home town playing and pretending that he was there at the Battle.
Now adays, such stories from history long ago didn't really matter as much.
What was done long ago was done and I am here now on earth to do my part for my family, for my people and for my self. Let history record what it may.
He explained what he knew to the Director, his boss and let things go as the SUV's engine labored and the snow covered trees whizzed past.
It seemed that most people just wanted to hear him speak, to boast of the proud accomplishments of his people.
One ignorant white man said "that the Little Bighorn was a One Hit Wonder for the Sioux and now look at 'em."
Did it matter that the ignorant white was a fellow Church missionary serving his mission at the same time that the Young Officer was serving?
Didn't this Christian church teach that being so insensitive to other peoples cultures like that was frowned upon?
The young Officer reflected upon his own life's accomplishments up till that day of travel to the Village. "Now look at 'em". He thought.
Look at the track record of most of the Returned Missionaries that he served with long ago. Most aren't even active, most have fallen away and almost none have ever kept in contact.
His own private website and his lifes work, his credentials were quietly listed for all the World to see. "Now look at him".
Broken Warrior
"How about you sir, what did you do?" the Officer asked of his Boss.
The Boss reflected for a few minutes and then spoke.
"About 10 miles from here I want to show you something when we reach the 4,000' Willow Peak"
After another 5 miles had passed in silence, the Boss spoke.
"In Vietnam, I was Force Recon."
"Most everyone in the books at Walden's and Barnes & Noble can talk about being safe on fire base while under attack."
"Most, not all, but most" he emphasized and rubbed his legs above the knee, touching an itch that only he felt.
"You'll see." the Boss continued.
"Just before Khe San, that seige, 4 of us were out on patrol.
We were laying low in the grass and were covered up pretty good when it happened."
"Suddenly the jungle just came to life around us as the NVA literally ran over us."
the Boss looked at the Officer.
"literally".
"they were carrying artillery, mortars and ya' know?,
those guys were smaller than you and me".
"tough as nails."
The Boss breathed inward a bit and continued.
"All of us Recon got shot up pretty bad escaping that clearing."
"messed up my legs and I'm still missing part of my right lung and I'm coasting
along still on one kidney."
"ahh. Up here" the Boss smiled as they crested the Pass.
Steep slope rose into the foggy mist above on either side of them and then to the left the Valley opened up.
You could see to Nome, or at least it looked like that.
Off on the horizon were dark blue shadows just 1/2" above the trees.
"That's part of the Alaska Range" the Boss gestured.
"And see that?" he slowly braked the vehicle and pointed out on the immediate landscape towards a small inlet just West of a huge frozen-over lake.
The Village, the Officer knew.
It was just a speck in the distance, and for now a new experience to start.
The SUV edged forward again and then stopped.
The wind buffeted the vehicle an instant and subsided then rocked the vehicle again.
Just a gentle reminder to the Officer as if to say, "I'm here",
"I matter".
"I am in your Universe now and there's nothing you can do about it."
Funny how other Factors would later on push and pull at the young Officer.
I'm here, I matter, Look at me.............. "Help me".
The Boss stepped out and climbed into the back door,
reached under the seat.
He pulled out an M-4 rifle. Chambered in .223 and with a simple Leupold scope on top, it was a grim reminder of his service years in the Jungle.
He tested his cheek weld and focused on the center dot.
A gallery of faces from the past played out before his Right eye then became a
tangle of waving branches.
Off to the side of the Road sitting in some willow trees were a group of White mountain Ptarmigan.
All white bodies except for a splash of black on the chest and around the eyes like a small mask. Black claws and beaks.
The Boss sighted in on a large Ptarmigan, inhaled-exhaled and sqqquuueeezzeed.
*BANG!!*
The birds head popped off in a small fountain of blood.
After stepping outside of the SUV and seeing his Boss shoot the bird, the Officer immediately stepped into the ditch and sunk up to his knees-then waist in snow to go look at the dead Ptarmigan.
Clad only in T-shirt, jeans, black 8" boots.
"Wow it's cold out here" his thoughts screamed at him.
His bare arms went numb and his high & tight faded hair cut exposed his skin on the back and sides of his head-ears started tingling.
The temperature felt like -5'F but with the wind gusting it was probably colder.
Half-way to the dead Ptarmigan the Young Officer looked back and saw that his Boss was striding towards him on Snow shoes-together they would look at the dead bird and examine the trees around the kill-site.
The Boss looked at the Officer hard for a moment from behind Oakley shades, then picked up the limp Ptarmigan.
He would later tell other Oficers and State Troops of seeing the Officer head into the cold without flinching.
The birds head, craw was gone, no neck to examine the contents and see what the birds were eating.
The Boss noted light, fine beach-like sand speckled the birds back, it made the feather soft texture rough.
A clutch of high-bush berries clung to the red snow 15' away.
These berries were probably in the birds neck and these berries grew in the summer and fall. The birds probably dug deep in the snow for these berries as some of them did stay on the stalk through winter.
After about 10 minutes both men walked back to the parked SUV.
The Officer rubbed his arms briefly but didn't complain of the Cold.
"you want to see??" his Boss quipped.
He looked over not sure what to expect.
"the right leg isn't so badly damaged" he said as he pulled up one jean covered leg.
The leg was visibly crooked from boot top to below the knee. as the bones had been badly broken and had healed back again knotted like a Diamond Willow cane.
"It's the same with the upper thigh", his Boss continued.
"We would have stayed concealed if it hadn't been for the fact that we got stepped on as I told you earlier.
Just like that small bird, we snuffed out many NVA lives in an instant while at the same time we got hit in return pretty bad.". the Boss finished as he covered his leg up and started the vehicle.
"You can be doing your job and suddenly you're in a world of hurt and fighting for your life.
Just remember that when you do your job in the Village, I'll be there in the Office for you. Just call when you need help." the Boss stated.
With the birds body in the back of the SUV nestled inside a spare plastic grocery bag the Boss revved the vehicle and the two men continued the trip to the Village.
Painful needles jabbed at the young man's head, his ears and biceps.
His nose hairs unstuck by themselves and he wiped his running nose on his jacket sleeve as his body adjusted back to the warm temperatures in the vehicle.
Later on he would do that again and again.
Head on out into the Storm.
Into the dangerous situations in the Village that needed going to, often alone and without protection or backup.
Why?
He had gone out before into such events.
His life had prepared him for much of the Domestic Violence calls that he would respond to. He didn't need training from the State Troops for that.
Didn't need the power-point presentations and hand-outs regarding the many 'Cycles Of Violence'.
Didn't need the lectures regarding Sex Offense and Tendencies. For he had seen it in other people on the Reservation back home while growing up. Had seen the Older boy in high school that acted like a girl and eventually grew up to Transgender himself-into a Her.
He even experienced many of the same feelings as he grew up and started to become aware of his sexual identity. Blondes were nice but the Brunettes held his attention.
As he still carried HER in his memories alive all these years.
Ms Congeniality
She was his first school crush in 1st Grade.
Her Grandpa owned the town gas station where his White stepdad worked.
She'd smile at him and wave when ever she came 'round the station.
And at school she'd wave and say "hello sammy".
If she only knew now how much her words meant to him.
They were an anchor in the storm of life when things got rough.
And life on the Reservation was rough. It was dysfunctional and terrifying at times when alcohol and drugs had it's victims under the influence and made them do more evil to each other and to themselves.
He saw it, heard it, had been touched by all of it and rejected much of it to the point of NOT passing it on to others by Doing what he saw.
And it was that one girl of his childhood, the brown haired girl that was nice to him all those years that did help anchor his mind and soul.
What was it that the young Officer had read somewhere on the Internet?
"Must be Brain damage, to see it in others because it was in himself" was the phrase penned by some military officer.
Indeed.
He'd been injured while riding his bicycle on winter in his hometown on the rezervation.
He was pedaling fast and braking with the rear wheels and then jerking the front wheel to the left-or right and making snow-plow furrows over the Ice.
Down he went on his 3rd attempt and smacked his head at the temple.
His eyes, his visin went bright yellow and then clouded gray.
Pain shot into his head then up top and slowly settled as his vision returned to normal.
"Hurry up!" chided his companion, an older friend.
"Gramma's driving to the delivery store, she'll buy some chips and candy!!" before pedalling away.
He got up from the snowy ground and slowly pedaled home.
Must have been some kind of damage. Mind like a sponge to soak in all that music, the smoke odors, the coarse language.
Yet it would harden him too for what lay ahead many years later.
Even the stacks of nude mags he'd found one time.
He was intrigued by seeing one of the "Harley's Angel's" girls as Centerfold.
wow. to be so young and have feelings stir inside him when looking at the magazines was a new experience.
He felt hungry, like wanting food and yet his lips burned too.
He touched his mouth but nothing was amiss.
He kept looking and reading.
What were those women doing all lined up and looking at Mr Heffers crotch as he sat in a lounge chair reading the newspaper??
He wouldn't fully know the answers till almost a decade later of what he had looked at and absorbed.
He loved that "Harley's Angel's" tv show and also admired the "Six Zillion Dollar Man" too, but got confused when reading about the real life of his idols.
They were married and then were divorcing.
But they looked so happy on tv.
His learning process of real life and "television" was hard and fast.
Once an older male relative of his stayed with his family on the Rezervation.
That older male had long hair, was pro-Native and talked the Lakota language fluently.
This male relative would practice the Lakota fancy dances, the Grass dances in the living room and he would watch the dance with glee.
The shuffling of the feet was graceful, the bending of the knees was rhythmic.
And the way the arms were picked up over the head like adjusting a heavy jacket-that fit loosely. The male dancer made light of his prancing and his audience (me) fell to the floor with laughter.
The once sacred dance had descended to parody, it was like one of his Lakota aunties was waving her arms to ward off the vengeful fist pounding from her husband that he had witnessed.
She was screaming and crying and fighting off the attack and getting bloodier in the process and her husband was winning.
Later on the town police would make the husband do that same dance as they beat HIM and maced his face before hauling off to jail.
It was painful to see such violence in many homes. Even in the homes of his White school friends. One of his favorite High school girls that he admired from a distance was getting slapped around by her boyfriend.
From such pain he drew humor as a buffer. Often it let him stand off and think of what he witnessed. Hindsight for him WAS 20/20. Because it let him see the clues and see what people had really meant at the time. Such powers of observation never left him after that.
It was painful to see a favored Grandma getting punched around by HER son, a young daughter getting kicked by HER mother, a sobbing older Auntie sitting nude at the Bar next to her White husband just after he had beat her in front of Everyone.
"Get me a cold one Marge, please!" he huffed.
"And one for her too".
Like she was in need of refreshment after bleeding for Him!??
Going to the town Bar and playing pool wasn't fun anymore after that incident.
Violence was a way of life amongst everyone around him.
No wonder he saw those LDS missionaries as being totally different when they came to visit his family one day.
He identified with them and desparately wanted to be like them when he grew up.
A Journey of a Thousand Miles begins with a Single Step-the Asian proverb says. Other times such a journey can begin with a single key stroke.
Else it can be a long dormant event invading the Sleep at night that prods the first steps too.
It can be the embracing scent in the air from a Young Girls sweet perfume as she rings up the cash register and hands change back to you.
What ever your Journey is, make sure that your life experiences prepare you for what lies ahead. Because the discoveries of Self that you find will surely expose What Lies Beneath in your heart and in your Soul.
My Journeys through the Eternities have been marked by milestones I will see in my Life. I've passed many of these markers.
And have yet to pass many more; Of marriage, of children, of family.
Of loss of my loved ones, of sickness, wealth, poverty, of Leadership, of Betrayal.
My Grandpa also hinted at clues to look for throughout my life.
And he provided guidance and wisdom to me by asking simple questions and even miming certain things.
By my Lineage and Heritage I run to violence.
I run to gunfire, I run to conflict. I never back down when I make a stand.
Perhaps of being immersed in filth and moral sickness as a child, I now see dysfunction in People if they have it. I sense it like salt and pepper in my nostrils.
The shock to my nervous system when I need to be cautious and alert is like a chill up the spine and down to my hands and feet.
It must be brain damage yes. But I'm damaged for a reason. Because I can go and do things that few people in this world can. Just look at any seasoned War Veteran and hardened Policeman. They do what they do because they can.
The need for my presence may be urgent and I'll go where I am needed at the time regardless of my immediate preparedness.
Just like my stumbling out into the cold of the Mountain Pass to kick a waist deep trail through the snow to look at a dead bird.
I knew the warm SUV was close by. I knew my Boss was a friend and he wouldn't leave me. And later on I too drove out into many Winter storms and found a few stranded people near that same Pass and I helped them.
I'll write some more of that Village Road because of some other experiences I had along that highway.
Happy New Year 2006.
theSam!!
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