Remnants of Memory

Here I sit in my 90^th year, not recognizing the man I see in the looking glass. I have been told that I should write down the events of my life as they would mark the passing of an age, one filled with wonders and of hardships. You should know that my mind and memory is not what it once was and my body shakes the quill in my hand, so writing isn’t an option. So, if you don’t mind, I’ll dictate, and like our ancestors for generations, pass on the story of my life verbally. As you’re well aware all stories have a beginning, and an end. I can’t remember the beginning; I assume I was born to parents of which I can’t remember either. The end, well I know how that ends, but that too I shall soon forget, thankfully. It would seem death comes for us all, but instead of stealing me away, he’s content to pull my string like a master puppeteer putting on a show. It seems the older I get, the colder I seem to become so I know you will excuse me if I pause to light a fire. There that’s better, now what was I talking about? Oh yeah, the beginning, let’s see.

The crackling fire reminds me of another, so long ago. I remember, I was fishing. I was always fishing though I can’t ever recall ever catching anything, unless you count hay fever, but I digress. Fishing, I was fishing…no fire. It was the summer of my 6^th or 7^th year and I was laying on the bank of a meandering brook suckling on a piece of sweet grass that grew there. I was staring up at the clouds, watching them change shapes and trying to figure out what they look like. You ever do that, imagine you see puppy doggies, or dragons, or dung beetles? I saw buffaloes, why did I always see buffaloes. Oh, by the way, did I ever tell you about the time I met Bill Cody? You probably know him as wild Bill Hitchcock, anyway, wait no, those are two different people… Oh right, where was I?

Clouds. I was staring up at the clouds when I noticed dark black smoke rising up in the distance. I thought it was my father burning some remnants of the trees he had cut down to build a fence. Soon, however the sky turned black as night and I knew that the house was burning. I ran, I ran faster than I have ever run in my life. When I got to the house, I saw that it was engulfed in flames. Around the house there were five men with their faces painted rummaging through the barn, the only building that wasn’t on fire. I don’t know what made me do it, but I charged the first man I saw, screaming like a banshee, and must have scared him because he jumped and then backed up rapidly. I kept charging, and I was almost to him before I felt a sharp and heavy whop to my face then nothing. I have no idea what I would have done to a fully grown man at my age had I caught him, but that's how I got this scar on my face, I found out after the fact that another of the outlaws had hit me with the pummel of his bowie knife. Hum…oh yes, they were outlaws pretending to be Indians, hence the face paint but we’ll get back to that later on in the story.

Have you ever felt someone carrying you? The movement of your body in contrast to the movement of the carrier? That’s what I remember, I can’t describe it anyway but that. What I can describe is what happened next. I heard, rather than saw, children playing, at first, I wasn’t sure cause my head felt like it was under water but I swear it was the pitter patter of running feet and high-pitched happy laughter. Something cool and wet was pressed against my face, which was throbbing, keeping pace with the rapid heartbeat of a scared kid who couldn’t see where he was. I tried in vain to pull my hands to my face but couldn’t muster the strength and I have to admit I cried. Either someone was in the room or someone had just entered, for as I audibly sobbed, the cool cloth, which was collecting my tears, was gently removed from my face and my surroundings slowly came into view. That was the first time I saw the woman who would raise me. And I pissed myself.

There are understandably a few times in life when it’s ok to pee on yourself. As a babe obviously and now at 90 with incontinence in full affect with no control of your faculties but that was probably not the time. But there I was, staring at a squat, little, slightly rotund Indian woman and upon seeing Two Moons I lost my bowels. In my defense, I had just seen, what I believed at the time, to be Indians, burn down my home. As I’m sure you’re well aware, the human vocalizations are universal, the same in every language. For example, screaming and crying. The guttural laughing, and the hissing cackle that came from Two Moons as she pointed at me made me feel horrible. There I was, soaking in my own pee, crying and sobbing and she was laughing. She was laughing so hard she snorted, and when she did, she quickly covered her mouth as her eyes opened wide in disbelief as if she heard the noise she just made for the first time. That’s when I started to snicker and together, we both laughed.

I loved Two Moons. Funny, I lived with her for 7 summers and, that’s what I remember of her, the person I called mom. You’ll have to excuse me now; seems I’ve become melancholic. I’m an old man and I’m tired. Come back tomorrow and I’ll regale you on the charge up San Juan hill and about the famous rough riders that walked instead of rode. For now, please allow me sleep.