Richard - The Elder

Our shops opened within days of each other. His, antiques; mine, Native American. I would go in to his shop often, since his partner was an avid collector of all things Native American, and I was fast learning to appreciate the fine art of the Native people.

His name was Richard, but almost everyone called him Bubba. He looked like a Bubba, a huge man. Nearly bald, strong aquiline features, close to 6'6", heavily muscled. He became the 'big brother' I had always wanted, and needed.

His shop was full of wondrous things, many of which I remembered from my childhood. It was difficult to appreciate that many of the things then, already, being considered as antiques, were a part of my life in my earlier years.

We spoke comfortably of our early lives, growing up in big cities, and finally reaching the very small town that Kingman was -- then. We spoke of our children, our failed marriages, the things that kept us going. By the time four years had rolled by, we spoke of my present marriage, which I knew had been doomed from the beginning. He got me through the worst days, recounting things that he knew would make me laugh.

He was also a very busy man. He chaired the county fair association, worked with veterans at the VFW, was on this committee, and that committee and, oh yes, the other committee. Yet I knew that if I ever needed him, a simple phone call would bring him to my side.

About nine years after our first meeting, he told me that they had decided to sell the shop, and move to a very tiny town in northern New Mexico. They were tired, he said, and wanted to slow down. Within weeks, the shop was sold, and they were happily travelling east on the I-40, to their new home in the mountains. We stayed in touch, by telephone and e-mail, hearing from each other on a weekly basis. I would keep him informed on what was, or was not, happening in Kingman. He described the happy days they were having, the multiple feet of snow that they hadn't counted on, and life in the slow lane in general.

I didn't hear from him for about two weeks, and phone calls to their homes produced only recorded messages that they were not available to take the call, and please leave a message. I finally received a phone call from Jim, telling me that Richard had suffered a heart attack, and had been rushed to the hospital some 60 miles away. The doctors thought that Richard would recover easily, but Jim confided to me that he didn't like the long distances to receive medical help, and that he and Richard would be returning to Kingman as soon as Richard was able to travel.

Jim popped his head through my door some three months later. They had arrived the night before, he said, and Richard wanted to see me. I closed the shop a few minutes early, and rushed to the compound that was their home. I was so excited. My sweet Bubba was back in town. I went through the door of Richard's apartment, and stopped dead in my tracks. His illness had taken a terrible toll on him and there, standing in front of me, was a mere shell of the great man he had once been. I managed to greet him with a smile on my lips, and in my eyes, and told him how happy I was that they were back. We spent the next two hours talking, about anything and everything. I left then, but Jim called me the next day. He had some errands to run, but didn't want to leave Richard alone since he was no longer capable of taking care of himself. Richard had said that I was the only one he wanted there, so off I went. We sat quietly for about an hour. Richard dozed on and off, asked if he could hold my hand, asked if I would pray with him. He told me that he found great comfort in my being there.

The call I dreaded came a few weeks later. Jim called to say that Richard was back in the hospital, in a coma. I shut down early, and made my way to the hospital. He was there, lying on his side. His eyes would move, not in recognition, but by reflex. I gently held his hand, and spoke to him quietly about all that was happening in town, and in my life. About an hour after my arrival, Jim came in and found me leaning over the rail on Richard's bed, softly telling Richard that it was o.k. for him to let go. The doctors had said that it was only a matter of time, and I wanted Richard to spend as little time as possible in this condition.

Jim came to me the next morning, and told me that Richard had passed soon after I left the hospital the night before. He had taken a deep breath, smiled, and left. My big brother knew that I would be alright. And I knew that he would be, also.

Richard -- the younger

The phone call came in just after we opened the shop for the day. He had heard that we had a 'beader' working for us, and wondered if he could speak with her. Since I was the only female that 'worked' for us, I told him that he was speaking to her. He said that he had a major project that he wanted done, and wondered if he could come in to talk with me about it. I agreed, and told him to come in.

He and his dad arrived about an hour later. He was a young man, perhaps 25. He told me that he had tried to get someone from the Hualapai tribe to help him, but no one was interested. The project, he told me, was beading the brims of seven baseball caps. One would be his, another for his dad, the the remaining caps were for friends of his, who he considered to be his brothers. I warned him that this would be an expensive undertaking on his part, but he readily agreed to my price for each cap. He told me that the colors and designs were up to me; he was sure that they would be fine. They both left, and were back in an hour with the caps.

Beading, I should explain, can be a tedious job. Fortunately, I find it very relaxing. I had told him that it could take me a week to ten days for each cap, since I was not in a position to stop all other work and just bead away. He thought that was fine. I asked if any of the caps were for Native people, and he had said yes, five were. He explained that he was adopted out of the Apache tribe just after he was born. He had met his 'brothers' during his travels, and they were each from a different tribe -- Aleut, Penobscot, Sioux, Cherokee, and Mohawk. I promised him that I would do a little research, and that I thought he would be more than satisfied with the results.

I must tell you here, dear reader, that I am very fussy about my bead work. I try to put more into it than can be seen with the untrained eye. And in a project such as this, I knew that the design on each cap would be different. I made several telephone calls to trading posts around the country, calling in favors. Simply put, I wanted to know the tribal colors for each of the tribes these young men represented. It took three days, but I got the information I needed, and started beading.

The first cap finished would be for Richard. The Apache colors were used, and the design was basically eagle feathers, since the eagle is so highly revered in the Apache nation. I called him in when it was complete, and he was thrilled. He paid me for the cap, and told me that the next one would be for his dad.

He was adopted by Anglo parents, so I knew that the colors used would not be important. Since the cap was blue, I decided to use lighter shades of that color, and the design was the stylized Navajo butterfly. Again, he was thrilled with the outcome. I asked who was next, and he told me it would be for the young man of the Aleut nation.

By this time, Richard and I were becoming friends. He would pop into the shop once or twice a week, not to check on my progress, but to discuss the things in his life that were troubling him. His mom had passed over shortly before he first called me, and he missed her terribly. He had few friends locally, and he had a drinking problem. I spoke with him as gently as I could about the drinking, but he assured me he knew what he was doing.

The Aleut cap took me longer than expected, since I had to stylize the orca (killer whale) that was so sacred to his people. I let Richard know that the cap was finished and he came in to pick up. He was surprised with the design, and told me he was very happy with what I was doing for him. We talked a little more about his drinking, and he assured me that he was slowing down.

The Penobscot was next, and I didn't have a clue where to start for the design. A phone call to a friend, a member of the Penobscot nation, assured me that whatever design I used would be fine. The Penobscot, it seems, equally value all animal life as sacred. He offered a few suggestions, and I decided that the owl feather would suit my design best. When I called Richard to let him know that the cap was ready, he told me that he would be down in a few days to pick it up. This was unusual. Normally, he would be there half an hour after the cap was complete. I heard something different in his voice, and asked him what was wrong. He told me that his dad had suffered a major heart attack two days before, and had passed over. I suggested he come into the shop immediately. He did, and we talked for hours about what would happen to him. He no longer had a family, and very few friends. There was no one he could depend on for help. He was totally alone. I offered him some thoughts on where he might get the help he would need in the coming days, he thanked me, and left the store.

I didn't see him again until several weeks later. I had completed the caps, and told him he could pick them up one at a time, so that the financial burden on him would not be too great. He asked if I would do one more cap, for a special person in his life. He said the person was Anglo, so colors weren't important. The whole design should be my choice also. He told me that he would be moving within a few days, since the owner of the home his dad had been renting had decided to sell the house, and he had to get out. He had found a place in the next town that he could afford, so long as he didn't have a telephone. That money, he said, would be used to feed the dogs he loved so dearly.

I did the last cap in my favorite design -- the Navajo sunset. It uses white, yellow, orange, red, purple and black. I used various shades of each color, 21 in total, to make the one design go all the way around brim. The outcome was gorgeous. You could almost feel the colors quivering as the sun took it's final breath before disappearing below the horizon.

Richard came in about three weeks later, to pay for and pick up the remaining caps. Then, he presented me that final cap, thanking me for my hard work, for helping me through what he thought would be his most trying times, and for accepting him for what he was. He told me that he was settled in his new home, but that bad things were happening. Someone was shooting at his dogs, he had been beaten badly, and someone had tried to set fire to his home. I asked him why he thought these things were happening. He replied, 'because I'm different', and left the store.

I wouldn't see him for another year. When he did come in, he told me that he had to confess something to me. I steadied myself, and he blurted out that he was really a female, and that his name was Tina. My reply -- 'tell me something I don't already know'. He asked me when I knew, I told him that it was during our first meeting. He asked why I didn't say something before, and I told him that it wasn't my place. He was living the life he felt most comfortable with, and it was not up to me to change that. He thanked me, gave me a huge hug, and left. That would be the last time I would see him.

Several weeks later, a regular customer who knew Richard came in, and asked if I had heard about him. I said 'no', and she went on to tell me that he had been killed by a fire in his home. The fire department had ruled it an accident, since they had found evidence that he had been smoking in bed. Apparently, they said, he had fallen asleep while smoking a cigarette. They had found his body, and six small depressions, in the mattress. There is one small problem with this ruling. Richard did not smoke; he was allergic to tobacco.

While I miss him, and his humor, I know that he is at peace, and with those he loved most -- his mom, his dad, and his six wonderful pups. My sorrow is directed toward the person who did this horrific act. All through his life, he will live with the knowledge that he caused these deaths, and he will never know true inner peace. Never.

Butterfly

He is, he tells me, opening a new business a few doors down, and wanted to introduce himself to his new neighbors. He has already learned the best form of advertising in a small town. Word of mouth. He is young, 32, and the proverbial 'tall, dark and handsome'. The young man with him is Apache, and wants to learn anything and everything about his people. I tell him that I have several books available, and show him to the library section of the shop. I leave him there to browse the shelves, and return to my new neighbor.

We talk of his new endeavor, and how he hopes to provide a positive impact on the young people of Kingman. We discussed his dreams for his new business, and with the second young man returning to the main section, I wished him much good luck, and the promise that I would send anyone I could to him.

Over the next decade, our paths would cross many, many times. He or his wife would come in so that I could make copies of various papers they needed in their business. He wanted to work with birds of prey, so together we filled out the tedious forms the federal government requires for such an undertaking. He asked that I be a personal reference for him for this project, and I happily agreed. He learned of my pet project -- providing toys at Christmastime for children from broken homes on the Navajo reservation. For eight years, he had his students bring in either new or almost new toys during the holidays. Then they would have a little parade between our businesses, delivering the toys to me so that I could deliver them to Navajoland. He, himself, provided a dozen or so bicycles each year. All were used, but he had completely refurbished each one.

We talked of many things during those years. Mainly, we spoke about how our paths were so similar, even though we followed different teachings. Either of us could comfortably walk on the other's path, and we did so frequently. He on mine; me on his. We had what I considered a very strong friendship.

I starting hearing rumors about him about two years after we first met. I am not a rumor-monger, so I will not repeat them here. Knowing the man, I brushed these stories off as just rumors. The man I saw was a good person, and nothing could change that in my eyes.

Sadly, his wife became ill during the summer of last year, and passed over in mid-December. I went to the services, and was truly surprised by his reaction to these events. There was absolutely no grief in his demeanor. He explained it as 'life goes on'. Yes, it does. But even after three years, I still grieve for Bear. So does Terry, who was like a brother to Bear. Naturally, our grief is not as strong as it once was, but it is still grief. Terry and I have picked up the pieces of our lives, but Bear is still a very strong influence in what we make of them.

I remembered that, in one of our myriad conversations, I had told him that he was a good man. His reply was, 'No, I'm not." Could I have been so wrong about this man? Could the stories have been true?? I did not want to believe what I knew in my heart to be true. I had allowed this person to deceive me.

As spiritual people, after a traumatic experience, we are often offered a different path from the one we have been following. It is usually an easier path, but the rewards are not as great. He was given the choice of two paths, and he chose unwisely. The path he has chosen leads to his destruction. It is a path on which my feet cannot tread. While we still speak with each other on occasion, the friendship is gone. Also gone is the respect I had for this man. There will no longer be any conversations between us, long or short. He has lost a great many things. And, sadly, it is too late for him to go back.

Lone Wolf

He is a strange man. Heavy set, quiet, and always with a smile on his face. Yet there is something not quite right here. His features are interesting. Dark eyes, dark hair, yet with a complexion more fair than mine. He tells me he is from California, San Diego specifically. He has purchased land in this area, and wants to retire early. He has come into the shop to find things that will enhance his new home, when he finally does move here.

He tells me he is interested in the Native life, but admits that it is not one that he could follow too closely. He enjoys the 'creature comforts too much'. He was born into a prominent family, which was originally from a part of Europe that I know well. My family was originally from the same place. That we could be related is not a part of this story, yet it may have been an important part of my understanding him. He goes on, telling me of his marriage, and subsequent divorce, speaking fondly of his grown children. He doesn't see them as often as he would like. Basically, he sees himself as a 'loner'. He prefers his own company to that of others. There is a sadness in his voice as he speaks.

His troubles, he tells me, started after he returned home from his military stint in Viet Nam. Although he has seen many doctors, none can pinpoint the source of his problems. They are not physical, he says. He had seen too many ugly things during his time in Viet Nam, and can't rid his mind of them. While he does not dwell on them during his waking hours, his dreams are filled with memories of what he has seen.

After a few of his visits to the shop, and many discussions between us, I asked if he would like to join me for dinner. I had been a regular at Yesterday's for some time now, and although I, too, suffer from many memories in that restaurant, I know it is a place where he can unwind and, possibly, have fun.

We met after I closed the shop, and I left my truck at a friend's house. He drove, and there was lively conversation between us on the ride north. Chloride is only 20 miles north of Kingman, so the trip was a short one, but I did show him spots along the road. Places that would be a part of his new home. There is Santa Claus, I told him. It's really nothing more than a wide spot on the highway, with some buildings that have been long closed. Originally, it was a rest stop for people traveling this road between Las Vegas and Phoenix. A little further on, we passed Grasshopper Junction, another wide spot, another rest stop. We turned on to the Chloride road, but almost immediately had to stop. A herd of range cattle was on the road, and the best way to treat them is with a lot of respect. Let them do their thing, in their own time. It took the herd about ten minutes to wander off the road, and we continued to town.

Bill was already singing when we got to the restaurant, and Terry and Betty were already there. We joined them at their table, introductions were made, and we settled in to have an enjoyable evening, I hoped. Soon after, more friends came in and another table was added to ours and, again, more introductions. He seemed to be enjoying himself. Conversation revolved around the gunfighting group, events that would soon be taking place in town, and our lives in general.

We were up to three tables now. That's how it is in Yesterday's. We are always rearranging the furniture, but being careful to allow the food servers a clear path. We ordered dinner, and Bill was singing "Always on my Mind". He asked if I would like to dance, and we were on the dance floor in no time. He told me that this song, for some reason, always reminded him of me. hmmmmmmmm. Dinner was on the table when we returned, and it was a thoroughly enjoyable meal. We danced that night, and he laughed and laughed. I had been right. Having dinner together had been a good idea.

He returned to the store again and again, and we had dinner a few more times. My birthday was coming up, and celebrations at Yesterday's can be quite a sight. Because she lived in Chloride, and he lives in Kingman, Betty had put him in charge of my party. He picked me up from the shop, and we started towards Yesterday's. Just before leaving Kingman, Red Tail Rising passed us in his truck. The look of utter disbelief on his face stays with me to this day. We arrived at the restaurant, and I noted that four tables had already been placed together, and a few of our friends were already seated. He told me that he had to run back to his truck for his wallet, and I used the opportunity to go to another table to speak with its occupants.

By the time we returned to our table, my drink was already in place. The good thing about going to a place regularly is that they know what you want. Mine is chardonnay on the rocks, in a 'big girl glass'. It's actually two drinks in one 20 ounce glass, but it does save on money. Although our table was not yet full, he proposed a toast. I picked up my glass, and immediately saw that something was wrong. There was a dark spot in my drink. Further inspection showed it to be a fly. Even further inspection showed it to be a fly in an ice cube. I asked that the drink be replaced, and it was taken away. I was brought what I thought was a replacement and there it was again. I finally decided to ask for another glass, poured the chardonnay into it, and scooped out the 'rocks' one at a time with my spoon, and placed them into the new glass. When I got to the offending 'rock', I pulled it out of the glass and placed it on my napkin. Funny, I thought. The napkin wasn't getting wet! That's when I realized two important things: 1) The ice cube with the fly in it was plastic; 2) I had met my match as a prankster. I was in for a very long night.

When everyone had arrived, we ordered dinner. There is almost always a salad served with every meal, and this one was no exception. Salads were brought out, and I turned to mine with great anticipation. I LOVE salad. I took up my fork, and tried to spear a cucumber slice. Thinking perhaps that it was too thick, I tried cutting it into halves. That didn't work either. Are you thinking rubber vomit yet? I wasn't. But there it was on my plate. I had been wrong. This was going to be a night longer than I had ever lived.

The main course arrived, prime rib with mashed potatoes and beets. By this time, everyone at the table was watching me. They laughed as I carefully examined each and every forkful of food before I even thought about putting it in my mouth. What, I wondered, would be happening next.

With dinner done, we were all full and thoroughly relaxed. But knowing this group of people as I did, I knew that there would be more. It didn't take too long. There were several conversations going on around the table, when all of a sudden a small wad of paper was thrown at me. Not thinking, I reached down to the floor to pick it up. He was seated to my immediate left, and my head landed in his lap. He jumped up, and shouted "woman!!!!!!" at the top of his lungs. I popped back to a seated position. They tell me that my face was maroon. He excused himself, and left the table. Betty did also, but it is not unexpected. We will often leave the table, and wander around table to table, chatting with other people.

About five minutes later, I saw Betty, and heard the beginning strains of 'Happy Birthday'. And there he was, coming across the room. I have to point out here that while cozy, Yesterday's can, by no means, be considered a small restaurant. Bill was standing directly behind me, singing the song meant for me. He was walking across the room, carrying my birthday cake. He was wearing a way-too-small cow costume, and had balloons tied around his head. He walked ever so slowly, and placed the cake in front of me. He then took Bill's mike, squeezed one of the udders on the costume, and speaking directly into the mike, asked me if I would like some milk with my cake. Is there a shade of red darker than maroon, I wondered. You bet there is. Great pains had been taken with this cake, though. The frosting was chocolate and there on top, in white frosting, was a white buffalo. But it was the second cake that was my downfall. With great creative genius, someone had taken two "snowball" cakes, and one "twinkie" cake, placed them just so on the platter, frosted them pink, and added some strategically placed chocolate sprinkles. To finish it off, a small dab of whipped cream had been placed on the end of the 'twinkie' furthest from the 'snowballs'. It didn't take too much imagination on my part to know that whoever made the cake felt that there was something lacking in my sex life. Finally on our way back to town, he told me that he had never had so much fun in his life. I'm glad.

He came into the shop a few more times, and always brought up the party during our conversation. He blessed me for showing him that one should not always be alone. While he has reverted to living his solitary life, he has this memory to hold on to. He can always dig into this memory to enjoy a good laugh. He needs all the laughter he can get.

Red Tail Rising

His name comes from the color of his hair. He is just a little older than I am, and comes from an entirely different world. On his first visit to the shop, he asked me if I would consider going dancing with him. I told him perhaps when the time was right, I would. At about this time, I realized that my marriage was falling apart and that had to be my first priority.

Our paths crossed several times during the next few years. He always asked if I would go dancing with him, and I always gave him the same reply. The time was not right yet. I always had an uncomfortable feeling when I was around him, yet I could not tell you what caused that feeling.

He claims to be of Cherokee blood, maybe an eighth but more probably a sixteenth. At our meetings, he would slowly open up a little more. He is a man of many lives, living them all at the same time. He says he is honest and sincere, yet he has a much darker side. He is more of a vulture than a hawk. Through the realm of the Internet, he preys on people -- male and female alike -- when they are at their most vulnerable. He will entice a female, telling her of the wonderful life they will have together. He will entice the males, pretending that he is female. He 'moves' from state to state like I move from one room to another, and his age changes with his mood.

He is not a person that I want in my life, yet there he is. He seems to be taunting me, and haunting me. I feel that he is almost daring me to do something about him, but what that is totally evades me. I sometimes think that he is there to teach me something. Perhaps that I should not be as trusting as I am. I have always taken people at face value, which sometimes creates disappointment and problems. But these are things that I can deal with. Perhaps he was sent to show me my faults, of which there are many. Or perhaps he is really seeking my help, but does not know how to ask for it. I know that somewhere very deep inside him is a good man. Maybe he is afraid to let the world know that. Whatever the case, I have done what I can to teach him, and he continues to resist. That was his choice. Someday, maybe, he will no longer be a part of my life. Maybe I will learn to erase his memory. But until that time, he will continue to be a constant reminder of things that could have been, both in his life and in mine. And I will never dance with him.

Respect

As usual, he just walked into the shop. A tall man, slender, dark, and with the unmistakable facial characteristics of most Native American people. Very high cheekbones. He asked if I could help him with some gifts that he wanted to send to his family 'back east'. We quickly made his selection of gifts, each appropriate for a young lady.

We returned to the counter, and I respectfully asked him if I may know his Nation. (I find it a little rude to come out with 'what tribe are you from'.) He was more than a little taken aback by this question. Not because I had asked it, but because I had recognized that he was Native American. He could easily have been mistaken for Negro with his coloring. He told me that he was Cherokee, and that he had been born and raised on the reservation in Oklahoma. His great-grandparents had traveled the Trail of Tears from North Carolina, and he was proud to be their descendant. His great-grandfather was full-blood Cherokee, and his great-grandmother was half Cherokee, and half Seminole. Keeping the Cherokee bloodline in tact was important then, and all of their descendants married to, or mated with, full-blood Cherokee. By the time he was born, the Seminole bloodline was pretty much washed out, but he still carried the genes for the dark skin. We chatted for a while about all sorts of things; his heritage, my interest in the Native people, the problems now facing people of all Nations. Finally, he asked if I carried eagle or hawk feathers. I told him it was illegal for me to do so, but that I had some feathers that he might be able to use on the feather rack. He selected some, paid for his purchase, and left.

About an hour later, I heard the bell dangling from the front door. I was a little busy in the second room, so it took me a few minutes to get to the main part of the shop. To my surprise, there was no one in the shop. But there, on the counter, was a medicine bundle. I knew it was from him. At the top of the bundle was one of the feathers I had just sold him. I do not know what 'material things' he put into the bundle. It is not good to open them, even when they have been gifted. I do know that the bundle contains his thanks for our conversation, for my not judging him because of the color of his skin, for my showing him the respect that all human races deserve, and for my recognizing him for what he was. A simple man, with a rich history.

Norma

She is a full-blood, Navajo by birth, raised in the small town of Fort Defiance near the Arizona-New Mexico border. He is full-blood also, Hualapai (pronounced Wah-la-pie) by birth, and raised in Peach Springs. They have defied their families, and their respective nations, and married. They were now both in their mid- to late forties, and had raised their family of seven. Longing for more, they had decided fostering was a good option. Sadly, children from broken homes are readily available on most reservations, and they had no problem finding some on the Hualapai lands.

She came into the shop one afternoon, and told me that her eldest foster, about 15 at the time, wanted to enter the Miss Hualapai contest. I told her that I thought it was a wonderful idea. She confided that she had no idea how to make any of the regalia that the child would need, and asked if I would be able to help. I could understand this. What many people do not know is that most of the 'regalia' used nowadays at pow wow gatherings is based on traditional Sioux dress. She, being Navajo, didn't even know where to start. Since money would not be a problem, we decided that the young woman would have a traditional dress, choker, woman's breast plate, moccasins, and hairpiece. The hairpiece would be a problem, since I am not legally permitted to even touch an eagle or hawk feather. The hairpiece, we determined, would be the last piece made.

Time, however, was not on our side. The contest was only two weeks away. Another problem we faced was the requirement that her outfit must be made by a member of her family, or a member of the tribe. Norma and her husband decided to discuss this problem with the Hualapai elders. Since I am known to most of the elders, it was determined that I could be 'adopted' into her family, since adoption into the tribe is, at best, a long and tedious process.

Ten days before the competition, Norma and I settled into getting things ready. Fortunately, I had everything we needed in stock, and we started by making the choker. I told Norma that I would explain to her how everything would be made, and would even start building the project for her. But it was she that would be doing most of the work under my supervision. I felt that this would be the best, and easiest, way for her to learn how to make these things, and she agreed. The choker was designed for a woman, three rows wide, with a small abalone button in the front center. The joints were buffalo bone, formed into elongated tapered tubes, 1 1/2 inches wide. We used the traditional brass beads, interspersed with pony beads in the Hualapai colors of black, white, green, and red. Working together, we completed the project in just under two hours, and moved on to the next.

A woman's breast plate took quite a while longer. I laid out the pattern for Norma -- two four-joint rows of 4" bone, which would reach to just above the young woman's hip. From there, two more rows would be added to connect the original two. It would end with rows of unconnected joints tipped with cowrie shell. Again, we used the Hualapai colors but this time used large faceted glass beads. Norma's hands practically flew through the building of this piece, and I was proud of her. She did have some questions about things like finishing off and connecting the rows, and when they were explained to her, she did a beautiful job of getting the project done.

The moccasins were easy. I found a pair of dance moccasins in her size in stock, and was able to match them to enough pieces of deerskin to make The Dress!

We were down to six days away, and I knew that making the dress would take most of that time. Every stitch had to be done by hand, and the fringe would take hours to cut. Now it was time for me to really pitch in, and let Norma borrow my two hands. We cut the four pieces we would need (two each for front and back), and started stitching. I did the front; Norma took the back. And I use the word 'stitching' loosely here. First, we needed to glue the two pieces onto a third, narrow strip of leather. Then, we had to punch the 'seam' so that we could cross-stitch with leather lacing. Third, we had to do the actual lacing. Getting the back and front pieces done took most of the first day. The second day went to attaching the back and front pieces to each other. Day three found us fringing. After six hours, with two pair of very sore hands, we admired our handiwork. There would be no cape, since we had the breast plate, and there would be no beadwork (that's 'Winter Work'). We laid all of the pieces out, and decided that a fine job had been done.

Now we faced the problem of the hair piece. As I mentioned, I cannot legally touch the feathers of a bird of prey. Also, if Norma brought the feathers into the store, and if a federal agent just happened to walk in, I could have faced some severe jail time -- in addition to having my entire inventory confiscated. Throw in some pretty hefty fines, and you KNOW that I am not willing to take the chance. I asked Norma to come in the next day with clippings from the stem end of each feather. I would need pieces about an inch long. She came back the next day, and I went to work. To make short feathers long, the stems of peacock feathers are cut and used as extensions. All I really needed to know was the width of the feather stem that was needed. I selected three pieces that would comfortably fit over the end of the feathers, and we started. Norma covered the three pieces with leather, and then I showed her how to wrap seed beads around the stem. Again, the four colors were used -- three rows each. The finished pieces would then be glued over the stems of the actual feathers and 'voila', a hair piece made of eagle feathers that were never touched by an Anglo!

Right about now, you are probably asking yourself 'just how does this story fit in with the others'. How did I help Norma? To start, she learned that people were willing to help. Then, she learned how to make things that she thought would be beyond her abilities. Next, she was able to pass down what she had learned to her children, grandchildren, and the numerous fosters she would have in her life. And they have passed these ideas on to their heirs, thereby continuing traditions that are being lost. Since this story took place, she has made dance bustles, dance shawls, many chokers and, by learning to actually do beadwork, has completed the 'Winter Work' on the original dress, and three others. And, dear reader, I hope I have shown you that absolutely nothing is impossible when you try.

P.S. The young lady in this narrative went on to win the 'Miss Hualapai' competition. So did the three other fosters that Norma made the dresses for. I am proud of her.

Darin

The 2005 River Run happened a week before, but there were still a few stragglers in town. I was standing at the shop door, enjoying a short smoke, when he first rode by. I watched as he made his way East - from 4th street to 6th. A few seconds later, he passed again. This time heading West. All of a sudden, there he was again. Going East. He passed towards the West again, and on his last lap East, he parked in front of the shop.

I welcomed him as he entered, and went back to my beadwork. After being in retail for so many, many years, and from personal experience, I know that people prefer not to have someone hovering over them as they shop. It took him just over an hour to 'walk the shop', and he came to the front counter with his purchases. I hesitated to ring up his sale, and we started talking. He lives in California, and had taken two months off to travel. We talked about the 'sights' in Kingman (such as they are), and he mentioned that he was just coming out of a bad relationship, and that the bike ride would be his way of letting off steam. I reassured him that his life was still young (he was in his mid- to late twenties), and that everything happens for a reason. I mentioned that I 'saw' good things in his life, but that he would have to be patient. He told me that he was heading East, and asked if I knew of any places along the way that might be of interest to him. Silly question!!!! I told him he would enjoy taking a short detour at Williams, turning onto 180 to visit the White Buffalo ranch. He thanked me, and off he went.

The 2006 River Run approached, and I wondered if I would see him again. I had moved the shop by then, so it would be a matter of his finding me again. It was early Saturday afternoon of the Run weekend, and I stood outside the shop chatting with some friends. Two helmeted figures emerged from the parking lot just East of the shop, one male and one female. And there he was. He smiled as he introduced me to the new lady in his life, his wife Carolyn. He told me that he had followed my advice, and headed to the ranch. Unfortunately, he said, he had forgotten to fill up his gas tank in Williams, and he ran out of gas soon after turning onto 180. A short time later, a truck came along, and offered help. He told the man that he was headed for the ranch, and the man just took the motorbike and loaded it up on his truck. Then he introduced himself as Jim, the owner of the ranch. Jim drove them both back to the ranch, and offered Darin the opportunity to stay over. Darin told me that the next morning, Jim drove him and his bike to Flagstaff, where he filled up, said his 'thank you' and bid farewell.

He continued on to Albuquerque, where he met Carolyn. She was the receptionist at a hotel in which he stayed for a few days, and they just seemed to hit it off. He stayed in Albuquerque for a month, asked Carolyn to marry him, and they started their life journey together.

He told me that he had spent the entire year trying to find something to give me to thank me for my help and wisdom. I told him that he had already given me my gift. He didn't understand. I explained that the smile he gave me, when he was coming out of the parking lot, was all I needed. Seven or eight hugs later, they left to return to Laughlin. I don't know if I will ever see them again, since the shop in long closed and I have retired. But I think of them often. You see, it's not only Native people that I can help. Darin and Carolyn, both very much Anglo, are living proof of that.

Red Cloud's Kin

I've known him for over five years, yet I do not know his name. He is an imposing man, standing at about six foot two, muscular, and carries himself in the way of his people, the Sioux. I would guess him to be about 35 then, and his regal manner suggested that he was of a warrior lineage.

He speaks quietly, almost in a whisper. "Grandmother, I have come for your guidance. I am a great-grandson of Red Cloud, yet there is no member of my family with which I can discuss this matter. I have come a long way from my home at Pine Ridge to seek your help." A few years earlier, these words would have stunned me. But now that I know my path, I was happy that he had found me. He confessed to me that he had been unfaithful to his wife, a woman who loved him with every breath that she took. His soul needed cleansing, and he needed to talk about that which was so troubling to him. He followed me into the second room of the shop, and there he knelt -- as always -- facing East. As he offered up his prayers in his language, I covered him with the smoke from the blessed White Sage. I walked around him several times, making certain that he was filling his lungs with this cleansing smoke. He rose up, and then hugged me. That, in itself, was most unusual. Native American men will almost never touch a white woman. Yet here I was, being embraced by this man. He felt the energy from me, and whispered that "yes, he was in the right place."

We re-entered the main room of the shop, and he asked what he could do about his problem. Should he return home and tell his wife; should he return home and not say anything; or should he just continue on his journey through life without returning home. I asked if he had been blessed with children, and he replied that yes, he had two. A boy and a girl. I reminded him that children needed a male role model in their lives, and he answered that there were cousins who could fill that role. I asked him what he thought his wife would do, were he to tell her of his one time indiscretion. He admitted that she would be hurt, but that her heart was always full of forgiveness to all. I asked him if he was really ready to continue with his life alone, never to return to Pine Ridge. He didn't think he could abandon those who needed him.

He returned to Pine Ridge a few days later, and I did not hear from him for another two years. When he returned, he brought his family to meet me. His wife blessed me for helping him see the way, and his children now call me 'grandmother' too. Not yet in the way of one seeking help from a wiser person, but as the mother of their parents. And I am honored.

Talking Mouse

He came into the shop in the early afternoon. Rick was doing something, and I was building a dance bustle. We gave him our customary 'hi', and 'let us know if we can help'. I watched him as he wandered through the shop; reading here and there, and touching things. He went into the second room, and although I couldn't see him, I could easily feel his presence. I guessed him to be about 30, definitely Native American, and not someone I should be worried about. Rick left at about 3, and the young man was still there. He finally came up to the front counter, and we started talking. I learned that he was raised Paiute, had been adopted when he was a child, and was looking for his biological family among the Apache people. This would not be an easy task, since records among the native people are poor at best. Given that he 'believed' he had been born on the Apache reservation, near Sells, AZ, his task was daunting. We spoke for several hours, and he left.

About a year later, he returned to the shop. His first words on entering the shop were 'Grandmother, I seek your guidance'. I have been with Native people long enough to understand that I had just been honored. 'Grandmother' is a title of great respect, but I felt that I needed to remind this young man that I am Anglo. His response was that I was more Native American than I believed. Talking Mouse was having great problems in his life, and he needed to speak with me, so that I could direct him (as he put it). I had just had my session with Ron, so I knew what he was talking about. He told me of the problems he was having with his lady, how disappointed he was that he had not located his family, what it felt like to believe that he belonged to no nation, how many problems he was having in finding steady work. The list was almost endless. We dealt with each issue individually and when he left, he had decided to start over. The woman was an alcoholic and drug addict (which he certainly didn't need in his life), he realized that the Paiute family that raised him was his family, he understood that he did belong to a nation, the Paiute, and he knew that there were several jobs in the Wyoming area that he would qualify for. I wished him much luck and happiness on his journey.

He next appeared about eight months later. The smile on his face when he entered the shop told me that things were looking up for him. He had gone to Wyoming, and found a job that he loved, working on a ranch. He also told me that he had a special gift for me. He presented me with a Healer's Hoop. This is a braid of sweetgrass that has been tied at both ends to form a hoop. It is then wrapped in red cloth. He had added a feather to it which, he told me, he had held during a dance he performed at the Sun Dance that he had attended the week before. He had dedicated that dance to me. I did not have, nor do I now have, words to describe the emotions that ran through me at that moment. I had never felt so honored. I own many things, some of which are quite valuable, but this simple hoop is my most prized possession.

Talking Mouse had to leave quickly, but he told me that he would be e-mailing me a copy of his journal. I looked forward to receiving it. Basically, I thought, it would give me greater insight into this young man. The journal arrived, and I started reading. It started in 1987, and somewhere during 1992 he had written that he must seek out White Buffalo Woman in Kingman, AZ. I did not move to Kingman until September, 1994, and he found me in 2001. He knew I was coming!

PtesanWi

"You are who she was". Five little words. Yet their full impact set upon me as I read the words on my computer's screen. How could Ron have known? Silly you, he's a psychic!

I have known Ron for several years now, and quite frankly, he knows me better than any other person on this planet we call home. I first met him when he called the shop to order feathers. He's a wonderful craftsman in his own right, and we seemed to hit it off immediately. We share a great many things in our lives, but he has always been careful not to tell me what will happen in mine. Respecting this, I had asked him to regress me, to take me back. Strange things had been happening lately, and while I thought I knew what they meant, I desperately needed his confirmation. He agreed, and this is the story of that session. All he asked was how far back I wanted to go (19 generations -- 900 years), and what I wanted to know (who I was at that time). His reply was, "You are who she was". He told me that I was among the Sioux people, but that I was not Sioux. He told me that I was the Chosen One, and that I would change the lives of these wonderful people. He told me that my story would be passed down through the generations of these people, and that the gift that I carried to them would be held in the highest esteem.

I knew he was right. I had seen all of this many times over the last few weeks. He continued, telling me that I had a choice in this path; I could accept what would be a very dangerous, yet fulfilling life, or I could just simply walk away. I think it took me about two seconds to decide. I knew that people needed me, and that walking away was just not in my genes. Ron told me that I must speak with a medicine man, since there were many issues that would arise and I needed to know how to handle them. He also stressed that this medicine man must not know me personally. I finally found him, in White Cloud, MN. He is Blackfoot. I was told that I needed to send him a small lock of my hair, and that he would call me when he received it. He called about a week later, and his first words to me were, 'Calf Woman, it is my honor to speak with you'. We discussed the many things I needed to do to get myself ready to take this journey, and he told me that it was important that I continue to walk with my head held high (I had just re-met Bear at Terry's, and my confidence was building). I thanked this wonderful man, and started on my journey.

I have not always been a spiritual person, yet I have always known that I was different somehow. I had been giving of myself for many years now, but the remainder of my life will be exceptionally challenging. First, I am Anglo. Yet Talking Mouse, a young Paiute man, pointed out to me that I am more Native American than I think I am. Another young man, who is a descendant of Red Cloud (the great Sioux warrior), sought my spiritual guidance when he felt he could not speak with his family. It takes my breath away to remember all of the native people, from many different nations, who have asked that I help them. Next we come to the titles that have been given me; Holy Woman, Medicine Woman, and the one that I prefer, Healer. I do not wish to work with herbs. I do not know enough about them. I prefer to work with the insight that the Creator has given me. That insight, in itself, is enough to work wonders.

This story will continue. There are many events that need to be told. None of them can be spoken of briefly..........

Oh, yes. PtesanWi -- Lakota Sioux -- White Buffalo Calf Woman -- I am who She was

BEAR

I was born and raised in New York City, so I am accustomed to the strange, stranger, and strangest. When he walked into my store for the first time, the term 'desert rat' described my first impression. He was looking for Native American music, but what he wanted would have to be special ordered. I took the order, and when I asked his name, he answered 'Bear'. That was it. No first name, no last name. Just 'Bear'. That's when I decided he belonged in my 'strangest' category.

I met him again a few years later. This time at Terry's home. Terry had invited me to come up 'any Sunday' for lunch, and since my life was in major upheaval at the time (mid-April, 2004), I thought that this would be a good idea. Lunch was great, but the conversation was even greater. We spoke for hours. He told me about his life, how he received his name (which was actually Little Bear -- just like one of mine!). We spoke about my recent epiphany, about life in general, about our fears. You name it, we touched on the subject. When I finally left, we hugged and he whispered 'welcome to a beautiful new world' in my ear. The following weekend, Terry invited me to Yesterdays in Chloride. They would be celebrating Bear's birthday. His 60th, or at least that was the one he was owning up to. I decided to go, and I am forever grateful that I did. We sat at a table with a dozen or so other gunfighters, he at the head and me to his immediate right. Good food, good music, good people. And I was laughing! I hadn't done that in a long, long time and it felt good -- really good. We danced a few times -- again something I hadn't done in quite a while, I taught him how to do the 'hand jive'. The evening was over way too soon, and I still had the drive home. Did it bother me that I had finally had an enjoyable evening. Not a chance!

I soon became a regular at Yesterdays, closing my shop at 4:00pm on Saturday afternoon, and heading north. And he was always there. And we always danced. And we always laughed. Memorial Day weekend was fast approaching, and we (Terry, Betty, Bear and me) made plans for a road trip to Flagstaff, to see the White Buffalo that were now living there. Since my son had the only vehicle that would endure the trip, I commandeered it and we left on a bright, clear Sunday morning. I must admit that I am always in a hurry to get to Flagstaff, but that is another blog. We made it in an hour and a half, even with a pit stop in Williams. Leaving Williams, I started hearing their young voices, "she's coming! and she is bringing the blue-eyed man who shares her name"! There was a lot of chatter going on in the car, all of it enjoyable. When we finally arrived at the ranch, we walked to the corral area and Bear stopped dead in his tracks. He looked at me with his sky blue eyes wide open, and told me that we were on sacred ground. I just smiled, and we continued walking towards the whites. Stopped now in front of Miracle Moon, I introduced them. That is when I first heard the crying. Small voices, sobbing. I had no idea what was happening, but I started crying too. Bear came over to me, put his arms around my shoulder, and just stood there as I sobbed. There was great comfort in his touch and, at this point, I decided to give him the gift I had created for him. I took off the choker I had been wearing, and presented it to him. And he cried. He knew that it had been made just for him, and that it contained something from each of the animals that protect me. Eagle, wolf, bear, and white buffalo were all represented in that choker.

We finally left the ranch, and headed back to Williams, where we briefly attended a rendezvous. From there, we decided to have dinner in Seligman. There is a small restaurant/gift shop in town, and we settled in for a delightful dinner of buffalo burgers and fries. We spent two hours there discussing plans for Halloween, and the annihilation of Chloride that night. It would be called 'the night of the living bread', and all sorts of pranks involving bread would be levied on the inhabitants of town. We planned our costumes, and the preparation of same. And all too soon we were driving back to Kingman, chatting, laughing, and me singing 'how do you like me now?' along with Toby, at the top of my lungs. Little did I know that our time together would soon come to an end.

The following week I ordered denim shirts for Terry, Betty and Bear, to be embroided with the group name, and their individual stage name. When I called Terry to let him know that the shirts were in, he gently told me that Bear had suffered a major heart attack the night before. When I asked what hospital he was in, Terry had to tell me that Bear hadn't made it. I remember the scream, and falling from my stool. The next thing I remember was Terry being there, and my crying and falling into his arms. And that's when it hit me -- Bear was gone. And I was in love with him, down to the very soul of my being. It was a love so pure and full of spirit. And I didn't know it!

A memorial service was held for Bear the following Saturday at Cyanide Springs. There was a large gathering of people. Many other gunfighting groups were there to pay their respects. Many people were there for me. They had seen the wonderful change in me, and were there of offer me their support in my darkest hour. I remember sitting on a hay bale, when Betty and Burnbottom brought the burro, Jenny Pearl, down the street. I was surrounded by people and Jenny broke away from the handlers. She walked right over to me and gently placed her head over my shoulder. To this day, I am convinced that it was Bear coming over to say 'see ya'. Another memorial of sorts took place at Yesterdays that night. People offering me their condolences. People who had seen what was happening in the time Bear and I were together. People who told me what it was like to watch us. They told me of how, when we entered the restaurant, each of us would be enveloped in a cloud of gold light, and how when we danced, we would be in a cloud of diamonds. I carry that wonderful picture with me always.

54 days. That is all the time we had together. Yet, it was an eternity. Bear is still with me. He protects me from the evil that is in my life; he comforts me when I feel that life is not worth living; he laughs with me when I remember something that we did together; and he is here with me now, while I write about him. My wonderful cowboy, singer, and jokester may not be with me physically, but I know that he is always there when I need him. And I know that he is waiting patiently for me to meet him again -- on the other side.

Terry and Betty wear their shirts, and I wear Bear's. There is a small white buffalo embroidered above his name.