Yellow Hair Archives - Page 7 of 8

January 24, 2017 Blog

1964 Dodge Valiant

Remember the Hermosa Beach story when I got arrested in San Diego? Well, this is what happened right after Pete and I split up.

I wanted out of California. But I had a court date and was not supposed to leave the state. Also, I was afraid that if I got stopped while hitchin’ on my way out, I’d be hauled back as a “flight risk.” Cops were always checking me out in those days and running my ID to see if I was wanted anywhere. I now realize it was unlikely that I’d have had any trouble, given the charge was only a misdemeanor. However, I was young and it was my first arrest, but unfortunately not my last.

So, I called my uncle who wired me money for a bus ticket to Miami. And in a few hours, I had the money, bought my ticket, and was on the bus heading for home sweet home. When we pulled out of San Diego, the bus driver announced that we would arrive in Miami at approximately 7:00 a.m. on Tuesday morning, which meant that the trip would take three and a half days.

After two hours on the damn bus, I was ready to climb the walls, if indeed buses have walls.

To make this more palatable, which means shorter, I’ll get to the point.

I got off the bus at the first stop after we crossed into Arizona. The hell with the ticket, the hell with a refund; just let me off this damn torture machine. I then walked a block from the bus depot and stuck out my thumb.

On this particular journey, I had only one minor adventure, but it was still better than being a prisoner on that friggin’ bus! It happened outside a small town located in the panhandle of Texas at one o’clock in the morning.

I was in my usual position, which meant I was standing by the side of the road, thumb extended, with a shit-eatin’ grin on my puss. Even though it was dark, I was hoping my pearly whites would show in the glare of the oncoming headlights, which, at that time of night, were few in number.

I had left California straight from jail; I did not have my bedroll, or anything else for that matter. And I was not about to lie down in the wet grass on the side of the highway no matter how tired I was. No, I would sleep in the cars as they sped across this big country of ours. That is, if the driver hadn’t picked me up for the express purpose of conversation. If that were the case, then I’d be nodding in agreement with whatever he said, instead of nodding off. Because when they picked you up for talk, then you better damn well talk or you’d soon find yourself on the side of the road once again.

As I stood there in the cold desert air, shivering in my light California attire, a car approached. It had come out of nowhere. I could see headlights coming at me from miles away and this guy wasn’t there a minute ago. I learned later that he had been driving with his lights off.

It turned out to be a station wagon. (I know some of you younger cats are sayin’, “What the hell is a station wagon?” Ask your grandparents.) The car stopped and within it was not the solitary, lonely traveler that I had expected. Instead there were five people, three men and two women. I say men and women because I was only eighteen. They were all, in reality, about twenty-five years of age. The girls may have been a little younger. But to me, on that night, they seemed much older. There were two men in the front seat with a woman between them, and a man and a woman in the back seat.

Without any one of them saying a word, the left back door flew open, which in hitchhiking parlance means, “Get your ass in here.” And as I happened to have been fluent in Hitchhikese, I jumped in as the girl by the door slid over to make room for me. And without a word, but with many giggles and sideway glances at Yours Truly, we were off in a cloud of dust and a squeal of tires.

After a moment or two to let the female members of the troupe get over their giggles, the male passenger in the front seat turned to me and said, “Where ya headed?”

I answered as the honest person I was back then. “Miami.” At that point, I was informed that I was riding in a stolen car.

About that time, we entered the town proper. That’s when the driver swung a wicked right onto a side street. He went down every back alleyway and small side street that the town afforded. It was then that I started to think maybe they were a bunch of crazy loons, and, as I soon learned, I was right.

I should have asked to be let out the moment I was told I was riding in a stolen car, but instinctively, I knew that wasn’t going to happen. So, instead, I practiced in my mind what I would say to the local law when we were stopped. “Sir, I am only a poor hitchhiker who is trying to get home to his dying mother. These criminals picked me up back there outside of town. You can see by my ID that I don’t live in these parts.” I thought, “Yeah, that oughta work.” But as it turned out, I never had the chance to use my spiel.

After going down what seemed every street in that little town, the driver got back on the main highway, but this time he’s going in the opposite direction that I want to go. So, I figure now is the time to speak up and let my desires be known.

“How about,” I said, “letting me off here? I’m going the other way.”

This time it was the driver who spoke: “Sorry, kid, but you see them lights coming up fast behind us? Well, they belong to the sheriff. But don’t you worry none, I kin outrun him.”

As it turned out the idiot who was driving—a product of inbreeding, no doubt—could not outrun the sheriff. He could only run the car off the road and into a cornfield of ripe corn. Now, I’m no farmer, and I had no way of telling if the corn was ripe or not short of eating it, but the damn stalks were ten feet high.

By the way, when I said earlier that the occupants of the car were crazy, the reason I knew so was that the entire time we were being pursued by the sheriff, the whole bunch of them were laughing uproariously. Now back to my tale of woe.

The car left the road and plowed into the corn stalks. It made it only about four feet in when it got stuck in the dirt. Three of the four doors swung open and everyone but me and the woman sitting next to me bailed. I mean they took off for the hills, fast!

The woman asked, “Ain’t you runnin’?”

“No,” said I, “I’ll just explain to the cop how I came to be here.”

“Ain’t gonna do you no good. This here’s the sheriff’s car, and he ain’t gonna take kindly to anyone he finds sitting in it.”

With those words of comfort, she slid over toward the open door, abandoned the sinking ship, and disappeared into the corn. It took me about one second to decide my course of action, which was to run and run fast. I opened the door, exited the car, and did my own fade into the corn.

Being a bit smarter than the average idiot, I didn’t go far into the corn, just a few feet. Then I ran parallel to the road, in the direction the sheriff was coming from. My plan was to get behind him. I figured he’d roll onto the field close to his car. And then he would search the corn for the miscreants that had had the audacity to steal his beautiful 1964 Dodge Valiant station wagon. And for one of the few times in my life, I was right. He drove right up to the Valiant, got out of his cruiser, and with a quick glance at his baby to make sure she was undamaged, he took off into the corn.

That’s when I exited the cornfield, crossed the road, and started walking in the direction of home. Now if I was seen or apprehended, I could say with a straight face, “Car? What car?” However, it did not play out that way. I got a ride within a few minutes and was long gone by the time the sheriff or the crazies ever made it out of the cornfield.

A minor adventure, I admit. But hey, I didn’t go looking for adventures of any kind during my hitching days. They just seemed to find me.

I made it back to Miami about 6:30 Monday night, which meant I beat the bus by twelve and a half hours.

January 23, 2017 Blog

Hermosa Beach

I took off from home halfway through my seventeenth year when I was still wet behind the ears. I was on the road for almost five years and in that time I’ve had a few adventures. Not many, really. But the ones I had were doozies. I recently wrote about two of them (Sand Paintings, and The Swamp). They were well received, so I thought, what the hell? Might as well let it all hang out. Below is the latest installment of how I spent my misspent youth.

I’d been travelin’ up and down the coast of California for about six months when I finally thought that I’d check out the beaches. You know, Huntington, Redondo, Manhattan Beach … the usual. It wasn’t long before I caught sight of the surfers. Man, to that eighteen-year-old boy, surfin’ looked really cool. I wanted to try it. So, I got myself a job washin’ dishes at this hash house. I was sleepin’ in alleyways and under lifeguard stands because I was workin’ for a board and didn’t want to spend money on rent. And before I knew it, I was able to quit that job because I had earned enough for a second-hand surfboard.

This was 1968 and a short board was anything under ten feet. I got me a 9’6’’ beauty. I even painted the bottom in an American flag motif. I think I was protesting the Viet Nam War. Today, I’m not so sure why I did it. Maybe the surf was flat that day and I had nothing else to do, but it did look cool.

I bought the board from a shop on Hermosa Beach, so naturally I stayed in the neighborhood. I mean, how far could I go with a surf board and no car? It was summer, and sleeping on the beach was no problem … most of the time. When it rained, well, that was a bitch. But for the most part, I was happy surfing all day and cadgin’ a meal at night. I usually fed myself by going to the back door of a restaurant and asking if I could work for something to eat.

One of the most memorable of my “back-door escapades” was the time I knocked at a restaurant’s back door and gave my usual spiel. Well, this cook—or maybe he was a chef—lets me in, walks me over to a table in the kitchen, and says, “Don’t worry about the work. Just sit here and I’ll feed you.”

Just as I was putting the first mouthful of his fine cuisine into my mouth, this woman walks in from the dining room, sees me, and says, “What’s he doing here? Get him out!”

It turned out she was the owner. Well, my friend the chef answered, “When a man comes to my kitchen hungry, I am gonna feed him.” As he finished speaking, he lifted the knife he was using and pointed it menacingly at his boss. He kept it pointed at her until she—without saying a word—turned around and went back into the dining room.

Anyway, back to my story. Okay, I’ve got my new surfboard, I’m eating at least once a day, and I’m surfin’. Of course, I’ve got nowhere to live, but, to an eighteen-year-old, that’s no sweat. I’m happy as a pig in shit. I needed nothing else.

I had it worked out with one of the lifeguards to watch my board on the few occasions I left the beach. Surfin’ does work up one’s appetite. So I’d meander up to the PCH (Pacific Coast Highway) every once in a while to see what I could promote—food-wise. On the day in question, I was attracted by loud music blaring out of a pair of speakers placed in front of a waterbed store. It was Canned Heat’s Going Up The Country.

So, I was standing there, just killing time until the song was over, when this dude walked up to me and said, “I dig this song too.” He was about my age, maybe a few years older, blond hair, about 6’1’’ and kinda thin. His name was Pete. We got to talking and then he asked, “Wanna blow a joint?” Now, did you ever hear of a kid in 1968 who didn’t want to blow a joint?

He took me to the house that he shared with his sister. It was only a few feet from the beach and it was painted green. That I remember. I also remember his sister; she was my age, beautiful and unattached, which did me no good whatsoever. I was too shy in those days to open my mouth around girls.

The long shot of it was, I was invited to move in halfway through the first joint. And that set into motion events that led to my being robbed, having a knife at my throat, being the victim of a murder attempt, trying to smuggle a pound of pot across the Mexican-U.S. border, being jailed, having a near-death experience, and all sorts of fun things. And, no, Pete was not a bad guy. Pete was a great guy; he was just an idiot … like I was.

After a few weeks of living with Pete and his sister, he and I start talking about how we could make real money. We thought that if we went down to Tijuana, copped a pound of primo Mexican Gold, brought it back to Hermosa Beach and sold it by the ounce, or “can” as it was referred to in Southern California back in those days, we’d be rich. Not to mention all the “free” pot we’d have. So guess what the two idiots did? If your guess is that we hitchhiked to Tijuana to buy a pound of pot and then walk it across the border, then give yourself a cigar. That’s exactly what we set out to do. But things didn’t work out quite that way.

On the way down, we got picked up by these two guys that were going there to cop “Reds” and “Greens.” Now I know those things have legit names, but to me they were “downers”, and not my type of high at all. I was pretty square in those days. Sure, I smoked pot, popped a little acid, shot a little acid, shot a little speed, did some mescaline (both organic and synthetic), but besides that, I was as pure as the driven snow.

Anyway, these guys were hip. They stopped before we got to the border and showed us how they were going to smuggle the shit in. It’s probably old hat by now, but, at the time, I thought I was talking to two geniuses. What they were going to do was hide the stuff under the carburetor on their car engine. They even popped it off and showed us where they had hollowed out a space and were gonna put the jars of pills. Genius, I tells ya! Pure genius!

They drove us into Mexico, and there we split up. Each pair out to make their own score. The only difference being that those guys knew what they were doing. As opposed to the two babes-in-the-woods that Pete and I turned out to be.

I don’t remember how we found the asshole who said he’d sell us a pound of marijuana, but find him we did. He took us to the seediest whorehouse I’ve ever seen. And seeing how it was the only whorehouse I’d ever seen, I reckon that’s not saying much.

As he’s bringing us in the back door, who the hell do you think we meet coming out of the place? You got it! The two geniuses. They’re holding big, brown, fat bottles of pills. There had to be at least five hundred pills per bottle. They stopped to show us their score, and then one of them asked, “Hey, you guys want some Reds?”

“Sure. Why not?”

They open one of the bottles and pour about ten pills each into my and Pete’s hands and we put ’em in our pockets. Now, this scene was keenly observed by our connection, which, as you’ll see in a moment, played a big part in this sordid tale.

So, the guy was holding the door of the whorehouse open for us. Right then and there I should have smelled a rat. He was smilin’ too broadly, and that one gold tooth he had in his mouth made him look just like the bandit in the Humphrey Bogart movie. You know the one, Walter Huston is in it along with Tim—can’t think of his last name right now—but it’s the one where the bandit and his cohorts are pretending to be the police; Bogie requests to see their badges and one of ’em says, “Badges? We don’t need no steekin’ badges!” Great line, great movie. Holt! That was his last name, Tim Holt. Well, our doorman looked just like that bandit.

bandit

Once inside, we were escorted down this poorly lit corridor with rooms on each side. I’m being generous when I call them rooms. They were about ten feet by ten feet, just big enough for two people. There was some kind of bed in each room, and upon each bed was a roll of toilet paper. Because it was the middle of the afternoon, every door was wide open—no customers.

Okay boys and girls, here’s where the fun really begins. It’s all been peaches and cream up to now. We got about halfway down the corridor when the bandit stopped in his tracks and asked to see our money. You know, just to make sure we were legit. And being the complete dumb asses that we were, we whipped out our money to show him just how legit we were.

It was at that very instant that a door flew open and three guys that looked even worse than our bandit rushed towards us. Before either one of us knew it, we were pressed up against the wall with knives at our throats. They were talkin’ Spanish, but I kinda had the feelin’ they wanted our money.

Hey guys, you can have it! We appreciate you asking so nicely.

Behind the three guys stood our bandit, still smiling—the son-of-a-bitch. Then our bandit said something to the new bandits in Spanish, and the next thing we knew, these guys were rooting around in our pockets. You know, it’s kind of hard to hold a knife to someone’s throat and simultaneously go through his pockets. Try it some time, and you’ll see what I mean. But these guys were good at it. They probably had a lot of practice.

My personal bandit, and by that I mean the one holding the knife to my throat, as opposed to Pete’s personal bandit who was holding a knife to his throat, pulled out about six of my ten reds while still holding his knife in the prerequisite position, then he turned his head and showed his find to our bandit, who intoned, “Si, si.”

Si, si is right. Yes, yes. What the hell am I doing in a whorehouse in Tijuana in the middle of the afternoon being robbed by a character out of a Humphrey Bogart movie?

Did I say that the fun was going to start when these guys held knives to our throats? Well, if I did, I was mistaken Now the real fun began. Pete had gone through everything I had gone through. His bandit was now holding his reds. Then the two bandits turned their attention back to us once our original bandit nodded his head in approval. Approval of what we did not know. But hey, no sweat. We were about to find out.

Now, before I go any further, for all you non-junkies out there, two of those reds would put you to sleep for at least twelve hours; three, and you could kiss an entire day good-bye. Four . . . you’re talking about a trip to the emergency room. You get my drift? I don’t know how many were shoved down Pete’s throat, but I got six. Then they threw us out onto the street. I didn’t know what was going on then, but over the years my feeble mind has kind of pieced things together.

This is what I believe their thinking was: One, we would either OD on the streets of Tijuana, or two, we would be picked up by the police on a public whatever-you-call-it-when-you’re-really-stoned-on-reds charge. They had very little fear that we would go to the police on our own volition. What the hell were we going to say? “Excuse me, sir, but I tried to buy drugs in your country, and I was robbed.” I don’t think so, and our bandit friends knew so. And anyway, they probably had the police in their hip pockets. Mexico is one of the most corrupt countries in the world when it comes to the police. And Tijuana was, and probably still is, the most corrupt city in all of Mexico.

Well, whatever their plan was, we fooled ’em. We didn’t pass out until we were back in the good old U S of A … barely. This is no exaggeration. We were only two steps across the border and into this country with its wonderful jails, as opposed to Mexico’s shitty jails, when we keeled over.

Can you imagine the police of today finding a comatose eighteen-year-old boy on the street and taking him to jail? I mean, really! But that is what the San Diego County Police did. I probably wasn’t actually comatose, but I have no recollection of being arrested. I was in their goddamn jail two days before I regained consciousness. The only saving grace as far as I was concerned was that Pete was in the same cell with me. He had regained consciousness about an hour before I did.

So there we were, two would-be drug kingpins, on the second tier of the cellblock, down the row, in the last cell.

The coppers wanted to get us for being under the influence of dangerous drugs. But to do so, they needed a urine sample. I’m escorted downstairs, handed a cup, and told to go into the open cell in front of me and pee into said cup.

This next part, I swear, is the God’s honest truth. When I walked into the cell, there was a puddle of piss on the floor. I knew what it was because of its fragrant aroma. I don’t know about most of you, but when I come out of a coma, I just can’t piss. Maybe it’s because my body was in the process of shutting down. You know, some people call it dying. Well, whatever the cause, I just could not pee that night. And believe me, I tried!

When the copper came to take my sample, I told him I just couldn’t go. At about that time, he saw the puddle on the floor. He accused me of being the culprit. Who me? I’d never peed on a floor in my life. Well, at least not until recently.

Because they thought me a wise-ass, I was unceremoniously thrown back into our cell. By the way, we were not given a phone call, or arraigned within the time limit prescribed by the Constitution. Of course, at eighteen, I was not yet the constitutional scholar that I am today, so I kept my big yap shut.

To pass the time while awaiting our day in court, we made a chess set out of torn paper bits. We were lucky; somehow, we came into possession of a pencil, which meant we could identify the pieces. You know, “P” for pawn, “Q” for queen, etc ... etc. But we didn’t have a board, so we had to imagine the squares. Three days of that shit, and I haven’t been right since.

We were finally brought before a judge. Looking down at us, I guess he saw a couple of stupid kids. After all, the charge was only a misdemeanor, so he gave us OR. Which meant your Own Recognizance, which meant no bail need be posted. They’d trust you to come back for your day in court.

So Pete and I found ourselves free and out on the street once again. And Pete says to me, “So, what now?”

I say to Pete: “Fuck California, I’m goin’ east. Sell my board and keep the money.

And, as I am so fond of saying, I then walked into a new life.

January 20, 2017 Blog

Sand Paintings

I ran into Jimmy of The Dené in the summer of 1967 when I was seventeen-years-old. I was hitchhiking, trying to get to California from my home in Miami, Florida, but I got sidetracked along the way and ended up in Peoria, Illinois. I only mention this because I found myself on the fabled Route 66.

I had no map and I was rather lost, but a kind man that I met at a gas station told me to keep on 66 and it would lead me right into Los Angeles. What it did … was lead me into one of the most profound experiences of my life.

A day later, I was standing by the side of the road outside of Gallup, New Mexico, just before sunset, hoping to catch a ride at least as far as Flagstaff before it got full dark. As the sun kissed the rim of the earth, turning the western sky a bright, fiery orange, an old beat-up, blue pickup truck screeched to a halt; the driver leaned toward the open passenger window and said, “Where ya going?”

“LA.”

“I ain’t going that far, but I can get you down the road a bit.”

I threw my kit in the back, opened the door, and got inside.

The guy hit the accelerator, lurching the truck back onto the asphalt—spewing rocks and pebbles in its wake.

Before he hit second gear, and with his eyes still on the road, he said, “My name’s Jimmy. Glad to meet ya.”

I told him my name and we settled into a comfortable silence as we raced toward the setting sun. When you’re hitching, you go with the flow. Most people pick you up because they want someone to talk to, but this guy seemed to like things quiet, which was fine with me.

About fifteen minutes later, he spoke up. “I turn off up ahead and it’s getting dark. You wanna crash on my couch? I’ll drive you back to the highway in the morning.”

I didn’t have to think twice about it. A couch sure beat sleeping on the side of the road. It gets damp out there in the early morning hours.

Jimmy then told me he was a Navajo and lived on the reservation. We turned off the highway and headed north down a bumpy dirt road. Eventually we came to a trailer sitting all by itself.

“We live in a corner of the reservation, away from the others. The reservation is 27,000 square miles, so there’s plenty of room. The only problem is, there’s no electricity out here,” said Jimmy.

As we walked up to the trailer, Jimmy informed me that he lived with his grandfather. “He is a medicine man and he speaks very little English. His name is Ti՜éhonaa՜éi Lizhini—Black Moon in English. I will interpret for him.”

I followed Jimmy into the trailer. It was dark inside, the only light coming from a lantern that sat on the kitchen table. Off to my right, I saw an old man standing at a propane stove, stirring something in a large kettle. Jimmy said, “Yá'át'ééh, Análi.” He turned to me and kind of apologized for not speaking in English by saying, “I just said, ‘Hello, Grandfather’.” Then he added, “Why don’t you go sit on the couch and I’ll explain to him that you will be joining us for dinner and staying the night.”

I made myself comfortable on the couch, my only thought: Whatever the old man is cooking sure smells good.

I’m gonna cut out all the small talk that passed between me and Jimmy while his grandfather prepared the dinner and take you to the scene as we sat around the kitchen table.

As we started eating our deer stew, I said to Jimmy, “I never met any Navajos before.”

“We call ourselves The Dené. It means The People. We got the name Navajo from the Spanish. They called us Apachu de Nabajo. It means “Apaches Who Farm in the Valley.”

When I had eaten a good portion of the stew, I smiled at Black Moon and pointed to my bowl. “Good,” I said. He smiled back and nodded his head. Then started talking a mile a minute in the Navajo language. Of course, I could not understand what he was saying, but Jimmy listened and nodded his head. Turning to me, he said, “Grandfather wants me to tell you how the Navajo came to be on the earth. I’ll tell you the short version because I don’t want to bore you.”

“You won’t bore me. This is why I’m on the road. I want to meet new people and learn things.”

“I may not bore you, but the whole story is too long. We’re gonna have to hit the hay soon. My grandfather needs to be at the Sacred Mountain before sunrise. I’ll drive him there and then take you to the highway.”

As I ate my stew, Jimmy started in on his narrative.

“Basically, our creation story goes like this: The first world is, Nihodilhil or Black World. The whole world was pitch black, but there were four clouds in the sky: the Blue Cloud, the Yellow, the Black, and the White Cloud. The Blue and Yellow Clouds came together and formed First Woman. Then the Black and White Clouds did the same and formed First Man.

“Seeing First Man’s fire, First Woman made her way to him. He asked her to live with him and she agreed. They did not want to live in the darkness forever, so they searched until they found the path to Ni՜hodootl՜izh, the Blue World. They climbed the mountain path until they emerged into the new world.

“Once there, they found many animals that were at war with one another. Coyote also lived there. He traveled in the four directions of the four winds and saw that the beings who lived there were not happy and wanted to leave the Blue World. This he told First Man.

“First Man made four wands. One of black stone, one of turquoise, one of abalone, and one was made of shell. Using those wands, the beings of the second world followed First Man and First Woman into Nihaltsoh, the Yellow World. There they found the Four Sacred Mountains.

“First Man planted a reed and it grew to the sky. First Man, First Woman, Coyote, and the other beings used the reed to climb into Nihalgai, the Glittering World. That is the world in which we live.”

When Jimmy had finished speaking, his grandfather reached across the table, patted my hand, and said something in the Navajo tongue. Jimmy translated his words.

“My grandfather likes you. He says you are young and you will live a long time. He wanted you to know our creation story so that you can tell other white men. He has also invited you to watch him build his sandpainting in the morning. He is almost finished. It is an honor that he has asked you, but I will tell him that you must be on your journey.”

“Not so fast, Jimmy. I’ve got nowhere I gotta be and no one waiting for me when I get there. I would love to see him build his sandpainting. Although I do have one question. What is a sandpainting?”

“I will tell you in the morning. Now we sleep.”

The next morning, Jimmy shook me awake before dawn. “Are you ready?” he asked. I was still half asleep and had to think for a minute. The smell of fresh-brewed coffee brought me around. “Sure. As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Then help yourself to some coffee. The cups are on the counter. Sorry, we have no milk or sugar.”

“I’ll live.”

“Good. Grandfather is getting dressed. We’ll be leaving in about ten minutes.”

I poured myself some coffee and took the cup outside to take in the cold desert morning. The stars in the sky blew me away. Having been raised in a city, I had never seen so many stars. I drank my coffee and enjoyed the view.

Soon the door opened and Jimmy and his grandfather came out.

We piled into the truck with Black Moon sitting between Jimmy and me. We took off down the same worn dirt road that we had come in on. But this time we were going farther onto the reservation. After a few minutes, I asked Jimmy to tell me about sandpaintings.

“They are used in our curing ceremonies to attract The Holy Ones. They are made with crushed stone, ground minerals, and pollen. And sometimes, flowers. Oh yeah, and, of course, sand. The ground is prepared first and then the medicine man sets about building his painting. Once it is complete, he will chant to sanctify it. Then the sick person sits on it, and the medicine man does a ritual chant, to bring forth the healing powers of The Holy Ones. That’s all there is to it.”

I nodded like I understood what he was talking about. Just to say something, I asked where we were headed.

“We are going to Doko'oosliid. It is one of the Four Sacred Mountains. Nowadays, most medicine men build their sandpaintings in a hogan, but my grandfather likes the old ways. He says that doing the ceremony in the cave of a sacred mountain hastens the curing process.”

We pulled up to the base of a mountain and Jimmy announced that we were at our destination. Black Moon smiled at me as he got out of the truck and took me by the hand. He led me off to the right. Jimmy yelled after us that he would catch up as soon as he filled the lantern with oil.

When we got to the mouth of the cave, Black Moon pointed to the ground and said, “You stay.” He then went inside. Less than a minute later, Jimmy walked up holding a lantern.

“I feel like a dog. Your grandfather told me to ‘stay’.”

Jimmy held out the lantern in my direction. “Hold this,” he said.

As I held the lantern and Jimmy lit it, he explained. “The paintings are on the floor of the cave. It would not be good to walk over one of them. My grandfather knows his way around and there is a lantern in there that he will light. By the time we go in, bringing this lantern, there will be plenty of light. Also, he needs some time alone to say his prayers before he starts his work. We will give him a few more minutes and then go in. And when we go in, please do not talk. It will distract my grandfather.”

Five minutes later, we walked into the cave. There was a yellow light reflecting off the walls about fifty feet in. I was behind Jimmy, who held the lantern. “Step where I step,” he instructed in a whisper. “There are two paintings up ahead. One is completed; one my grandfather will be working on.”

I followed Jimmy, being careful to walk in his path. Before we got to the back of the cave, he stopped and held the lantern out to his left and pointed. And there it was—a finished sandpainting. I couldn’t believe the detail, the vibrant colors, the majesty of the thing. I was speechless. And here it is five decades later and I still don’t have the words to describe what I saw that day, which is ironic, seeing as how I make my living with words.

We continued on to where Black Moon sat on the ground, focused on his art, with seven small bowls within arms’ reach—each filled with a different substance, and each substance a different color. For two hours, I sat across from him and watched him work. As I said at the beginning of this narrative, it was a profound experience.

Presently, Jimmy nudged me and tilted his head toward the cave entrance. It was time to leave. The whole time we were there, his grandfather did not once acknowledge our presence. Outside, Jimmy extinguished the lantern and started to walk toward the truck. But after a few steps, he stopped and turned to me. “My grandfather told me to tell you this. He wanted you to see the paintings and how they are built. You are the first white person he has ever allowed to see him work. He wants you to bring the word to your white friends that we are not savages, that our religion is as strong as yours, and that we worship the same god.”

“I will remember that, Jimmy. And I will spread the word. But what happens to the paintings once the ceremony is complete? They are so beautiful.”

“They are destroyed and the materials collected and returned to the earth. They are only meant to exist for a few days.”

“What!”

“It is our way.”

Jimmy got me back to the highway, we shook hands, and I continued on my journey a different person than I had been twenty-four hours earlier. But is that not the way of life? At the end of each day, should we not be a person different from the one that started the day?

January 18, 2017 Blog

Another Book Review

Today I am reviewing the latest book from one of my favorite authors, Andrew Joyce.

The review: The book is great!

Stars: 1.5 Million

The Link: Amazon

[caption id="attachment_2597" align="alignnone" width="225"] The Author (If this doesn't get you to buy the book nothing will.)[/caption]

January 6, 2017 Blog

The Swamp

When I got into the car, he told me to call him Teddy Bear. It was 3:00 a.m. and I was hitchhiking. I was grateful when I saw the brake lights come on and the car stop about thirty feet from where I was standing. The car itself was not visible because the fog at that time in the morning was so thick.

As I’ve said, I was to call the driver Teddy Bear, which didn’t strike the seventeen-year-old boy, which I was at the time, as a strange or unreasonable request. The road was a deserted two-lane affair that ran right through a swamp, which accounted for the excessive fog. I was damn glad he had happened along. It was mighty wet and cold, standing out there on the side of the road.

Because of the low visibility, we were going about twenty miles per hour and Teddy Bear was in an expansive and talkative mood. He told me in great detail of his job as an ambulance driver. He especially enjoyed picking up and transporting dead bodies. Still no alarms went off in my head. As he talked, I noticed he was slowing the car down even more than was necessary, given the conditions. As he spoke of his fascination with death and dead bodies, I just sat nodding my head and agreeing with whatever he said. I was not about to be put out into that inhospitable climate again for being an inattentive guest. I had been let off from my last ride about four hours earlier, and in those four hours, I had not seen one car until Teddy Bear came along.

We traversed the winding road through the swamp at an annoyingly slow pace as I learned of the joys of being in close proximity to the dead. About fifteen minutes into our time together, Teddy Bear started fishing around in the console that separated us. He did not seem to be trying very hard to find whatever he was looking for; his eyes never left the road and at times his hand would stop moving and just lay there in the console. Then he said, “You know, I could kill you, throw your body into the swamp, and nobody would ever find you.” That got my attention! However, before I could digest the statement and make the appropriate reply, his hand came up out of the console and made for the area of my neck. He was holding the largest damn hunting knife I think I have ever seen—before or since.

When you are inside a car that is traveling at about ten miles an hour, it does not seem like you’re going very fast. However, if one tries to exit a vehicle while going at that rate of speed, that’s a whole different story altogether. And that is exactly what I did as that knife came up to my throat. I grabbed the door handle and yanked as though my life depended on it, which it did. I meant to put one foot after the other onto the pavement and run like hell. But that is not what transpired. Before I could get my other leg out the door, I found myself falling, with the asphalt coming up to greet my face with an alarmingly alacrity. I had just enough time to get my hands out in front of me before my face met the road. It sure wasn’t like in the movies; there was no tuck and roll—just spastic clown time.

The car had continued forward as I was doing my little ballet, and as I lay prone on the ground, all I could see were the red taillights slowly receding into the fog. Then my heart jumped straight into my mouth. The brake lights came on, and if that wasn’t bad enough, the white backup lights came on immediately thereafter. I did not wait around to see what further mischief Teddy Bear had on his mind. I raised myself to a standing position, turned, and took off in the opposite direction. Remember, I was seventeen, and like all seventeen-year olds, I was in top condition. I was a quarter of a mile down the road before I realized I was even running. Having covered such a fair distance, I thought it might be safe to stop a moment and see if I was still being pursued. I turned to see those goddamn taillights still slowly coming my way. I could not make out the outline of the car through the fog, but those lights seemed to be the red eyes of a demon that would not be satisfied until I was run to ground and devoured.

As I stood there contemplating those red orbs, I became cognizant of my folly. Staying on the road was a mistake. Teddy Bear could follow me at his leisure. There sure wasn’t any other traffic to impede his amusement. If not for the lights, I wouldn’t know his location, which also meant he could not see me. That son-of a- bitch was toying with me! He must have thought that with nothing but swamp on both sides of the road, I had nowhere to go and he had ample time to catch up with me. That pissed me off, though not enough to confront that oversized knife. As I pondered the best course of action, I wondered if I was the first of Teddy Bear’s playthings. Had he done this before? Did he indeed throw dead bodies into the swamp, never to be seen again as he’d told me he could do with my deceased carcass?

Well, there was only one thing to do; get off the road and into the swamp. When you’re running for your life, you don’t sweat the little things, such as snakes and alligators. I turned to my right and proceeded to the tree line, which lay about fifty feet from the road. I could not see the trees, but I knew they were there, having seen them earlier in the night before the fog thickened.

I ran in a straight line, perpendicular to the road. A few feet after leaving the pavement, I stepped into a foot of water. My initial reaction was to halt and take a step backwards. But as I did, the car pulled up level with my location and stopped. This propelled me onward. The only problem with this strategy was the noise I made as I blundered through the slough. But I kept moving. Fear had a vice-like grip upon my psyche.

After what seemed an inordinately long time, I reached the tree line, stopped and listened for sounds of my nemesis. He did not disappoint. From the sound of his splashing, he was close on my heels. Then all of a sudden, the splashing stopped. We were no more than fifty feet apart, but we could not see one another through the fog. I held my breath and listened. Nothing! He must be doing the same thing—listening for any movement. Without making a sound, I inched myself behind a tree. Then it started. Out of the fog I heard, “Hey chick, chick, chickie. Hey chick, chick, chickie. Come to Teddy Bear.”

My God, if things weren’t already creepy enough!

I held my breath. I dared not move a muscle. And then I caught some luck. The mantra of, “Hey chick, chick, chickie” started to fade—he was moving away. I let out a deep breath and ventured a peek around the tree. To my surprise, I could see him. It then occurred to me that this was the first time I had set eyes upon him since leaping from the car. He was wearing his white ambulance driver’s uniform and it caught what little light there was. It wasn’t much, but it would give me a slight advantage in our game of hide-and-seek. Even though he was moving away, he was still close to my position. I was not about to budge or make any noise unless it became absolutely necessary. I watched the retreating, ethereal figure until it became an iridescent blur fading into the fog.

Even before he was completely out of sight, I started my retreat. I had to move slowly so as not to make the racket he was making as he indecorously made his way through the swamp. It was slow going, trudging through the quagmire, but I seemed to be making progress when all of a sudden I heard him coming up fast behind me. I took off like the proverbial bat out of hell. I blindly ran farther into the swamp. At that point, I just wanted to get away. I reacted like an animal pursued.

As I frantically made my way, I noticed that the water was getting deeper; it was now knee deep, which considerably slowed my progress. I pivoted to retrace my steps in the hope of finding shallow water again. And there he was, or more to the point, there “it” was; not ten feet away stood the white jump suit I had been running from for what seemed like an eternity. His face was indistinct, but there was no mistaking the menace in his voice as he said, “Hey, Chickie, I’ve been looking for ya.”

At that point I just gave up. What was the use? This guy knew the swamp; he would always be right behind me. And then, any doubt I had that he was playing with me, as a cat plays with a mouse, was put to rest when he took one step backwards. “You’ve got two minutes, Chickie. I suggest you use ’em.”

That got my Irish up. Not enough to tackle Teddy Bear and the knife, but enough to give me the strength to run once again. Where a few moments before I was willing to play the sacrificial lamb, I was now determined to play his game to the end—come what may. All this was decided in less than two seconds, which meant I still had one minute and fifty-eight seconds before Teddy Bear renewed his pursuit. And for some reason, I had no doubt that he would hold to his timetable. So, Once again, into the breach. Cry havoc, let slip the dogs of war.

I restarted my trek. I blundered to and fro. And then I heard the inevitable thrashing of Teddy Bear behind me and to the right. This reinvigorated me and I ran pell-mell deeper and deeper into the swamp. I was doing a good bit of thrashing myself when my foot caught on a root and I pitched head first into that miasmal water.

I got my hands out in front of me just as I hit the water, but not soon enough to keep my head from being immersed in its cold putridity. As I raised myself from that rancid liquid, the putrescent aroma clung to me as if we were fast friends. It was then that I felt it. My right hand touched something alien—something apart from the swamp. What it was I did not know, and I almost raised myself fully without inspecting it. However, at the last possible moment, I hesitated and felt along the length of this marvel. It floated, it was smooth, and by God it was a 2” x 4”, about four feet in length! This may come in handy, was my first thought. I took hold of my new friend, raised myself from the mire, and continued on my journey of fear.

Then I heard Teddy Bear coming up fast. I panicked, which was a good thing because it froze me in my tracks and I made no noise in which to help him locate me. He was getting closer and closer with every second, but I still stood there motionless.

After what seemed like forever, the fog thinned a little and I saw two trees directly before me; one with a trunk large enough that I could easily hide behind it. The other tree was only half the size; if I got behind that, I’d have to suck in my stomach in order not to be seen. I was about to step behind the larger of the two when the thought struck me that maybe I should get behind the smaller tree. I figured my pursuer would make a beeline for the larger one. All this assuming went on in a fraction of a second. But when I had finished with my deductive reasoning, I headed for the smaller tree.

And just in the nick of time. I was no sooner ensconced behind my tree when I saw the faint outline of that goddamn white jumpsuit. Man, was that getting old; I mean, I’d been running from that thing all morning. When was I going to catch a break?

As Teddy Bear approached, I took the chance of peering out from my concealed position, but I needn’t have fretted. His entire attention was focused on the tree next to mine. For the first time since the nightmare began, I had the luxury of observing ol’ Teddy Bear in his natural habitat. It looked as though he had played this game many times before.

He was moving in my direction, slowly. To him it was the old cat and mouse game; one I am now convinced he had played on numerous occasions. As he came toward me, I hefted the 2” x 4” as though I was Hank Aaron. He was now moving so slowly I thought he would never get into striking distance, but before I was fully aware of it, he was there, three feet from me, facing the other tree.

I planted my feet in my best batting stance and let fly. I was aiming for his head. I missed and hit him on the shoulder. His paroxysms of rage reverberated throughout the swamp. Though his fulminations were ringing in my ears, I set my stance once again and let swing. This time the only sound I heard was a loud THAWACK. Both of us, Teddy Bear and I, were stunned at this turn of events. He just stood there for a moment before collapsing like a wet dishrag. Me, I was so amazed that I had connected, that I stood there as if it were I who had been hit across the head.

But my stupor was short lived. When I saw he wasn’t moving, I dropped my weapon and started running. Teddy Bear had left his lights on, so it was no trouble finding my way back to the road. I thought we had traversed well into the swamp, but, in reality, we were only a few hundred feet into the goddamn place.

I emerged onto the pavement only a few yards from the car. The driver door was wide open and, as I said, the lights were on. Now if only the keys were in it, I could take the first easy breath since that nut job picked me up. I approached the car warily; I thought there might be some sort of Teddy Bear hex on it. I peered into the vehicle, and thank the Lord, the keys were in the ignition. I slipped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. I put her into gear, and accelerated away from that accursed place.

I drove hard and fast through the fog until it thinned out a bit. Up ahead were the lights of a truck stop. I parked the car around back, leaving the keys in it. I found a spigot not far from the car and because it was out back and in the dark, I took off my smelly clothes and rinsed them out. I then washed up as best I could and put my clothes back on. It was summertime and the Florida night was warm; the clothes would dry quickly. I then walked between the trucks asking any driver I saw if he was going south. One guy said he was heading for West Palm Beach, but first he was going to get himself some coffee and a sandwich. If I was still around when he came out, he’d give me a ride.

I was, and he did.

To this day, I don’t know if I killed Teddy Bear or not. Sometimes late at night when I can’t sleep, I pray that I did not. At other times, thinking he must have been a serial killer and if I did kill him, then I must have saved at least a few lives. The not knowing doesn’t bother me all that much. I did what I had to do.

Amazon

November 28, 2016 Blog

An Award

Buy on Amazon

November 21, 2016February 9, 2018 Blog

Podcast

I'm kind of embarrassed to post this. But not that embarrassed. http://bit.ly/2gal5Wr

November 6, 2016 Blog

A Young Man

Through no fault of his own, a young man is thrust into a new culture just at the time that culture is undergoing massive changes. It is losing its identity, its lands, and its dignity. He not only adapts, he perseveres and, over time, becomes a leader—and on occasion, the hand of vengeance against those who would destroy his adopted people.

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October 9, 2016 Blog

Sunrise

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01LXOXHBI

October 9, 2016 Blog

Tree

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01LXOXHBI

Andrew Joyce – Author

Resolution

Redemption

Molly Lee

Yellow Hair

Bedtime Stories For Grown Ups

Ellis

Mahoney

Tag: Yellow Hair