Father, I know you, sort of

My father came for a weekend visit.  He's getting older.  I notice that more and more.  I wonder about his life, now that he speaks more freely of his younger years.  This morning, upon seeing a Mercedes in the parking lot of the local hip diner, he mentioned when he owned one.  

"Boy!  That is a nice Mercedes, son.  I remember when I had one years ago.  But then my first marriage fell apart and I left it behind along with my ex-wife." 

He drifted off to "Long Ago land" and I drove out of the parking lot, not saying anything.  He'd be back soon enough from Long Ago land.  

"I called it quits when I learned she was messing around on me while I was in School at ASU.  The only things I took from the house were my dog Skip and a box of records and I didn't look back."  

Several months ago, my mom called and among the tidbits or our conversation she casually said, "I see your father's first wife died; her obituary was in the paper."  And that was all she said because I changed the topic.  I always felt uncomfortable talking with my parents about their lives outside of being parents. 

This morning, I could tell in his voice that his first wife's infidelity still stung in that mysterious place inside all of us that holds anger and betrayal for too long, decades in some cases.  

As I drove him to Home Depot for roofing materials, I wondered in and out of the thought that if children are, in part, the sum of their parents experiences in life, psychologically transfered through the task of raising children, I wondered what part of my father's experiences I inherited.  

Not wanting to open up that Pandora's box I asked my father if he ever owned a motorcycle and he said he did, "A Harley." 

"That thing could go, man! I wrecked it once and my mother sold it to a kid at the mission school and two weeks later he got wiped out, killed, up in Colorado somewhere and my mom in Navajo said, 'I told you so.'  I stood there looking at her completely blank."  

We laughed and I said he still looked blank.  He laughed again and said, "Hey!  That's elderly abuse."  We laughed all the way to Home Depot. 

I relaxed a little and thought, getting older isn't so bad.   

The foolishness of dares

I dove too deep on a dare when I was a kid. 

"Pick up the silver dollar and you can have it." 

I watched the coin flipped through the air.

The small splash it made. 

Turning this way and that.

disappearing at the bottom of the pool.

"Okay. Go!"

I took a deep breath until my small chest revealed my ribs

and I went.  

Touching the bottom with my palm.

Feeling for the treasure. 

Found.

My small fingers made a fist around my wealth. 

Turning and pushing off with my small feet.

Misjudging air in my small lungs. 

Waiting an eternity to reach the shimmering surface 

while my small legs kicked. 

Panicking I opened my fist and grabbed madly for the light.

Breaking the surface and inhaling and coughing and laughing and sadness

as I looked down to watch the silver dollar tumble to the bottom of the pool. 

Bear Island

The hull of the small boat slapped against the water and the day was clear and the morning air cold. Frank sat at the wheel while Yellow Dog stood at the bow with his nose pointing east into the wind like a bowsprit. I sat aft untangling the small bait net looking up now and again to see if were were getting closer to the bait waters where Frank would gracefully cast the net in shallow water and hundreds of small bait fish would jump and churn the waters a second before the net was pulled closed.

After catching bait fish, Frank steered the small boat into the Bogue Inlet and into deeper waters. With the rising temperature Yellow Dog would eventually settle in for a quick nap as we slowly made our way into the cross waters of the Bogue Inlet and the many waterways behind Bear Island. Frank knew where the fish would be today and he assured me that it would only be a matter of time before we'd be knee deep in Bluefish, Cod, and maybe even a shark. At the mention of shark Yellow Dog barked and sat up attentively and we laughed.

By 8:30 Frank made the first cast. I'd follow in pursuit and watched the bait fish tumble through the air on weighted line and finally plop into the inlet. With our first cast of the day settling into the murky depths and Yellow Dog's interest waning into another nap on the cushioned seat aft, Frank and I gradually warmed up to conversation about fishing and the fish he'd caught. I spotted a White Crane, gracefully standing on one leg in a marsh surrounded by reeds and looking slightly downward and remembered Navajo creation stories and the role White Crane played in our survival from worlds long past. Frank listened as I told him about these stories and with his sun baked eyebrows furrowed, he'd ask what I thought, after all these years, about the changes in tribal communities. We'd talk at length on different things like alcoholism and joblessness and ceremonials.

Our conversations were generous. Just as I'd shared my stories, Frank recalled his father with amusement and puzzled on his upbringing. Nearly 70 years old, Frank recalled his childhood with pleasure.

"Oh man, my father was the town drunk in Gainsville. No lie." Franks said. "The old guy would be in downtown bars as soon as they opened and he'd come home when they'd close."

As I listened to him I remembered the old bars in down town gallup. As a child I'd sit in the car waiting for my mother to pick up pawned jewelry or repaired cowboy boots for my father and as I'd wait outside in the car I would watch Indian men come and go from the Club Americana, the Tropicana Bar, or from Eddie's Place. Who were these people I'd wonder. Where did they come from. Where are their mothers. Oh, a million questions raced through my head as I looked out from just over the door. Checking and rechecking if the doors were locked.

"My father was something, let me tell you, " Frank said as he checked the tension of his fishing line. "We were kids back then racing around town on our bicycles and we'd come to a halting stop when we'd see my father sitting by the park on a bench with a bottle in a paper bag and he'd yell out, 'Hey everyone! That's my boy over there!' I'd wave at him and turn with the rest of the boys in another direction."

Suddenly Frank's line snapped to attention and the reel raced and Yellow Dog barked and I shouted, "Fish on!" 

The mystery of the unknown fish at the end of the line was nearly all of the joy of fishing with Frank. Was it a shark? Perhaps a 100 pound Cod. Maybe even a Sea Bass; a monster in it's own right. Frank would let the line run, saying as he did, "We gotta wear this guy down. Oh man! Break him down." After fifteen minutes Frank called for the catch net and Yellow Dog and I fumbled through the boat, over the tackle boxes and there, finally, was the green fishing net for bringing fish aboard.

The first shimmer of the fish set our hearts racing. In all the excitement Yellow Dog jumped over board to get a closer look, and there, finally was the fish. A fine Bluefish. I quickly scooped the net over and hauled the Blue into the boat and with a suddenness that even now catches me by surprise, Frank whacked the Blue in the head and blood mixed with the water against the white hull.  Eventually the fish stopped moving and in the silent aftermath of witnessing life's animation leave the fish only our hard breathing could be heard and the fish lost its beautiful color. Yellow Dog, with his head down and eyes looking at Frank, knew too that death came and took the magic we all shared in spite of our differences.  

The way home was quiet.  The motor droned on and the waves slapped at the hull again.  Small marshes and islands passed and larger boats made troublesome waves for us to endure.  Yellow Dog did not sleep but looked back to where we were, our furry bowsprit no more.  I didn't want to talk after the sudden strike that left the Bluefish dead and the water pink at the bottom of the boat. Frank didn't talk either. Water slapped the hull and Yellow Dog, finally leaving his post aft leaned over the starboard side biting at small waves made by the boat's curved hull. The boat's small engine struggled against the outflow of water from Bogue Inlet caused by low tied and we finally turned into Franks inlet and could see his dock and up in the Carolina trees the lights of his house.

As we tied the boat to the dock, the cats raced down the steps from the large house hoping to feast on what wasn't taken to Frank's wife and the kitchen. Frank took the fish to the table and started the cutting. " You cut here and here. Take the knife along this part and pull in clean from here. And you have a fine fish for eating."  His hand skillfully ran the blade through the fish and I watched. 

That night after dinner with Frank and his wife he walked me back to my car and said, "I should've said I was going to blow that Blue over the head before I did. Sorry 'bout that."  I said it was nothing, just caught me by surprise I suppose.  Frank made an offering, "Would you like to go out to Bear Island next week again?  This time you can take Yellow out on the beach and give that old boy some running time.  I'll take Nance and we'll cook out.   I think there's more stories to tell and a hell of a lot of fish to catch." I looked at Frank and at Yellow Dog. "You bet. Maybe this time I can do the thumping and cutting."  We laughed in the dark driveway.  His wife Nancy waved goodbye from the patio.  

As I drove off into the night I looked back in the rearview mirror and saw Frank's large outline and his arm outstretched and waiving goodbye. 

There were many more outings to Bear Lake and like Frank said more stories and more fish. Yellow Dog nearly drowned a few times and the cats, like clockwork, would come running to the dock at the sound of the boats small engine sputtering against the water as we made the final turn home.  

Mountain, mountain

My father observed, "The mountains keep this part of the house dark."
I look and see that it is still dark and wonder about the mountain's shadow.
"At home, by this time, the sun is warming up the living room."
I recall that slivers of sunlight streak across the Navajo rugs near the fireplace.
"Boy, I can sure feel my joints this morning."
I look at my father and see, again, that he is getting old.

I ask how his coughing is doing.
"I'm okay, for the most part. I just can't go outside when it's too early."
Is that what the doctor says?
"Yeah, he's always telling me to wear something warm."
I look at my father and ask where his jacket is.
"I forgot it on the bus when I came in last night."
My father it getting more forgetful now.

"When we passed the mountains outside of town I remembered the Blessing Way song:
(In Navajo)
Beautiful sacred mountain in front of me.
Beautiful sacred mountain behind me.
Beautiful sacred mountain above me.
Beautiful sacred mountain below me.
I am surrounded by beauty."

He sings gently in the morning as the coffee drips into the pot.
We stand around the kitchen table and I ask him why he remembered it.
"I've been thinking a lot, actually remembering these songs more now."
We sip coffee in the silent knowledge that in old age, they say, we are called more often to remember our beginnings.

As I pour my father another cup I remember that words are defined by their opposite words.
Smile is understood because, in part, we know the word frown.
Now is a word we comprehend because we also understand later.
Here is a word because of there.
start is a word because of end.

As I look at my father, standing at the window, warming his hands in the sunlight finally peaking the crest of the mountain,
I wonder about the end because he is here with me now, but older.
Suddenly, I want time to stop.
But the ticking of the second hand on the clock above the sink reminds me that I have now, in the Zen sense of the word, to love my father and to forgive him.

My father looks from the window and says, "You know, son, I remembered a song when I saw the mountain just outside of town. Did I tell you this before?"
I say, "No, dad, you didn't. How did it go.?"

"Beautiful sacred mountain..."

Defiance

Rushing about in the morning darkness
The cold reminding me it is still winter
The clock ticking reminding me to hurry
And television news reminding me of an imperfect world

When suddenly I hear a lonely chirp
Could it be?

I stop and hold my breath, nothing
I mute the imperfect world, nothing
I listen and hear only time
and wonder

And when I've had enough of the wondering game
I hear another chirp and another

Like water in the desert
My heart consumes this little bird's chirping
And suddenly,
A storm of emotion
I missed the morning birds
Their cacophony and clamour
Their constant company for morning coffee
The grand excitement they create for the day

And I think to myself, Winter, you have stayed too long
Though you are necessary in the cycle
It is time for you to go
Return to the north and take with you your sister the cold
Make way for birds
For things new and green
For warmth and friends
For laughter
Make a way for rebirth

Later, as I make may way to the frosted car
My breath condensing into tiny clouds
I whisper a prayer for the brave bird
Facing Winter alone, in the dark morning
As I scrape the window I am curious about this brave bird
Where did she get her strength? Her Courage?
Because now I'm reminded
Of the exposure deaths of Indian men in town
The one found behind the hotel,
the one in the field,
the one near the road,
The one lost in the snow

And here is this bird
Death defying bird

As I make my way back to the house
Leaving my car to warm
Walking careful not to slip on the ice
snow crunching under foot
I marvel at this bird
This fearless messenger

I cannot wait for tomorrow morning
and the mornings to come
Come spring!
Come summer!
And replace the ones winter has taken
With things new and green
With warmth and friends
With laughter
With rebirth

The weather

I never understood why the sun set,
putting an end to the best day of my life.
I didn't understand why it was still dark out when I woke,
and how the day came gradually from darkness,
and ended in darkness.

Freedom was removing the small third and fourth wheels
and learning you can gain speed down hill on two.
Each passing day I went out further and further out,
to the ends of the earth, through the known world that was quickly expanding
like the Big Bang at the birth of the universe.

I hated turning back when I knew I went too far,
and the sun would set,
and a storm of anger would gather as I turned into the dirt drive way.

Before I could tell you where the tadpoles gathered,
where hawk flew in circles,
or how the summer heat made the mesas dance and shimmer;
before I could tell you how my legs burned pedaling for all my life's worth to make it home in time,
a flash of lightening stuck and thunder echoed through out my body.

When I was five I did not understand how the weather changed.