It's been a very long time since I last posted a blog, and this one is way overdue. So with my apologies for the delay, I will start........

I belong to MySpace, and followed a link to his MySpace page. He had left a comment about a video, and I let him know that he might find my MySpace page of interest. I shortly received a 'friend request' from him, and welcomed him to my page. We were soon instant messaging, but the time differences between us were sometimes a burden.

He told me that he had read some of my earliest blogs on MySpace, and I mentioned to him that I posted more often on this site. He has an avid interest in the Native American cultures, and told me that he thoroughly enjoyed reading the blogs because they gave him a better insight into the lives of the Native people.

We have talked of his life, and of mine. We have discussed the disappointments each of us has faced, and I assure him that life will get better. He is a very sensitive person, and I am very comfortable talking with him about everything and anything. He calls me monthly, and we can easily spend an hour talking and laughing. I enjoy these conversations immensely, and think that he does also.

About a year into our friendship, he told me that he was planning a trip to my part of the world. We had great fun making these plans, and then a problem arose that was beyond my fixing. We had planned to tour the Navajo reservation, but my recent hospitalization put a real damper on that. I was to be confined to my home, and there was absolutely no way that I could physically make the trip. Plans were changed, and he and his lady would still make the trip, and do the touring on their own. I suggested several stopping places and 'must sees', and the routes that would take them to all these places. I did get to visit with them on their arrival in Arizona, and then again just before they left for home. What neither of them realizes is that while I was not with them physically, my heart was with them and I got to see all of those wonderful things through their eyes.

I know that I have really 'edited' this blog, but I am getting tired and want to get this posted. And so, young brother, this is for you. Thank you for your friendship and the laughter.

By the way, Three Crows Walking, while I am teaching you, you have to understand that you already have it in you. I'm just reminding you of things that you already know. My love to you, and to Val.

Small, small town

By any stretch of the imagination, Chloride is a small town. The last time I checked, there were about 200 permanent residents, and maybe another 200 'seasonals'. Yet it is a town that I remember fondly, simply because many of my happier moments were spent there. True, there were some very difficult times, which I have talked about in other blogs. But there were so many, many times that I was able to let my hair down, and just enjoy the moment.

Most of those moments occurred in Yesterdays, a converted 1800 carriage house. The new owners used the original floor, and many of the original beams when renovation work was being done, so it doesn't take much to feel the spirit of the place. At the time, Bill was the entertainer on Saturday nights, and the gunfighter group was unmerciful. I can't remember all of the tricks we played, but the most memorable follow.

Bill would almost always sing 'Ghost Riders in the Sky" at least once. When it was time for the chorus, the audience would chime in with animal sounds (cow, goat, sheep). It is always fun. On this particular night, Betty, Karen, Steve and I took leave of the main dining area, and changed into costume. We had asked someone to ask Bill to sing the song, and as soon as we heard the opening notes, we were ready. He got to the chorus, and out ran Betty, dressed in the now infamous cow costume, followed by Steve, Karen and I racing across the dining room floor riding stick ponies. All poor Bill could do was sing to the ceiling since he had no idea whether or not there was more to come. When things settled down, he referred to our table(s) as the 'clown table', and said that all we needed were the red noses. Sure enough, the following week we all wore red noses as we gave him a standing ovation for hitting the wrong note in a song.

The standing ovations became a tradition, and Bill would receive one for false starts, wrong notes, missed lyrics and, of course, for doing a great job singing.

At one Christmas Eve party, all of the people at the gunfighter table wore reindeer antlers, cleverly festooned with lights and tinsel. As I recall, there were 17 of us wearing headgear and, of course, poor Bill had to put up with our antics.

The last event that I recall clearly occurred the Saturday before Easter. Bill sings for tips, and collects them in a rather large, old fashioned milk cooler. Steve brought in three dozen plastic Easter eggs, and gave one to each of the diners in the restaurant, for their use in giving Bill his tip. It was a slow night at Yesterdays, and when the evening had just about ended, we still had 20 or so eggs -- empty. So we dug deep into our pockets and put all the loose change we had in the eggs, and when Bill left the dining area for a few minutes, we placed all of the eggs in the milk cooler. We just about filled the cooler, and you can imagine the look on poor Bill's face when he finally looked into the cooler and saw all the lovely pastel eggs. His lady told me it took him over an hour to empty the eggs, but he did see the humor in the prank and, of course, knew who was responsible. Not a single one of us, but the entire gunfighter table.

Those days are gone now. After just over two years of 'every Saturday night', I only go to Chloride on very special occasions. Karen has passed over, and is sorely missed. Steve is working hard to eek out a living, and the gunfighter group has pretty much been disbanded. But Chloride remains a strong small town. It's yards still bear 'yard art', the cemetary is still cleaned up every year by volunteer townspeople, Old Miner's Day is still celebrated, as is St. Patrick's Day, and the All-Town Yard Sale and Bake Sale are still held. Yesterdays still plays host to the soapbox derby and truck show, and life goes on. A gentle life for the most part, but a good life.

P.S. In case you hadn't guessed, Tumbleweed, this one is for you. My thanks in getting me started on this project. I never dreamed it could be so uplifting.

More about..........Bear

Melancholy. That is probably the best word to describe how I feel when I write or talk about him. I often still 'tear up' when I think of him......remembering incidents that occurred during the short time I knew him.

He was definitely not a wealthy man. He owned five acres of land in the boonies, and hauled water for himself and his 'four leggeds'. Yet his life was richer than any I have ever known. He lived as one with the land, and understood how to use the gifts given to us by Earth Mother. He drove a 1970-something Chevy truck, which ran on a lot of gasoline and many, many prayers. He did not have electricity, depending instead on a small generator to keep his fridge cold. He did not have running water either, depending instead on rainwater for his personal needs and the water he hauled for his animals and drinking. Propane gas for cooking rounded out his utilities. Yet, he was just as likely to open a can of cold beans for dinner.

He loved animals, and he had many. There was Cody, the wonder horse, and Gravy, his cantankerous mule. There was Miss Petunia, the pig he bought for food, but could not bring himself to slaughter. Chickens were everywhere, and dogs of various shapes, ages, and breeds abounded. His favorites were the Catahoula's, who bred well and have several offspring in and around Chloride and Kingman. Inside the house were cats, and a cockatoo.

Personal belongings were few and far between. He did not wear jewelry. He was a crafter, so many of his belongings were handmade, either by him or his wife of many years, BJ, who passed over several years ago. He was a simple man, living a simple life. And living it to its fullest.

I finally got to see where and how he lived about two months after his passing. Tumbleweeds had taken over most of the property, but the rose garden was still recognizable. The wire for the corrals was gone, taken by someone who probably thought he needed it more. All the animals were long gone. Cody and Gravy had been sold to a young family. Miss Petunia, the chickens, the dogs and cats, and the cockatoo had all be stolen the night Bear had died. Gone, too, was most of his truck. It had been ransacked that same night. Entering his home was not easy. It looked like vultures had taken everything. The fridge, the furniture, the dressings. All gone in the blink of an eye. There were some things scattered around the floor - cans of food, utensils, bedding and curtains. No respect here, I thought.

Betty, Terry, my son and I made our way to the rose garden. Bear had left a will, we all knew it. In it, he had said he wanted to be cremated and buried in the garden next to BJ. Since the strongbox which contained the will had disappeared also, his 'estate' was to be considered 'intestate'. After the gunfighters had finally raised enough money to pay for his cremation, his long-lost daughter stepped forward and claimed his remains. We had been in contact with BJ's family, and they asked if we could return her to her family. We found a small statue of the Virgin in the garden, and started digging there. About four feet down, we found her. Bear, always without money, had found a pale green cookie jar, and had used it for the remains. The jar was beautiful, covered with the daisies which BJ had loved. We looked at each other and laughed until we cried. This was SO Bear. We scattered white sage and sweetgrass in the hole that we had made, as a sign of respect, and then filled it in. All the while this was occurring, two butterflies stayed with us. A small yellow one, and one that is called Painted Lady. I now know that the painted lady was BJ, and the small yellow one was Bear. Both butterflies disappeared when we had finished, but the yellow one stays with me. I see it everywhere, at all times of the year, in all kinds of weather. And as long as I see that butterfly, I know that Bear is still with me, hovering and protecting.

There will be more about Bear in another blog. This one has been difficult to write, because it reminds me how cruel people can be, but also of how loyal others are.

P.S. When my time comes, I want to be cremated and put in a cookie jar. Preferably one that represents the Pillsbury Dough Boy, or the Sta Puffed Marshmallow Man. Or.....one that is shaped like a bear.

A Special Gift

Our paths are different yet parallel, and so are our lives. She is younger than me, perhaps as much as 15 years. She is tall and slender, as is her twin flame. She first came into the shop several years ago, as part of a three-some. Now they are a two-some, happy in each other.

Her path is very spiritual, as is mine. Sometimes she walks with me on mine; other times I walk on hers. In either event, we walk together as one. She will very often feel my physical pain. She knows when I am in any sort of danger, and can usually warn me in time. We are each other's 'sounding board' for any dilemma that confronts us. We protect each other with 'gifts'. Our gifts to each other are different from what you would expect. Feathers, animal bones, stones, animal teeth, herbs. Things that protect each of us from whatever we are facing at the time.

We have known each other many times, in many ways, in many lifetimes. We are comfortable being in each other's company - whether in person, on the phone, or in dreams and the spiritual realm in which we live.

Our personal lives are so much the same that it is sometimes scary. We have both been through abusive relationships, family difficulties, and the loss of loved ones. She can hear my Bear. I know this because she has told me many things that only he and I would know. We have few common friends, and none of them knew Bear.

Does it bother either of us that we have such a close bond? Absolutely not. We both know that we were supposed to find each other in this lifetime, and that we will be protecting and helping each other when we pass into the next.

Tony

Although we shared 14 years of our lives together, my good memories of him are sporadic, at best. I remember our first meeting (he prepared a coffee takeout order for me); I remember watching Secretariat winning the triple crown with him; I remember our wedding day; I remember some of the Christmas times we had; and, I remember the days when I gave birth to our children (his greatest gifts to me).

I was a different person then. I was much younger (late 20's), in good health, and full of love and life! And he was a different person, too. Always laughing. Always drinking. I think our problems started during our second year of marriage. His drinking got heavier, and the fights quickly escalated and became more frequent. Knowing that things would only get worse, I decided that divorce was my only option if I was going to survive. After 10 years of marriage, I did divorce him and moved back to the continental United States with my children.

Over the following years, we all changed. I found the path I was to follow, my children grew into adulthood, and he just got older and continued to drink. I know that several women came after me but I refused to let it bother me.

In my eyes, he died right after the last time he hit me. In my children's eyes, he was their father. And that, of course, is how it should be. I raised my children to be strong, respectful, and honest. People tell me that I've done a good job raising them. And, I am proud of them both.

Tony died this past weekend, just past his 74th birthday. While I do not grieve his passing, my children have lost the man who was their father. Dealing with this is going to be difficult for them both. Neither of them knows what emotion to feel. He was the man who gave them life, yet they both were witness to the person he was. I grieve for my children, and hope that I have made them strong enough to get through this trying time.

And to you, Tony, rest in peace.

Little Brother

For the life of me, I cannot remember how long it has been since I met him. I know it's more than seven years, maybe ten. He came into the shop looking for a gift for his wife, and that's how long it has been. We became friends right from the start, and although during that time we were a continent apart, we never lost any part of that friendship. My life is good that way -- when I make a true friend, neither time nor distance diminishes the friendship.

He is my other 'shoulder to cry on'. He was there through most of my marriage; he was there when my son-in-law left my daughter and my grandchild just before Christmas a few years ago. He has laughed with me, and he has cried with me. I, in turn, am there for him when his spirits are low and he needs to be reminded of how life is in the world in which he and I live.

He worries about my health -- probably more than I do. He does his best to keep me on the straight and very narrow path to a better and healthier lifestyle. He has seen first-hand what happens to people with my maladies, and he doesn't want me to suffer through the rest of my life. And for that I have bestowed the name 'Little Brother' upon him. Actually, every time I think of him a voice in my head says 'Little Brother', so in actuality I am not giving him the name -- it's coming from Bear. But he will recognize himself here.

He is not yet a healer, but is well on his way to becoming one of the best. I'm sure that he doesn't realize this yet and this paragraph will be quite a revelation to him. He will now understand his affinity to the Native people, and his strong desire to help all those who need him, including me.

I am honored to call him 'friend' and, now, Little Brother.

Kay

Her face is shattered, as is her spirit. She is the victim of many years of domestic abuse. She comes to me for help, since she knows that I have gone through the same. But it is her soul that I worry about. She talks of giving up, of doing the unthinkable. She feels that she is so worthless that even her sons want nothing to do with her.

I've known her for about six years, and have seen the damages that, all too often, have been done to her. A black eye here and there, two broken arms. The police don't like to 'meddle' in domestic cases, and the shelters are full. She has few friends, and they don't like to get involved. A phone call to a friend helps. I tell her that I am calling in favors. The friend finds that a space has just opened at one of the shelters, and I send Kay to her.

She comes in again about six months later. She is much better, she tells me. The time she has spent at the shelter has given her a new lease on life. She has found an apartment, gotten a job, and is learning how to do for herself.

The next time I see her is about four months later. She again has a blackened eye, and her wrist is in a cast. When I ask what happened, she tells me that she returned to her husband. She spent the previous night in the emergency room, having her wrist x-rayed, and resting from his onslaught. When I call the shelter, they tell me that she left of her own accord. A month later I learn that she is dead -- at her husband's hands.

She was not young, nor was she old. Forty-five at most. She had been a vibrant woman when I first met her, and I had seen that woman become broken and despondent. Sadly, I knew exactly what she went through, and her thoughts could have been mine -- at another time. Gratefully, I knew when to get out, and I learned how to deal with what life threw in my path. Perhaps she could have learned; I will never know.