Author: admin

My morning starts like any other day get up, shave, get dressed, eat, shower, though not necessarily in that order.

Yep!

Ndns’ do have to shave because of a little facial hair just enough to aggravate me!

The wife has already finished feeding Jo Coffee and Viente’ Latte her lop eared rabbits.

Time to get on the paved superspeedway back road leading up to the ultra-faster 100 hwy leading into Stilwell.

I am headed to my old grade school of Dahlonegah because, today is game day.  

I have time to reflect as I drive the distance of 27 miles to the game. It is not only the game but I have to drop Marta off at work before the game starts.

 Which gives me plenty of time to reminisce. The drive once I leave Stilwell to Dahlonegah is only about 10 miles or 12-15 minutes depending on traffic.

Once out of Stilwell you pass through the Zion community and school district. Our arch foes during and even now in sports. I remember the games against them in softball and wondered now if they had NIL money back then?

Just a thought not even worthy of that.

A few more miles of pastures and houses I speed into Cherry Tree community. As I pass the Facet industry and Commodity buildings, I think about the changes to this place. The more than 50 Indian homes now scattered about this little community. 

Changes I have lived and observed whether for good or bad time will tell.

Is it for me the end of an era or just the passing into the future?

 Alongside this highway called old 59 is where I grew up and played ball.  Games of football, basketball, baseball, and softball were played between the houses long gone now. It was a little place that boasted of 10 house and one gas station. Two gravel roads and one seemingly very tall yard-light.

 With the scary graveyard that sat on top of the hill.

Games were played on the roads and yards with beer cans as bases and even those cartons that once held sixpacks of Bud.

Weiser that is.

Now of course one just did not slide into home because of the gravel that tended to scratch your legs raw. Injuries of course got no sympathy from mom or granny!  Just a scolding for tearing up your jeans if that happened. We used whatever was available for gloves and bats with all sizes of rubber balls too.

Fun times and defeats with many rules made up as went along playing ball.

I come to the turn off that leads to Dahlonegah, and right pass what I still call mom’s old house. My home for over 20 years and moms for over 39.

 About a quarter mile later I slow down and look over to my right at a tree line pasture. This place formerly called the Cherry Tree ball diamond or ballfield and now is just a pasture or just someone’s yard.

This place that no longer exists as a ballfield once hosted baseball games and later those morphed into games of fastpitch and even slowpitch softball.

How long it existed before I can only recall back to 1965 till late 2000 though I cannot be sure.

Here we played fastpitch and slowpitch after grade school was over for us. Even before this were the games played between boys and girls since there might not be enough to field a full team. If there were not enough players then we had games of workup with both boys and girls once again.

Workup a game for 12 players three batters and 9 fielders. With the bigger and older ones who always wanted to be the batters. They could hit harder and place the ball. You had to get them out by the normal way of strikeout, throw them out as they ran to the base or catch a fly ball hit to you. If you got called out then you went to the leftfield and everyone else moved up one position. But a flyball caught meant the batter went to that position and everyone stayed in theirs no move up.

Simple game you could not cheat!

But you could argue and some did.

On my drive I see familiar places where houses once existed and the families who lived there. Past Chulio Cemetery or the Cherry Tree Graveyard home a place of rest to those who have passed from this life.

Passing over Hanging Dog bridge memories of the bus rides over muddy dirt road out into the what is now a pasture. The road would cut back through a tree lined route that would cut back towards Dahlonegah.

Passing our swimming place called Dahlonegah pond or dam if you prefer the school comes into sight.

Today just as other times, when I come here the school does not look the same. Time has brought many changes.

Here stands a big modern schoolhouse not the four room school I graduated from. The pasture across the road from it is no longer just a pasture. Where we once saw and heard the mooing of cows and occasionally the bellowing of a bull sits a sports complex.

Now it holds a football field with a track and dressing rooms, and bleachers even a scoreboard! Down a ways to this is the softball field not just one but three of them!

All with covered bleachers, fences, wire backstops and team seats.

I pull into the pasture, I mean sports complex parking lot park my Ford Ranger and walk over to the stands.

As I sat down on the bleacher I look over at the school and see a bigger building squeezed into the original grounds.

With the buildings of a new gym, garage, added classrooms, offices, and bus parking lot gone are the old ballfields.

One on the south side where the first, second, third, fourth and fifth grades had their playground. On that side sat the little ballfield for these grades too.

The north side sat the seventh and eight grade ballfield where all the school games were played.

The ballfield had no backstop nor stands for fans if any. You either stood or sat down on the grass if lucky under the elm trees down the first base side.

As I reminisced the teams came out all dressed out in their uniforms and carrying their equipment of balls, gloves, and batting helmets.

 I shook my head recalling our teams had neither uniforms nor helmets but faded blue jeans and tennis shoes. Our gloves either belonged to the school or to one of the players. Mr. Parsons’ the fourth, fifth, grades and shop teacher was also our coach. He stitched up the old gloves and occasionally bought new ones. The new ones started many a fight on who got to use them. The bigger, tougher, ones got them, never mind they might not be any good at playing ball.

No longer was the team colors blue with white numbers but red, blue, and white numerals.

Our team also had different colors but, only because we played in our school clothes.

The change in colors came as Dahlonegah had merged with Greasy School whose colors were red. This merging shows an of appreciation for the schools’ histories.

Time had certainly changed my old Dahlonegah and now what used to be a cow pasture now sat a modern Softball field.

I watched the teams warm up and quickly noticed things not quite right. I being a former player and in my own mind a pretty good one started down that rabbit hole of what was wrong with..

First, the players did not even know how to throw the ball the right way. Second, where were the coaches showing them how!

Third, how to catch the ball and fourth, who were the coaches?

I ticked off the things wrong and filed them away for further reference as the teams got ready to play.

I almost forgot, why I was here in the first place! I had come to watch and support my great-great niece El.

Well, she didn’t get to start and I was disappointed me being a really good player back in the day.  I got into watching and well actually found myself again critiquing the players and coaches.

With the game came some wondering about rules and why did they call that? Why were they trying to play fastpitch in the fourth and fifth grades?

I went through all the reasons of why and when did all these things change?

Three outs still the same as with strikes and balls too.

El got to bat and play and I watched her do her best and I critiqued again. I sat with her mom and her uncle as she played in the field.

After the game we talked among ourselves and found our critiquing along the same lines of thought.

I waited for her to come by and said “good game.” It was not what I would have said at any other time but now it was different.

I sit here thinking back and gathering thoughts and emotions of what had been versus what I think it was.

She was playing what she enjoyed and being with teammates and classmates. She is growing up differently than we did.

How many times did a bad thought of why, how, do you not, you cannot, who taught you, came to mind? I kept quiet as I have in watching my nieces and nephews play sports. I know that games of playing workup or games on Saturday or Sunday after church no longer happen. Today games are played on the computer and spent time on facebook or some other thing.

I groaned with every strike or missed catch but thank God he has kept my tongue from destroying these precious people. Whether they are my own family or those of other families. Plus to do so, and you can start a fight by criticizing and hollering at their son or daughter.

Mark 18:6 whosoever offend these little ones who believe in me, it would be better for him if a millstone were hung around his neck, and he were drowned and cast into the sea.

I need to make sure I am helping all to grow and not tearing any down.

I’m no longer the scrawny kid from Dahlonegah but, just an overweight  (fat)  great uncle now.

My nieces and nephews whether I’m their uncle or their great, even great-great are worth my attention.

If I tell them my playing days have come and gone over 50 years ago now. They may say that is over a half-century ago. They also might say “did they even play softball way back then, what they use back in the stone age, uncle?”

Yes, and sometimes in a cow pasture and we would actually even use cow patties as bases.

No lie!

I drove by the ol ballfield not giving much thought to

it. I have driven by it so many times on way to moms that I almost forgot

about it being there. Today though unlike other days I stop.

It is now 31yrs later-half a lifetime later and what I see is a lonely field

overgrown with trees and grass.

Leaves blow across the road like a bunch of running kids. Through the

rustling you can almost hear their voices as they scamper across.

I remember a field where glory came to some players. Now it is just

a field.

There is not even a reminder of where Homeplate had been. Nor is there anything left of the backstop. Gone are the post that the hogpen wire and chicken wire had been nailed too. The wooden posts were just straight trees that had been cut down to make the backstop.  All of it gone. Maybe the posts got thrown into some stove for heat.  

At least they were used for a good purpose and not simply cut down and set on fire.

Or?

They might have been used for a fire to keep warm those drinking ice cold beer on colder winter night?

Where players used to run around and roam left field -center field-right field. Nothing running through or around it now except for a dirt road and maybe some field mice.

No noise except for the wind as it rustles through the grass- gone are the

voices and shouts –of balls smacking into gloves, the crack of the bats

a hit–ahhs, and ohhs, sounds of the game.

All of it is gone now.

Nothing except for the memories of…..

Men like Fireballer Henry Lee, Big Joe behind the plate in his catchers’

gear and others who faded from memory quickly with their passing.

These were the Saturday and Sunday heroes winning and losing during

all those hot, sweaty, summer days.

Hard living and drinking made for a short time of playing ball especially

for the Indian men.

They still came to play in faded out pieces of team uniforms. The colors

didn’t even match but hey they were here to play ball!

Men past their prime going for that glory one more time. The belly getting there first. After the games came the drinking-loud talking-louder boasting of plays made-laughter at the bonehead plays –raucous hoorawing at you if, you were that bonehead.

Many drinks later a hit became almost a homerun. Laughing loudly at winning the games, and louder cussing, and cursing the losses.

Words instead of fastballs and harsh words, are thrown at each other. Fights broken up- this was no place for nice girls if any were around.

Every community had a team some had two whether north or south.

Most just called themselves by their community names like Greasy, or

Cherry Tree, Dry Creek, even Bell community had a team.

I recall seeing a picture of nameless Indians and their four finger gloves.

Really ancient equipment

Time and times again, the same old sad scenes played out again and

again, over the years men reliving glory days. Just like Bruce sang about

them.

Baseball season came and went with only players changing. It wasn’t

long before the game morphed into another one.

Enter the game of softball, a bigger ball.

The grade schools all played fastpitch softball and it started taking over.

Gone were the glory days of baseball as softball caught on. Its’

popularity probably had something to do with girls playing too.

Bingo games, Chili, and pie suppers became common ways to raise

money for the team uniforms. The uniforms got better as teams now

added names whether community or a ferocious sounding one like the

warriors, braves, or some such.

The teams that were formed consisted of former baseball players. With

the passing of the game of baseball there were those who still wanted a

chance to play the game.

Even though they were way past their prime.

However, you played it, softball wasn’t my game all my hits came from

hitting the bottle. If that had counted as a batting average mine would have

been out of sight.

Sometimes I hit the bottle too much and wound up hitting

the ground.

Whereas some players dusted themselves, off from a great slide into

second-third base or home plate.

All I raised a big puff of dust as I slide backward into the dirt.

Still the picture of the ball field remains only as a picture.

The ball diamond was lined with trees behind home and down the 3^rd

baseline on past right field. Under these trees came the glorious

stories of the games.

Which, in turn became the game!

I did play in grade school we were the

best 1-win 13- loss team around. High school and the army got in the

way of my playing career. Such, as it was.

After the service I returned home to Cherry Tree and hung around the ball

fields and of course the games. We even formed a team of young guns.

Played my older brothers’ team and lost both times. They took the best

players and left me all alone.

I did get to play in a slow-pitch tourney. For shame for shame,

we got beat by a score of 21-3! By a team named the Rinky-Dinks!

Slaughtered!  Slaughtered by the Rinky-Dinks. Oh the shame of it all.

I retired after that and continued my hitting streak with the bottle and

some more joints.

Time has dimmed memories of those who played. Age, drugs, alcohol

and the passing away of others. In time other players came along some

good, some mediocre, but not as great as those that played the game

before. The next generation of players hold to who was the greatest.

Why even mediocre players had risen to star status.

As for me no accolades, I left no impression or impact on the game.

Probable best remembered as “oh, that drunk guy yea I think I seem to

recall him.”

One day I drove by the ball field in my 70 Buick LeSabre and cops pulled

out from the side road.

Buick LeSabre.  And the cops pulling out from the side roadand chasing

me down.

My drinking bud good ol’Spud and I got pulled over by the cops. Somebody  

had been burning rubber and making a nuisance of themselves. The cops

told us that the person doing this drove a white car with a dark top. My

car happened to be white with a dark green top.

one of the police officers had us stand out behind my car. He

asked me “what’s the make of your car?”  Before I could answer, Spud

spoke up. He said “dang it written right there on the turtle hull!”  Right

after he said that I rolled my eyes and looked up to heaven, that and my

next thought was “oh, no here we go off to jail!” Not so! They hauled

my car off to the impound yard and left us standing on the side of the

road. People from the game drove by to see what had happened.

I stood watching the cars with a smirky look and feeling a bit chagrined.

Concerned citizens or Indians?

Naw, they were just the nosey gossiping, kind of citizen Indians.

Luckily for me my sister drove by and gave us a ride back to the ball field

where we became, heroes for the moment. Basking in the glory of why

we had gotten stopped. Then everyone’s attention returned to the field

and all those fabulous ballplayers.

Hours later after the game and everyone else has gone home a fire’s

started.

At first with some wood then someone throws an old tire into

it. Pretty soon a big blaze is going.  We’re all standing around the fire

and consuming more alcohol. Once again stories of glory days come

around.

Much later as the fire dies down and drinks are gone people start off

slowly, weaving their way home. None of us realizing that we’re all

black-faced from the smoke. 

I stumble home too. Mom’s face is a mixture of anger and a funny little

smile as we must look like refugees from the negro-leagues.

Another day, another game and memories.

The girls’ game is over and now the men take the field.

The men’s game features two evenly matched teams.

It’s a close game the home team needs a hit. With runners on base up

comes Big-stick.

He’s called Big-stick because he can hit the ball a mile. Outfielders back

up. Those that don’t know who Big-stick is are told to by the old timers

to back up.

The pitcher gets the signal and ball smacks into the catchers’ mitt.

“Ball one ump calls out.”

Encouragement is shouted out to pitcher and hitter are shouted out.

Strike him out!

He throws like a girl! Hit it out of here!

Another pitch –strike one.

More yells. “Atta boy way to pitch!”

“Look’em over wait for your pitch.”

Another pitch strike two comes the call.

Big-stick looks unperturbed. He shows no emotion as the next pitch is a

called a ball.

The pitcher winds up and lets it fly!

Big-stick shows nothing and then bam! He gets hold of a fat pitch and

sends it over the center fielder’s head. Fans start screaming out

encouragement and instructions!

As the fielder races for the ball, Big-stick starts his run.  

Each teams’ fans exhortimg their players on.

Cries of “it’s a home run, others calling out get the ball hurry!”

Everybody is screaming “run faster!”

Others “throw the ball!”

“Throw the dang ball!” “C’mon pick it up!” “Hurry!”

“Hurry!”

“Run faster!”

Try as he might time has caught up to Big-stick.

Amid the yells of “you can get him out if

you’ll just throw it now!” “Hurry, throw it!”  “Throw the dang ball!”

amidst the shouts and cheers runs Big-stick or rather lumbers.

Legs that ran the bases like the wind now feel like they’re running in

molasses. What would’ve been, should’ve been, could’ve been, a home

run easily now becomes, a mere three bagger.

Big-stick almost gets thrown out as he reaches third. Thanks in part to

the aging fielders trying to throw him out. Breathing hard and

heavy he bends over to catch his breath. He probably recalls the much

younger times of glory days.

Hard living, booze and cigarettes make their own mark in the games of

the Native American pastime.

Fastpitch, and Slowpitch softball and of the past glories now faded and

some still fading.

As well as those that use to play the game.

It was also a time when a children might have gotten the wrong idea of

players names.

Not everyone was named Dammit but it was used a lot for d—catch the

ball, d—run faster, d—throw the ball, D—you can’t even play first and so

on.

Why one might even think the umpire was named Dammit! With all the

shouting of you call that a strike or a ball?  Dammitt can’t you see, you

must be blind Dammitt.

Anyone ever wonder why in the world, would a family let alone parents

would let their blind son officiate a game?

Pretty sad using the French name Dammit like that!

I drove about 20 miles to take one picture and as I drove along the back

Roads, highways, and byways, I recalled places

that used to contain a ballfield. All you needed was a flat enough piece of a

field, some tall posts, chicken wire, and Wal-lah a ballfield. Along with many

other fields of play now a house sits on it or cows amble along former

baselines and the outfields.

Cherry Tree ballfield is gone the field remains just a field.

There is no glory in that. The field where Indians played.  Indian history and culture at play.

 The field where Indians played.  Indian history and culture at play.

Times have really changed things for me being I am sixty-eight years old now. With technology being the main driving force of change.

Not only has it affected communications but also, the fabric of society, of friendships, families, schools, and communities.

My people i.e. Indians, natives, indigenous, all of those have gone through some major changes not all of it for the good. As history shows and continues to grow.

With being the solo people of a region, to visitors, intruders, and conquerors, coming into our domain.

These in turn produced changes within tribes which bled into trade, jealousy, alliances, and warfare. All this over land, hunting areas and of course living space.

Yes, all this over a pasture!

A piece of real estate!

A cleared piece of land not being utilized right by those on it. why someone could do better with it. Their technology was better at clearing land than ours.

Yes, we had it until someone saw it and wanted for themselves.

Why they could do better with it than an old ndn could.

As the anthem goes “this land was our land, not your land from the gulf stream waters to the redwood forest this land was meant for me and not you.

But as with all great powers they wanted it, claimed it, and renamed it America!

The fight to stay on the land was aided by the French, and British yes them too. With guns and ammo but when the aid dried up so did the strength to fight. Technology had a big hand in this battle.

There is still a battle going on to keep certain rights and land, how this will turn out over time who knows.

Though in this we do have freedom to protect our rights somewhat. It does come with a cost of how much we value freedom and how will the powers that be react let alone those who occupy the land now.

Today another in Europe a war is being fought over the same idea of freedom.

With Russia invading Ukraine another people wanting to live in peace. In land even!

Will it play out as other nations support disappears? Will it become as some might say “it’s just a pasture, right?”

Always remember 9-11 a day that lives in infamy. May God bless us.

whether ndn, or not disasters happen. God bless those that come to help you in these times.

Dedicated to Disaster Relief Workers and those who went through this Hurricane.

just think of the song “Elvira” and you’ve got it.

Well I sat on the porch drinking coffee one day thinking about what I had heard on the news.

They told us to be on the lookout for a woman named Laura she might be headed our waaaay!

Oh Laura

As time went by, I watched her grow from a little thing into a big bad mean old woman!

Oh Laura

I watched as big bad Laura headed to my town!

Oh Laura ———Big Bad Laura

Oh Laura———Big Bad Laura

Well she blew into town

She rained on my parade

She came into my house and threw my stuff around!

And she wasn’t even invited in just made herself to home!

She stayed a day or two just angrily stomping around!

O Oh Laura——-Big Bad Laura

Oh Laura——-Big Bad Laura

First, she broke my heart, then she broke my house!

I watched her leave my town destruction in her wake.

Oh Laura——–Big Bad Laura

Oh Laura——–Big Bad Laura

I said Oh Lord

What did I do? Why did this happen to me

I hung my head and prayed

Why did you come?

You blew into my town.

You rained on my parade

You came into my house and threw my stuff around.

And you weren’t even invited in you just made yourself at home!

You stayed a day or two just angrily stomping around.

Oh Laura———–big bad Laura

First You broke my heart, then you broke my house!

I watched you leave my town destruction in your wake.

I stood shaking my fist at that

ba-ba bi-bi-

Oh Laura———- Biiiig Baad Laura!

I stand on what used to be my porch drinking coffee

Thanking the Lord that woman named Laura is gone! Awaaaay!

I wonder why they say I am more indigenous, native, ndn, than you are or ever hope or could be?

Well, let me tell what I believe to be what it takes to be an ndn. Indigenous, or native.

If you don’t like fry bread and beans well ma’am or sir you just ain’t indigenous, native or even ndn.

If you think Bolognie is a cheap form of Indian Round steak, then you ain’t native.

If you think commodity is the name brand for cheese then you ain’t ndn, indigenous, or even native.

If you think the Watusi is a stomp dance favorite then you ain’t indigenous.

If you don’t have a couple of junk cars in your yard then you ain’t ndn.

If you think Gravy Babies is the brand name of baby food then you surely ain’t native.

If you think someone misspoke when they said “wild onions” and you thought they meant “wild indians” then you ain’t ndn.

If you think Crawdads are a group of ndn fathers or a rock and roll band then you ain’t native.

If you think beads, a braided ponytail, and moccasins and speaking like Tonto makes you indigenous, oh heck no, you just ain’t Ndn!

If you think a “raised hand” and saying “How” is speaking Indian then buddy you just ain’t ndn.

If it takes an act of congress and a DNA test to prove you are Indian then sorry but you just ain’t NDN.

If you weren’t born into an NDN family the you ain’t NDN.

Finally! If, you don’t love this country then, well you just ain’t NDN and maybe sir or ma’am you’re probably not even an Uhh-Merican!

I had wondered what to do with a three-day-weekend coming up and no plans of any kind made yet. Work days were longer and hotter now that summer had arrived. Hot days made one want to run off to the lake or the river to cool off and maybe do some fishing.

I was wiping the sweat off my face when I heard the ringing of my cell phone. What now I thought as I was sure it was the wife wondering if I was at work. Darn these phones! Now the wife could call you and ask what you were doing and were you at work?

You could not even lie about being at work with those tracking apps installed on your phone. I had to ask Ron about that he was a lot smarter than I was. Well at least in some things.

I dug the phone out of my pocket and took a deep breath an huffed it out as, I got ready to answer my ol lady. Oh, good it was not the ol lady but only Ron calling. 

I wondered what was on his mind that he would call me at work. Work oh yeah, he was working today too. Well duh! He worked upstairs mostly sat at his computer not having to sweat out in the field like us normal workers.

But knowing Ron, he would call us the abby-normal workers funny guy that ndn. He had given me an Indian name one day as he talked to me out in the field. He noticed how much sweat ran down my face so of course he named me “He-who-has-sweat -running-off-his-face” or just “Running Sweat” then he said “I meant white running sweat. Always reminding me of my whiteness. Yet he laughed saying more of a red face when it got sun burned.

That dang smarter-than-alex, ndn.

I answered with “what you wanu’em injin?” He did not mind since, he made fun of himself, and other injins that was his word for Indians.

He answered in his best imitation of Tonto with “hey kimo soppy you-wannum- go-a-camping?” Ohh wow an answer to my quandry about what to do for the weekend solved. Though I could and would have put with his jokes too.

Actually he could at times be funny, but just sometimes. Like his commentary about the me setting up my white man tee-pee or the modern ndn’s wally-mart store bought fake ndn tee-pees. When I told him he had a store bought, tee-pee too his comment was at least mine is red for redskins.

Nope Ron was not a cigar store ndn neither since he did not even like cigars.

We made plans and on Friday after work to meet at the river.

We parked our trucks and set up away from all the other round tee-pees or as Ron said “those igloo shaped ones.” He wondered if there were any Eskimos camping out in this hunnert degree heat. He asked me if thought if they might melt from the heat.

That is Ron just being Ron.

We went down to the river and splashed around a bit like two big whales. One being a big great white and the other a lesser brown one.

We sat around our campsite and had our dinner. I smoked my calming weed as Ron joked about it making me stupid and lazy. What does he know he quit smoking over forty-five years ago.

Ron started telling of his camping experiences in Colorado, Wyoming, Montana the Dakotas both north and south.

All of them being grizz country according to national geographic. Then he said “Killer Grizz” country!

 He said “his wife always wanted to see a bear.” The ones in the zoo were enough for him.

When I kidded him about the native Indians hunting bears and wearing necklaces of bearteeth. He said “yea but I’m a civilized ndn and I do not need necklaces.” Neither do I need to get my body ripped apart by a “Killer Grizz!”

He resumed telling me about their trip.

They saw a little bear playing on the side of the hill and stopped to watch it the second day.

paw prints on one of their hikes. “Hiking without a Grizz Killer gun is scary in itself” he said.

The second sighting happened as they drove back to their campsite. seeing one mom grizz with her cubs about three to four hundred yards away. Plenty close enough for him.  I kidded him about being a brave ndn.

He said “brave yes but not stupid.”

On the third day they came upon one as it came up the road towards them. He made no fuss with it as it sauntered in the middle of the road.  He told me bear had the right of way and he was not about to argue the point with it.

His little PT cruiser would be like a plastic toy in the Grizzs claws!

I gulped down another shot of Jim Beam and finished my joint relaxing and a getting more bleary, eyed. We talked a little more of razor claws ripping flesh and long sharp teeth crunching bones. You know the good stuff about camping out.

It was late and the fire had died down we were both sleepy by now and decide to pack it in.

 Ron said “don’t have any nightmares of a Killer Grizz” chomping on your neck” and he laughed.

Real funny ndn that Ron!

I unzipped my tent and crawled onto my side of the sleeping pad. The ol lady was already asleep and snoring away. Normally it would be hard to sleep but the whiskey and the joint made had done its’ work.

As I zipped the tent up, I remembered how she came to be with us.

The call from Ron had given me an excuse to get away from the ol lady.  Only this time she had insisted on going along with me and Ron. I gave up arguing and said “well ok” rather huffily.

I knew Ron at least would not mind he coming along. And  besides he never had to put with her questions.

Yep, them women asked all sorts of dumb questions. Like what should I wear?

Well duh!

“Like clothes” I said you’re going camping, at the river, not some fancy dan hotel stuff or restaurant I told her. At least she was an early to bed person at eight pm she was out like the proverbial light.

Mumbling to myself about stupid bear stories I drifted off into la-la land. Thinking of tomorrow and my favorite sport of fishing. Well truthfully the second one the first being watching women in bikinis. That was why I camped out along the river bank whenever I could.

Sighing and sliding ever deeper into the blackness of deep sleep.

Darkness then came sounds of birds, and rippling water as the early morning fog rolled away. I me, Trace, stood at the ready for any sign of Bass no Perch for this doggone, genuine American fisherman.

I had my guaranteed, fully endorsed, Jimmy Houston Bass catching lure on the best Wallyworld Zebco rod and reel at the ready!

Ready for Bass the fish of fishes for me. A splash and I just knew that sound of meant it could only be Bass!  Adrenaline surged into my right arm as I whipped the rod and the line shot out towards the splash!

I cursed slightly as I realized I had broken the cardinal rule of Bass fishing! I had forgot to kiss or spit on the lure. Dang it, I thought!

Too late as soon as the lure hit the water and wallah not Wall-eye I got a hit.

Intent on reeling it in I shoved the sound of a loud grunt from my mind.

The Bass splashed up trying to throw the lure out. I let out a satisfied grunt as I struggled with the Bass.

I heard a loud splash and a much louder grunt as a big brown form hit the water!

Shock hit me hard as my hand stopped in mid pull of reeling in the Bass. I No longer pictured a big record setting Bass, but the real form of a humongous “Killer Grizz!”

It was splashing through the water straight towards me!

It was either “fight or flight” as the stories of bears and razor-sharp claws, and teeth came to mind. Here now was the reality of the joke of out running the Killer Grizz! As I had told Ron many times before “all I have to do is out run you.”  Ron would just smile and say “and all I have to do is to trip you.”

Well Ron was not here, but I was!

Turning and swallowing a big lump I turned to run while the bitter taste of Skoal hit my stomach. Legs pumping on their own I ran faster than the wind. Why this thought while running for my life came from I’ll never know?

A thought of that dang Ron saying “you run like a girl.” Him being a cross country star an all at least that was what he said. 

Gravel crunched as I raced away from the river towards the trees and our campsite. I huffed and puffed as legs moved of their own accord as my arms pumped furiously along with my heart!

I could see everything in front of me as my eyes watered up and started hurting. I made it to the tree line and crashed into and through the limbs. With my heart and lungs ready to burst and limbs scratching my face and ripping my shirt I ran on.

There came louder grunts and crashing right behind me as the “Killer Grizz” got closer!

I saw the open area of our campsite and my truck! It was a beautiful sight of rusted wheel wells, semi bald tires, faded paint and safety!

I never made it as I tripped over an old dead tree limb!

As I slammed into the rotting pile of dead leaves the thought of that dang Ron saying “all I have to do is to trip you” came to mind again.

I was done for now! Me Trace a white man or as Ron said “a yonag”

I shut my eyes as a roar filled my ears! It grunted and its’ roar ringing in my ears, drool dripping off its razor-sharp teeth bared to bite! A paw wrapped around my chest from behind me and started shaking and pulling me towards him or her! I screamed as a claw dug into my chest ripping my heart out!

A final whimper of ron and I cried.

As the “Killer Grizz” shook me and hollered in my ear!

I heard my name Trace, Trace!

I had told Ron I did not believe in God but was this him? Was he calling my name as I faced death at the claws of the “Killer Grizz?”

I heard my name again and again as the bear rocked me back and forth in its massive paws!

My eyes and mind snapped open to the final roar of this nightmare of the “Killer Grizz!”

I heard my name again the voice closer than ever and an urgency in it!

Trace wake up! Why are you screaming? Are you having a nightmare? My mind started to focus what oh! I awoke in my shirt soaked with sweat! Awareness coming groggily of where I was. I was in my tent with the ol lady. And the reality hitting me of what a nightmare so, so, real. The growl of the killer Grizz had been so real!

And then knowing why and how!  Darn it, it, had been her snoring I was hearing “Killer Grizz my eye!

I swallowed a grateful breath of air.

And made myself a vow of…..

….. of not listening to anymore stories by that dang Ron.

“Killer Grizz” indeed!

some are friendly though….

like this one..

Another ground Swine Day has passed and still six more weeks of the winter season is still ahead. This according to the Farmers’ Almanac. 

Not some rodent from Punxsutawney!

Still, it persists maybe he does know something since they have to pull him out of his hidey hold. He probably says” brr its cold out here! “Why do this white people keep dragging me out from my fitful winter nap?”

They did say the Dutch brought this belief over from the land of wooden shoes and windymills. Ok so? I know ndns have this quint belief too.

So maybe we do have more in common than we think. Would be great if we could all agree on what is truly important.

We keep chuggin along with our beliefs that this is the right way and all you other people are wrong.

Anyway, just thought I would say what the heck is going on with these knuckleheads.

Ground swine weather forecaster indeed! He’ is about as right as those weather people paid a kazillion dollars to forecast the forecast.

Like King Arthurs’ round table, they may sit around an discuss the weather finally coming to a consensus. Now of course, Arthur some say is just a fable. But! Fables are the reality of some people.

As the rodent named Phil scans the crowd of yonags he probably, now I say probably thinks “What on the Great Spirits’ green earth is going on here?”

This as fables go around the table. Oh yeah, my dads’ name was Dutch, his actual first name. not a traditional ndn name by-the-way.

 Just saying.

Have a great six weeks until spring!!

Today it is very cold since it is wintertime. Duh!

In times past Ndns’ celebrated the start of every season marking the start and passage of it. So here is my venturing into it this “Time of Cold or Time of Gray!”

“This is the day the lord has made and I will rejoice and be glad in in for this s the day that the Lord has made.” This line comes from a Baptist hymnal praising God for the day.

Before this Ndns huddled down and got through winter the best way possible. Not only Ndns but all people affected by winter weather and the other seasons as well.

But let us look at it in a different light and see if there are some good things about winter and spring,summer and fall.

 “It all depends on what you mean by winter.”

 In this, country and some city kids enjoy the snow. Lots of it and school is out. Yipeee! Parents faces sag knowing those darn kids will be home all day.  For me I get to wear my winter wear, the gloves, jackets, coveralls, boots, and stocking caps. Yay!

I can slide around in the yard on ice sometimes on the road. Great!

Build a fire and burn wood in my woodstove. Nice!

Keep an eye on temperatures so my water pipes do not freeze.

Scrape ice off the windshield. So fantastic!

At least the yard will not need mowing, or leaves raking up. Hooray!

Listen to weather forecast for any changes. The weathermen have gotten better. They say winter will cold and they are generally right. Guess they started asking the groundhog what to expect. Smart people them weather people!

Next up comes the “Time of Green.”

All too soon or finally for others it is Spring! Winter wear is put away for more less bulky, more colorful clothes.

A time of renewing when they say love is in the air. Along with pollen and allergies. Now also come those pesky flying pests. Trees put on the spring apparel and yards grow fat with weeds and grass as the rains come. Lots of rain and lots of growing for the weeds and grass.

It is time for the lawnmowers to be resurrected. Though at times the hay bailer as the rains keeps one form mowing. The grass never stops growing.

We get all settled into our spring cleaning and relaxing time when up pops “The time of Heat.”

Or maybe “A time of Sweat?

Whereas, in winter there was hardly any sweat in this time it is a constant source of irritation.

We complain of having to water our lawns so we can mow it? that makes great sense to me. At least there are no leaves to rake up. Yet! With this comes the wearing of lighter clothes and skimpier ones too. Times of heading to the lake, river, or creek to cool off.

Cookouts, camping with all the other people who have the same idea. Tent to tent as little dwellings popup on the banks of “The places of Water.”

Interesting those who complain about all the rain which is” Water falling from Sky” go to be near the water.

Summer is also when snakes, wasps, and other stingers are out and about. Interesting that booze which makes you really sweat is consumed where there is an abundance source of hydration.

Water to those who missed hydration classes in the army.

We gripe along with the electric bills as fans and air conditioners strain to keep the country or maybe just you cool.

In spring and summer comes a family that we do not want around. Now do not get me wrong I love my family and like to be around them. Two families actually and these are known far and wide for coming and staying longer than anyone should. They do not care about where they walk and most times all over you. They just campout in your yard without asking for permission.

That darn family of Ticks and Ants!

Now, in-the-midst of our hot misery we all look forward to “The time of Falling Leaves.”

Yep! Fall time!

Sweaters come out of hiding and a little heavier shirt or windbreakers. For some sports nuts its “feetball time.” A time to relive glory days. A time when wives roll their eyes at Friday nights and Saturdays and Sundays feetball games on the boob tube.

As their love of their life that sweet, sweet, dear Boob of theirs sits yelling at the boob tube.

Comes the time of reckoning as leaves pile up in the yard and still in places the yard need mowing still.

All too son daylight savings time ends and it gets dark faster.

Well duh!

I wonder when we will get to spend some of those savings we get from this savings of time.

Will we be able to say to God not today I have some time saved up for this day?

Fall is known as ndn summer. Why? I really do not know. It might be, we just think this is a better summer then the one the yonags claim as their summer.

Maybe.

Hunting season opens and animals scurry for cover as “Dead-eye Dick, Daniel He-coon, Beefalo Bill Cody” and others come into their domains as well as ours sometimes.

This is a time also when we get ready for the “Time of Cold” as winter approaches.

Today is the day the Lord has made. Neither Ndns, Yonags, Blacks, Orientals, nor Europeans can stop the day.

“Very interesting” as Arte Johnson used to say on Laugh in.

Yep, very interesting these times of change that come around every year. No surprise there.

Oh, my what a night. It was not about “when they drove old Dixie down” either. Twas a night before the jolly fat man for some people came sneaking into their house.

Hmm these days he would be a burglar or thought of as a thief breaking into a house. Some might say “that he is a sneaky old cuss.”

Some sorta of a modernistic Robin Hood. He would bring gifts to the little boys and girls but only the good ones. Which is why I never got, those great gifts or got none-at-all.

Twas the night Janet awoke out of a fitful sleep. Awakened by some inner instinct that something was amiss in her home.

Arising from the warm confines of her bed she slipped on her fuzzy Bugs Bunny house shoes. With the ears flopping she shuffled sleepily down the hallway towards the living room.

She could hear sounds coming from it and it sounded like ho, ho, ho!

What!  

Wait!

It surely could not be that red pajama wearing fat man she thought? There was a light on as she shuffled towards the kitchen for a cup of Joe to help her wake up.

She gave a yawn and saw a figure bent over a sack on the floor and things flying up out of it. Naw, she thought this is about the birth of Jesus not that white bearded guy known as Saint Nick-e.

Ahh, Janet thought someone has made a pot of Java. Something to warm up the bod and clear out the sleep from the eyes.

While taking a sip she noticed a change in words coming from the living room. Not longer ho, ho, ho but it sounded more like holey, holey, holey! Now that was more like it a real Christmas song she thought.

She took a few steps into the living room and noticed the figure bent over saying holey, holey! What in the world she thought as she realized the things flying into the air were socks!

Socks?

Yes!

Socks!

And it was not Santa doing it but Mat as he searched for a pair of socks that did not have holes in them.

So, it was not the white bearded Santa, but Mat. He was looking in all the wrong places for his Socks. This bag of socks were meant to be thrown away!

They were not meant to be thrown around either!

Well, Janet shrugged least his x-mas gift would be treated better.

Yep, his gift of some brand new, U-N-H-O-L-E-Y socks!

That was the story I was told and you can believe me or not!

State now there is a word, but what does it mean to state a fact.

What does one mean by this is statement.

Last week at a breakfast meeting I said “it doesn’t do any good to gripe.”

The rebuttal, rejoinder, or answer to my statement was I do not gripe, I just state the facts.”

I have often wondered how the stoic chief in Ndn oops I mean western true facts westerns would have answered me.

Would my rebuttal have resulted in a ferocious head butt? Maybe, the rejoinder would have resulted in a dislocated joint or joints? My gripe might have resulted in a deadly throat or neck grip!

Would I have ended up in state of disarray?

Today there is an army of gripers, complainers, and staters of facts.

But what facts? Sgt. Joe Friday would just ask for “just the facts” whether it was from a man or woman.

Now we have their statement of their facts mingled with fantasy. It has become more of their imagined rights.

Mostly it seems guaranteed by a constitution of delusion.

We do have certain rights but what do they really mean? How far do they go?

It used to be if a person had a gripe-complaint one could go to the Complaint Department. 

Now it has become a right to gripe, complain, a right to be disrespectful to workers in the departments. The bible in 2Samuel 15:1-6 tells a story of a young whose main gripe was that he was not the king. So, he sat at the entrance to the city saying to everyone who passed by if only her were king he would hear their grievance. Grievance a fancier word for gripe, complaint, or disagreement.

Just as then, there is someone who will listen to your dissatisfaction with things to get their way. 

There is a skit by Monty Phyton that in essence is about an argument department. In this skit you went up to the window where the guy asked what it is you wanted. You asked for an argument and he would ask if you wanted a five-dollar argument or a ten dollar one. You made a choice gave him the five and then it would start.

The payer stood waiting and after a few seconds would say well? The other answered well what? Well I gave you five. No you didn’t! Yes, I did. It would go on for about a minute of back and forth then the clerk would say times up!

Maybe this is what we need if people had to pay to air their gripes, complaints, or just to state the facts. This might deter some of the loudest and of those gripers, complainers, and staters of facts.

Back in the day of Kings and Ndn Chiefs would we dare say even Booo!