the Yurok Tribe that fished the waters of the Klamath and the Pacific and hunted the redwood forests long before hordes of white humans came drawn by gold. Then they began to take the Yurok’s timber, game, seals, whales, and fish. It wasn’t long before they took the rest of what the Yurok’s held dear; their land and their dignity, and with that their culture. Now all the Yuroks have is a small casino on reservation land. It isn’t much but it’s better than it was before. I believe they have some dignity back.
I grab all of my school things, and head to the front porch where my bike is. My bike is a cool vintage “earth-tone.” I found it at a garage sale and restored it. I painted it myself with lead-free and oil-free paint. It’s a girl’s classic Schwinn and it rides like a dream.
My helmet is lime-green with matching brown peace signs on it, because a girl has to have a little fun. It matches my also hemp-fiber backpack which is indestructible, only the color-scheme is reversed; lime peace signs on brown.
What am I wearing? No expressive T today. I went with a simple, short-sleeve, cotton black top with some age-appropriate lace action in the middle where the cleavage is, black skinny jeans, and the indigo blue hemp sneakers.
I will wear recycled boots that I find at thrift stores. Lily will not recycle shoes and boots because of her dirty feet fetish, but I will. What’s going to hurt a vampire? I like boots less for fashion and more because they make me taller. Yes, I’m a little insecure about my height. I’ll take the inch or two boots give me. Fo’ sho’.
Back to my Indian friend.
My friend’s son is on the Tribal Council that runs the casino and is in charge of the distribution of the monies the casino makes. His son somehow has managed to build himself a very nice big modern home off the reservation while the rest of the members of the tribe live in small homes on the reservation. The world is always the same it seems.
My Indian friend, get this… lives in a teepee in his son’s backyard. He can live in this nice big house with all the comforts you can imagine, yet he chooses to live in the teepee. I’m not talking he visits the teepee… he lives there.
Now the Yuroks did not live in teepees. They lived in simple wooden plank homes made of redwood. My friend explained to me that he likes the smell of the deer skin the teepee is made of and he loves the feel and smell of the large black bear pelt that covers most of the floor inside of it. The teepee is just the right size for him and it has no sharp corners or slivers that he has to worry about.
My friend has a wonderful wisdom and wit about him honed from another time. A simpler time. That’s why I enjoy our talks and his company so much.
I’m riding towards his teepee now. If only I was on a mountain stretch of road, I’d take the Schwinn for a real ride. If you think I can run fast, you should see what I can do on my bike.
I’m here. Smoke is rising above the fence. That means he’s making bear bacon – that’s his breakfast favorites. He’s never offered me any. Actually, he’s never offered me anything to eat come to think of it. Hmm.
He gives me hand-carved gifts like little wolves and bears. At the end of this summer, he gave me an entire deer family. I don’t know how he does it, but these figures are perfect in every detail. But he’s never offered me anything to eat.
This fact has never dawned on me until right now. Funny how for whatever reason you have these dawnings come to you and you don’t even know why. Then they start creeping in your head and you have to know the answer.
I won’t ask him though. It would be disrespectful. What would I do if he offered it to me anyway? I’d have to turn it down maybe hurting his feelings. I’ll let it remain another mystery of life.
As soon as I enter through the back gate my friend comes out of his teepee. He knows the sound of my bike and always greets me with a special name he calls me. Sure enough - he’s got a piece of bear bacon in his hand.
“Young Fawn. There is no one else I could be happier to have come visit me today,” he says.
There’s an element of excitement in his face and smile. I’ve never seen him so… smiley. He just crammed the bear bacon into his mouth. The mystery remains intact.
“Hi,” I respond.
As he finishes chewing the bacon he moves to his chair by the fire-pit. He uses his hand carved walking stick. He carves those and sells them for a bit of extra money. He likes to be self-sufficient.
His chair is amazing. He spent a year carving the chair out of a single large block of redwood, using nothing more than a hatchet. Then he sanded it smooth and used a natural lacquer on it to bring out the redwood colors and to protect it from the elements. He likes to sit in his chair and smoke an ornate pipe that he also carved. The pipe is ornamented with a beautiful large reddish-brown feather tied on with a thin leather strip.
The pipe is exquisitely carved with scenes of hunting and fishing like you see in Egyptian hieroglyphics on the tomb walls of Egyptian royalty. How he accomplished this feat being blind I have no idea. The tiniest of details are carved in the wood. The objects making up each scene are raised from the background. I know he wasn’t blind all of his life so he must have taken them from his memory. I know it is his most prized possession.
What he smokes in the pipe I don’t know, but it stinks, especially if you’ve got ultra-sensitive nasal receptors like me. On the other hand sweet smells are enhanced for us. The spring wildflower bloom is an amazing time to be a vampire. If heaven has a smell, that has to be it.
For humans, the winter cold is setting in so my friend is wearing a black bear fur wrap that is so long the bottom drags along the ground. His hair is long and gray and contrasts with the coal-black wrap.
He himself stands in contrast to what his people look and dress like now that they have been absorbed by the white culture. I’m not saying that to offend, just making an observation. They wear jeans and boots, and shirts like the rest of us.
Right now, my friend looks majestic. Not a blind, old, Indian-- but like a great chief. Today he has a leather headband that I’ve never seen him wear before, as well as a necklace of beautiful seashells that I’ve also never seen him wear before.
His pipe is at the ready next to his chair and he never smokes this early in the morning. I know I am making a face because of the presence of the pipe and my intense dislike of the stinky smell of the smoke from whatever it is he smokes. I’m glad he can’t see my expression. I’m hoping he isn’t planning on smoking it until I leave.
I truly love his whole persona. It calms me. He’s like the grandfather I never knew: both of mine are dead. (told you we don’t live forever). My grandmothers are still alive. They are old school vampires. They don’t understand the younger generation of vampires, so I really don’t connect with them. I know… imagining some old vampire grandma at someone’s neck gives me the “ew” spine-shivers too. Try to erase that from your memory.
“It’s been awhile Young Fawn,” my friend tells me.
“Yeah, I’ve been really busy,” I say. (true)
“Yes I’m sure you are,” he responds.
Getting cold now, huh?” I add to make small-talk. It isn’t cold at all for me, but very pleasant. It would be like it is at around seventy-degrees Fahrenheit for you.
“Yes. It’s cold. But not for you,”
