M
moose eater
In the midst of the morning's demands and unresolved issues requiring more energy, I, for some strange reason, found myself reflecting on a warm moment in a friend's past.
He's now deceased, raised in foster homes, including extended family on the rez, a Nez Perce Indian from rural Idaho, Marine Corp Veteran from the Vietnam era, though not a combat vet.
He had bits and pieces that rubbed me wrong, but within him was also a worthy human being. 2 parts misogynistic or chauvinistic, 1 part red-neck, 3 parts aging freedom lover and would-be hippy if not for some of the other views.
He was killed graphically and crudely by a family member with whom he'd been over-bearing, and the family member had gone astray inside the system a while before he murdered my friend.
He was often calm in his approach to any number of conflicts, with the exception of one Achilles heel we both shared; loss of primary relationships typically pushed us into places so dark it made the shadows look like the Sun. Both of us for similar but different pasts and reasons. All involving death, abandonment, heartache, and losses that leave a person trying to define what is sacred, reliable, or trustworthy in life.
He'd bought an old defunct farm up here that hadn't been functional in probably 4-5 decades or more. He made the old tumble-down log cabin into a grow op, and lived in a funky camp trailer outside the cabin, in winter, summer, and in between. We ate a few meals and smoked a bit of dope there at times.
We worked in opposition to the USA PATRIOT ACT, and reminisced about the days he had sold lots of bulk, premium, outdoor grown weed to a former associate..
Faced with any number of life questions or predicaments, I can still see him with a half grin of understanding-meets-cynicism, and half buried wisdom, with a discernible twinkle in his eyes. I mean a REAL twinkle. Like fucking Santa Claus seeing a child on Christmas morning. That kind of twinkle.
For what ever reason, this morning, or maybe mid-day, I recalled an incident when a State Trooper had gone down the long rural dirt road this old farm was located at, and, facing off with my friend, had said, "We know what you're doing here."
My friend had replied, with that knowing and confident twinkle in his eyes, "Yah, you -might- be right.. But you're still not coming in." without ever raising his voice, shaking, and no sign of fear. Just that twinkle in his eyes, and that grin. A peaceful, calm grin
For all of his imperfection, his warts, the things that made me look the other way at times, I miss that confident, steady hand and demeanor that stood side by side with us in any number of serious quests for liberty.
I smiled at the memory and image in my mind of that moment in time, when he calmly turned to a young State Trooper and said, "Yah, you might be right.. But you're still not coming in." And that twinkle. That grin.
That was some nice icing on the morning.
He's now deceased, raised in foster homes, including extended family on the rez, a Nez Perce Indian from rural Idaho, Marine Corp Veteran from the Vietnam era, though not a combat vet.
He had bits and pieces that rubbed me wrong, but within him was also a worthy human being. 2 parts misogynistic or chauvinistic, 1 part red-neck, 3 parts aging freedom lover and would-be hippy if not for some of the other views.
He was killed graphically and crudely by a family member with whom he'd been over-bearing, and the family member had gone astray inside the system a while before he murdered my friend.
He was often calm in his approach to any number of conflicts, with the exception of one Achilles heel we both shared; loss of primary relationships typically pushed us into places so dark it made the shadows look like the Sun. Both of us for similar but different pasts and reasons. All involving death, abandonment, heartache, and losses that leave a person trying to define what is sacred, reliable, or trustworthy in life.
He'd bought an old defunct farm up here that hadn't been functional in probably 4-5 decades or more. He made the old tumble-down log cabin into a grow op, and lived in a funky camp trailer outside the cabin, in winter, summer, and in between. We ate a few meals and smoked a bit of dope there at times.
We worked in opposition to the USA PATRIOT ACT, and reminisced about the days he had sold lots of bulk, premium, outdoor grown weed to a former associate..
Faced with any number of life questions or predicaments, I can still see him with a half grin of understanding-meets-cynicism, and half buried wisdom, with a discernible twinkle in his eyes. I mean a REAL twinkle. Like fucking Santa Claus seeing a child on Christmas morning. That kind of twinkle.
For what ever reason, this morning, or maybe mid-day, I recalled an incident when a State Trooper had gone down the long rural dirt road this old farm was located at, and, facing off with my friend, had said, "We know what you're doing here."
My friend had replied, with that knowing and confident twinkle in his eyes, "Yah, you -might- be right.. But you're still not coming in." without ever raising his voice, shaking, and no sign of fear. Just that twinkle in his eyes, and that grin. A peaceful, calm grin
For all of his imperfection, his warts, the things that made me look the other way at times, I miss that confident, steady hand and demeanor that stood side by side with us in any number of serious quests for liberty.
I smiled at the memory and image in my mind of that moment in time, when he calmly turned to a young State Trooper and said, "Yah, you might be right.. But you're still not coming in." And that twinkle. That grin.
That was some nice icing on the morning.
Mr. McCain refused help when Russia offered. 
