Ron

In this time, we have known each other about 7 years, and have seen each other twice. Our bills for telephone calls between us could repay the national debt, and we spend hours and hours chatting on instant messenger. He has been my strength during my darkest hours, and I have protected him during the myriad times he has struggled to remain alive. Our feelings for each other transcend the highest of the high, and the deepest of the deep. And he is the one person on this earth that really knows the 'real me'.

We live in different worlds. He was raised in a very small town in northern New England, while I grew up in New York City. His talents in the physic world are truly incredible. Far different from my world, but very similar in many ways. He will not tell me what will happen in my life, and I respect him for that. He will only say that I shouldn't worry -- I will be fine.

He is an imposing man, somewhere around 6'3" tall, and the only way I could describe him is 'lanky'. Not thin, by any means, but not big either. He gives the impression of being well educated but, in truth, my education was longer than his. He has the 'street smarts' that are needed to get along in this world. His sound of his voice can be very soothing, and he is a very private person. Yet he has shared with me some of his very personal secrets. Those secrets will not be repeated here since they are his secrets and are not for me to divulge. Suffice it to say that he is the person that he is because of things that he has done, or lived through. He has come to terms with himself, and keeps me on the 'straight and narrow' as I follow the path I have chosen. As you will recall, I mentioned him previously in my blogs. He is the one who showed me the paths I could choose from, and regressed me so that I could find my past.

He is one of my 'shoulders to cry on', and always shows me the brighter side of what is happening. He makes me laugh at times when I do not feel like laughing. I once asked him why he did that. Simply put, he loves the sound of my laughter.

Our conversations touch on many, many subjects. And we teach each other and learn from one another. I am his 'sweetness'; he is my 'sweet'. I am so grateful for him -- for his presence in my life, for his understanding, for his kindness, for his respect, and for his love.

Mwah, Ron.

Inner Peace

A few of my readers have mentioned that I only touch on the tip of the iceberg in some of my blogs, especially those relating to Bear and Silverfox. And they are right. So, dear readers, I will expand on those blogs in a while. But first, this one must be written.

Many people have asked me how I get through some of the things in my life, and my response, almost always, is inner peace. The next question is usually, 'how do I find that'. Admittedly, achieving this is not easy. Nor is there a steadfast way of doing it. There are always ups and downs on this road, but determination is the key.

First, and foremost, you must come to terms with yourself. You must learn to forgive yourself for any and all wrongs that you have committed during your past, no matter how small we may feel they were. This is sometimes a very difficult thing to do. We tend to seek forgiveness from those we have hurt, but forget to forgive ourselves. Blaming others for causing us to do our misdeeds is not the answer. 'Fessing up' to what has been done, and learning why we did it, are the first steps. From there, we must learn something beneficial from what has been done. Did this deed allow us to grow as a human being, or did it set us back? If it set us back, what was done to rectify the situation within ourselves. Did we learn anything from the experience and, if not, what have we done to teach ourselves? Once we have learned to do this, the rest comes naturally.

Reflecting on one's own life is the key to helping others. Yes, I have done some things of which I am not proud. A few have cost me long-time friendships. But I have learned to forgive myself. No, I won't repeat these 'offenses', but they have taught me that no matter how bad things seem, there are always clearer skies ahead. And did I grow from them? You folks know the answer to that. How you see me now is the result of all of this. I am honored to have so many people in my life now, most of whom I consider good friends. But what honors me most are those of you who seek my wisdom, and want to learn how to achieve the inner peace that I so treasure.

Silver Fox

This will be a difficult blog for me to write. In it, I must admit to my failures and again face the most challenging 13 years of my life. But it must be written and I feel that now is the time.

I first heard his voice the day I started with the feather company. Deep and sensual is the only way to describe it. He told me that he had just opened a shop in Kingman, so it would be necessary to do a name-change for his business. He also told me that he needed a large supply of feathers. Since this was my first day, I asked that he work with me because I didn't know the names of the feathers yet. He chuckled and said yes, he would be kind.

Over the next three years, our friendship grew (and I sold him a lot of feathers!). I saw him through many problems in his life, including a divorce from his then wife. He wondered if I would give him my telephone number at home, so that we could have more personal conversations. During one of these conversations, he asked me to marry him. I explained that we had never met, but he told me that wasn't important. So we settled on photos. He seemed nice enough, and I was lonely, so I agreed to marry him. I gave my boss one month's notice, and off we were to Kingman, Arizona.

Our first six months together were good, but things started changing and I didn't like what was happening. I noticed how, with me sitting there, he would tell customers that this marriage wasn't based on the beauty of the woman, but on brains. While I never considered myself 'beautiful' by any means, hearing him say something like that hurt. Then, although he knew that I was quite capable of shipping feathers, he would call his ex-girlfriend to find out how to do things. I found out shortly afterwards that she didn't know she was an ex-girlfriend. While sitting across from him at our work table, I heard him telling someone about my abilities at doing 'wifely duties'. To me, what happens in the bedroom stays there. I truly couldn't believe all the things I was hearing him say, and couldn't help wonder why he was saying them.

In short order, I learned that I was not permitted to: 1) drink coffee (it had killed his first wife); 2) go out alone or with my children; 3) purchase anything without his permission; 4) talk with friends on the telephone; 5) take a shower more than once a week (it would cause septic tank problems); 6) eat more than 600 calories per day (bye-bye thyroid gland); 7) talk with customers; 8) laugh; 9) discuss any of this with our doctor; 10) see our doctor unless I felt I was a death's door. The list goes on and on, but you get the point. He was controlling me, and I finally rebelled. It took me years, but meeting the people from Chloride was my first stepping stone.

I also learned, over the years, that 99.9% of the things he told me about himself were lies. He lived in an imaginary world, and wanted me to believe him. He considered himself a half-breed, but 1/32nd was more like it; he told me that he toured for the Encyclopedia Britannica in the 'great chieftains' tour; he told me that he grew up in California (on the Apache reservation in Sells, AZ was more like it. Stupid lies, but lies nonetheless. Stories about me were fast spreading through the town, and each could be traced back to him. I often placed the blame for his actions on the various ailments he was enduring, wanting to give some reason to his thoughts and actions. Sadly, I could only determine that he truly hated me, and his life with me.

In January, 2006, he was briefly hospitalized for a panic attack. A week or so later, I received a call from the Kingman office of the Adult Protection Service. Apparently, he had contacted them and told them that I was abusing, neglecting, and exploiting him. When I went to their office, the case worker told me that she knew that he was lying. and that they would be closing his case and opening one for me. However, the damage had already been done. I was making plans to finally leave him. He, on the other hand, was making plans to leave me. I found this out through a friend, not from him. When I finally confronted him with my knowledge, he just walked away.

On his final day in Kingman, we were awaiting the arrival of his daughters. He told me to go open the shop, I told him I would be waiting for the women to arrive. I wanted them to meet the woman he would be telling them lies about. He told me that if they saw my truck at the house, they wouldn't come in. He was still lying to me, but I knew that he was, and he knew that I knew. The daughters arrived while I was sitting in my truck. I didn't want to be in the house with him. There were hugs all around, and his younger daughter asked why I was sitting outside. I told her that he had said that the daughters didn't want me in the house when they arrived. Eyes rolled, and they knew what they would be up against. We finally all went inside, and just before I left, I told him that I hoped he would find peace in his new life. He answered that he knew he would. He still didn't understand.

I write these things to show how inner peace can protect you from the evils in your life. I found that inner peace several years ago, and it is my most precious possession. I could not have retained my sanity without knowing that peace. And I thank Ron, Terry, Betty and Bear for heading me in the right direction. Saludos, my friends.

Sgt. Burnbottom

He is a member of the Chloride gunfighters. His name, I am told, comes from a slight accident he had a few years ago. While attempting to put his pistol into his waistband at the back of his trousers, the pistol went off, burning his butt. What could have been a rather damaging event, led only to his new name.

He said that he had been told that my shop carried the largest variety of tanned leather in Kingman. In truth, my shop was the only place in town where leather could be purchased. He told me that he needed enough cow leather to build a new belt and holster for the errant pistol. He didn't want to risk another accident. Bear had introduced us the previous Saturday evening and, after selecting the pieces he needed, we went into conversation. I learned that he was in his early fifties, had never been married, had a keen interest in the American Civil War, and was an artist in several different mediums. While I never considered him a friend in the truest sense of the word, he was more than an acquaintance. He came into the shop regularly, buying this or that, and our conversations were lengthy.

Soon after Bear's death, he came in and presented me with a gift. Made by his mother, it is a 10 inch figure of a seated bear, with its front legs swatting the air. The mouth is partially opened. It is a clay piece, and I know that it must have taken hours to complete. The bear is the dark brown of a grizzly, and the work that went into this piece is nothing short of incredible. You can almost see each of the hairs on its body. I have been given, or collected, many figures of bears over the years, but this one is, and will remain, my most treasured.

During one of his visits, I told him that I had a vision. Bear had agreed to do the painting for me but, of course, he was never able to start. I asked him if he would agree to do the work for me, and told him that I would supply the materials of his choice, and pay him for the finished piece. He would be honored, he told me, and asked if I had paper and pen so that he could make a rough draft of what I wanted. I provided him with both, and told him about my vision. In the center, there is a Sioux woman (me), with long black hair streaked with gray. My arms are stretched upward, with the palms of my hands facing the heavens. On my left sits a bear, and on my right a wolf. An eagle is in position to light on my right arm, and the clouds in the sky form a small herd of white buffalo. These are my animal guides and protectors. He sketched as I spoke, and all of a sudden dropped the pen from his hand, as though his hand had been burned. I asked what was wrong, and he told me that he felt another hand over his, guiding his lines. I looked at the completed sketch and said that yes, another hand had been guiding his and that it was Bear. He asked how I could know this, and I told him that in my explanation of the scene, I never told him that the bear and the wolf seated on either side of me were looking up at me. I also never told him about the gentle breeze that was blowing my hair, and the feathers in it. Besides me, the only person who knew that was Bear.

Joe - The Magical One

His was my second call of the day. He told me that he was looking for feathers to make the floral arrangements that magicians use. Did I know what he was talking about? Since I had just gotten off the telephone with another magician, I told him that 'yes, I knew exactly what he wanted'.

I had taken this job with a feather importer/exporter/jobber just a few weeks earlier, and I was quick to learn the hundreds of uses for thousands of different types of feathers. One would immediately think of comforters and pillows when you say the word feather. The feathers we sold weren't even used for those purposes. Marching bands, fly tying fishermen, Native Americans, showgirls, milliners, Hawaiians, crafters, magicians and more used the feathers we sold.

He told me that he had been calling all over the country looking for someone to help him, and that the call to us was to be his last. Finally, someone who knew what they were talking about!!! We discussed his various options, and he placed his first order. A few weeks later, he was back on the phone, needing more of our beautiful feathers. We talked at length, and he told me that his 'day job' was as an assistant attorney general for the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. He spent his weekends performing magic at parties, hotels, and on stage. This was, he said, his way of easing the stress of his job.

We quickly became friends, and I sold him a lot of feathers. When he told me that he would be coming to New York to meet me, we made arrangements for him to come into the warehouse, and we would then have lunch. He and his wife arrived, and they presented me with a magician's bouquet. My boss, the jealous type, quickly determined that the bouquet should grace the office. Joe told him that it was mine, to take home and adorn my dining room table. Lunch was a two-hour affair, and we talked about my upcoming move to Arizona. He was disappointed that I would be leaving, but promised to stay in touch.

About two years later, he called me to let me know that he was attending a magician's convention in Las Vegas, and would like to drive down from there to see me. We talked about his schedule, and determined that it would be best if he came down late in the afternoon. This would bring him into Kingman at about 6:30, and I would stay at the shop until he arrived. During his visit, and our subsequent dinner, he told me that he was considering going out on his own, and opening a practice in his hometown. This would be a major decision for him, but was one that he had to make. He would, he told me, limit his practice to real estate law. It would mean that he would leave the security of working for the state, but give him his dream of having his own law office. I had given him a tape from the shop, R. Carlos Nakai's 'Canyon Trilogy'. I told him that when he had driven 20 miles past the turnoff for Dolan Springs, he should stop his car, put in the tape, lay on the hood of the car to look at the night sky, and listen for the coyotes call. Then, and only then, would he be able to make his decision.

He called again about four months later, wondering if I still had a painting he had seen on his visit. I told him it was still available, and he asked that I ship it to him. It would hang prominently behind his desk in his new office. I told him how proud, and excited, I was for him.

We have spoken many, many times during the following years. He worried about me through my broken marriage, and many illnesses. I would call him to get legal advice, and to let him know how things were going for me. Our friendship has grown over the years, and he continues to make me proud. His law office is one of the largest in the state of Pennsylvania. And the painting that hangs so prominently in his office? It is a winter scene in Yellowstone. There is a small herd of buffalo and, laying just off center, is a newborn calf -- a white one.

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.