Philco Page 2

  “The name of the town is Hurricane Hills.” He pauses at this point of information and gives me a look suggesting a response, catching me in the middle of wondering what prompted anyone to name this place anything involving “Hills.” Maybe there were hills here at one time and a hurricane blew them away. I sense he is staring at me as if he can read my thoughts. I have a hunch I know what he is thinking as well, and it is something along the lines of not being amused by what I just thought about the name of his town. The pause serves to punctuate the awkward silence between these two strangers. He holds out his hand, almost as an effort to break through the stillness that hangs over us: “I’m Robbert…with two ‘b’s.” Apparently, my name is not a necessary component of the conversation, as he doesn’t ask for mine, though I do jump in when I find an opening in his pause to draw in a deep breath.

  “I’m Philco.” Besides, I want to get used to my voice.

  He continues without acknowledgement. “Back then there was a high school, a junior high, a grade school, and a small teacher’s college. There were ‘different parts of town’ and the downtown bustled, especially on Saturdays. It was a proud crossroads of cultures…”

  He stops talking. Lifting his eyes away from mine, he looks over my shoulder and down the deserted street. I can tell by the length of this pause that his gaze doesn’t stop there, but continues out across the emptiness beyond the edge of town.

  “It was where farmers used to make the foothill parts of the prairies abound with wheat and alfalfa and ranchers grazed their cattle on other portions of natural grasslands. It was a place where Chinese rail-workers stayed behind when the work was done. But, most important, it was the natural home of an Indian tribe that, at one time, had it all to themselves until they were forced off the land of their ancestors. Of course, in time, they were herded back upon it once it had lost its innocence of terrain and its value to the ‘white man’.”

  His presence fills my entire field of vision. I am even surer that I have come upon this place for a reason and sense an ordered suspension, so I make myself as comfortable as I can on the hard, weathered bench. I listen intently, motionless so as not to interrupt his cadence. It’s obvious that the telling is like breathing to him; it is how he stays alive. His words create curiously familiar images and my mind lulls into the panorama of this verbal portrait—their sound fading away down the lonely street before us. As they resonate around undefined edges, he gently unfolds a story about two boys growing up on the neighboring prairies, along rivers, and by reservation lands. His words breathe life into the moment like a warm breeze overflowing with Indian summer fragrances.

  This curious old man sitting next to me has just become the host on my inaugural journey through this sacred place and I am carried away into the codger’s tale about a young fellow called Jacob and an Indian lad named Joshua.

  I close my eyes and am lifted off the bench and high above the dusty street from where the scene unfolds, my body hovering there for a moment and then drifting into that other time and a town like this one. The clack-clack of Robbert’s buck-knife hitting the wood falls in time with his words and his breathing, the trio creating a pulsating time signature—an airy, dreamy, drum-like soundtrack—for his story. I recognize the tempo; it is the same as Sam Henry’s tapping on the steering wheel.

  When I open my eyes, below me is a schoolyard. I see two young lads standing around an old circular cement drinking fountain. Its rim is dotted with several round silver balls that offer up cool water to the boys and girls who bend their heads together receiving a communion of sorts. The landscape morphs from brown on brown to multiple greens, browns, and grays, and my focus narrows on the faded red brick exterior of an old schoolhouse. Joshua drinks deep, turns his back, and looks to the fields beyond. Jacob’s soft blue eyes follow his every move.

  Robbert’s voice carries me forward…

  MAN WORDS

  [ROBBERT]

  “I WAS A SCHOOLTEACHER in a small western town back then, and a real good one, most people say. I was respectfully addressed as ‘Mr. Roberts’ by students and staff alike, and I wore a suit and tie to work. My father had a quirky sense of humor so he had named me Robbert—yes, Robbert Roberts. The way he tells it, the reason he anointed me with the extra “b” in my first name was to avoid confusion between my first and last—figure that one out. I accepted that explanation, but wish he hadn’t picked Roberto for my middle name.”

  Robbert Roberto Roberts continues, his tone switching from explanatory to instructive. “When you are in charge of sixth graders you develop an acute awareness of the youthful dynamics of this very unique environment. As the school year progressed, so did several storylines, subplots, and scenarios developing between the students. It was like watching a curious puzzle being assembled in the classroom and on the playground. Sometimes I could predict the outcome, but young people are tricky, and more often, I got hoodwinked in the end.” I nod from my nothingness, knowing that it doesn’t matter what I do.

  “Out of all these observances over the years, there is one that will always stand out in both my heart and mind—the unique relationship between Jacob and Joshua…” He pauses as if to let the names sink in before he continues. “They were both twelve–such a precarious age for young lads. It’s that tumultuous time when the body is ready to embark on some very powerful changes but has yet to notify the rest of the molecules comprising the unwitting teen-to-be. Toy trucks and insects have already become less interesting, but a replacement hasn’t surfaced yet to take their place, such as the girls who are getting ready to emerge into the periphery of a young fellar’s once uncomplicated psyche. Everything is a surprise and the boy-now/man-to-be cannot stop wondering why.”

  Robbert pauses and I shift positions. “I know what you mean,” I offer, even though I have no idea what he was talking about. At this point I’m not sure I know what a psyche is or how to complicate one even if I did. It didn’t matter though ‘cause I can tell the pause isn’t for my benefit or an invitation for a verbal intrusion.

  “For Jacob, growing up in deep country in the late ‘40s, there wasn’t much going on to spur curiosity or capture interest around his remote home out on the prairie. Coming into town on the school bus each weekday morning to the elementary school was a welcomed opportunity to become inquisitive about matters that weren’t apparent on the farm.

  “The town kids were intimidating with their seemingly perfect families, nice homes, and upscale ways. Jacob was very cautious of the guys his age from the sawmill area down by the river who postured, waiting for the least sign of weakness from anyone outside their ‘zone.’ But it was safe in the classroom, and he got excited about the new worlds that opened up during exchanges between the teachers and students. Jacob sat in awe as he learned about other lands and different cultures. Back in those innocent days, people in authority cared about the responsibilities outlined in their job descriptions.”

  I find myself leaning forward as Robbert draws me deeper into this other time and space.

  “As a young lad, Jacob was also intrigued by the kids bussed in from the Indian reservation that bordered our small town. Actually, he was more than intrigued; he was enthralled. They were quiet, focused, detached, and fabulous to look at. They had long, flowing, shiny, raven hair. They had deep, dark, and bright, white eyes set against velvety, bronze-tinted skin. The young boys were very handsome, and the girls elusively pretty.

  “The school busses dropped everyone off between the junior high and the wood shop building out back so they could disperse to the junior and senior high schools directly across two of the streets bordering the grade school, making it easy for Jacob to envision how they would look when they became teenagers—providing him with a personal evolution chart right before his eyes.

  “The young men were sinewy, straight, and tall with a countenance that quietly stated they weren’t afraid of anyone. That is why no one ever t
ested them. The girls were stunning in their beauty as they made their way into maturity. No one could blame a young lad for noticing that their bodies were like goddess-sculptured exotica, developing way ahead of the poor, plain, white girls. Their fine points were highly accentuated by long, silken black hair, with skin as smooth as liquid caramel and eyes that could send a young boy into Olympic-style perspiration.”

  Robbert pauses so long at this recollection that I wonder if he is going to stay with this image of the young girls or keep telling his story. This time I do wish I knew what he means…then he finally continues.

  “Jacob’s hometown was where the logs came down the river from far-away forests that covered the northern portions of the territory to the waiting sawmill just outside of town. It was also the center of commerce for all the ranchers and farmers who worked their gigantic spreads that crisscrossed the great prairies and vast wilderness of this remote territory. It was the old days in Cowboy and Indian land, and Saturday was the big day in town when all the people came together.

  “The lumberjacks and ranch hands would come into town to spend their paychecks at the taverns and cheap hotels; the ranchers and farmers came for feed, tackle, and supplies; and, the Indians were there to purchase white man goods after the government checks arrived. Jacob noticed the tribal members were different than the other outcasts—the bums, cheap women, derelicts—and admired the way they didn’t look down when they walked the white man’s streets. They always held their heads high looking directly at you, with those dark piercing eyes as they passed by.”

  Robbert’s whittling has found a pattern, serving as percussion for the soundtrack of his personal moving picture, and he is hitting the wood harder and harder with his knife. With his jaw set and his eyes closed, he carries on.

  “As bizarre as it may seem, this was a point in our not so distant history when a young person would grow up in an America where local taverns were not allowed to sell ‘firewater’ (hard liquor) to the Indians. There was a designated Indian bar down by the river, on the outskirts of town where they were allowed to buy beer. The hard stuff was strictly forbidden. The ‘Indian bar’ was far enough away from everyone so nobody had to watch as they got drunk and blew it out. By my way of thinking, the lack of firewater simply forced them to drink larger quantities of beer to reach a point for the pain of their lost heritage to go away.

  “This was hard country,” he explained, “and it was commonplace to see—just as in the movies—a wasted desperado being thrown through the swinging doors of a saloon onto the main street sidewalk. It was prudent procedure to stay along the outer edge of the sidewalk when walking by these watering holes while keeping an eye on the entrance just in case a flying cowboy came through those swinging doors. There were no bar stools in the saloons, only a long brass foot-rail with spittoons at each end of the bar. The logic and the law agreed it was okay to serve the customers a drink as long as they could remain standing up.

  “So it was cowboy hats, spurs, chaps, ‘chaw tabacky,’ horses, drunken brawls, colorful Indians, and fine ladies and gentlemen of all sizes and shapes that filled the main street of Jacob’s panhandle town in his growing up years. What made this especially interesting was that Jacob had spent the earliest of his formative years in a more ‘civilized’ setting in a small Quaker town back east where things were a little more staid and proper. Because Jacob’s original introduction to this foreign place came in the form of ‘Wild West’ movies, by the time he landed there he was scared to death of Indians, and in awe of the heroic cowboys.”

  Robbert goes on for a while in great detail about how the young lad became “westernized,” and how, in time, that all changed. As he talks he moves further back into that time, his eyes becoming almost vacant and his breathing becoming almost undetectable.

  “Growing up in town there were four groups of guys. In descending order of current social worthiness, they were the town kids, the prairie kids (like Jacob), the river kids, and, finally, the Indian kids. Everyone knew his or her place and things ran smoothly. The main difference in a boy’s life potential was that the two middle categories did have a chance of moving up to the first group or out into the world someday; but, the Indians were Indians, and that wasn’t going to change. It didn’t help matters that the young ones didn’t really seem to care a lot about the future. No matter how hard the elders tried, they couldn’t seem to inspire their children to make a life for themselves beyond the reservation. The tribal council sent many high school graduates from the reservation to the State University less than fifty miles away, but even with a free ride and heart-felt encouragement from the tribe, no one had the determination to graduate. Alcoholism and lethargy dominated the later years and a daunting sadness prevailed over their existence. It was tragic because the tribe was a beautiful, peaceful, gentle, and intelligent group of people. They were high-spirited beings who loved their ancient lands and were deeply dedicated to right living with nature and close family ties. They had been shuffled around from reservation to reservation, robbed of their natural system of survival and given just enough money to keep them an inch-and-a-half from poverty. It killed their passion for living. After time, they just tucked away into the silence of a life they did not understand or want.”

  The aching in Robbert’s heart for the Native American culture seeps into his delivery as his tone softens and his pauses lengthen. I can tell he is having a hard time keeping from crying. And, it is clear he really liked Jacob by the way he said his name as he spoke.

  “Jacob was enthralled with these people. He loved the softness of their spirit and the splendor of their ways. He was drawn to one Indian lad his age named Joshua, and was especially intrigued by how he spent his time during recess. Jacob wondered why he never answered questions when called on in class and why he never talked to anyone in the schoolyard. Joshua was different from the others of the reservation who were bussed into the town school each day. He kept to himself and never spoke to anyone. He would always run away into the fields alone during breaks and return just before the bell.

  “Jacob wanted to know more about Joshua. He approached him many times, but Joshua always turned away as if he didn’t hear Jacob speaking to him. During the rare instances when Jacob would corner him, he looked past Jacob like he didn’t exist. Jacob made a project out of the two of them. It wasn’t something he thought out in great detail, and he honestly did not have an agenda other than for the two of them to become friends, even though that was not acceptable at the time. Jacob was patient, persistent, and quite willing to wait it out in order to befriend this quiet soul if that is what it was going to take. One day Jacob caught him at the drinking fountain in the schoolyard. It was that day the quiet Indian lad realized Jacob’s heart was like a bulldog and he wasn’t going to let go.

  “His given name was Joshua and his tribal family name was Sobota; but the name that defined him was the one given to him by the elders: Ha’atya Tewe’kekeweet—the one who chases the winds. He was from a proud Indian tribe of the northern plains and had learned about God at the mission; but, even though he believed in the Holy Trinity, the teachings of his heritage and his great forefathers were deep in his being.

  “Jacob was so drawn to him that almost every day he would stand close by in an attempt to become his friend. He would think of ways to get Joshua to speak to him, bringing him food from home, telling Joshua his mom made it special just for them.

  “Finally, one day Joshua accepted the offering placed between them and they began to eat together, but still without speaking. This time of sharing placed them in a perfect line of vision, yet they never once let their eyes touch, though they did begin to grasp pieces of each other’s souls. Because Jacob had proven himself to Joshua over time by being steady and faithful in his pursuit, and one day Joshua turned and faced him directly. His words were measured and warm.

  “‘An elder once told me when the day of speaking comes, God giv
es each of us only so many words for man, and when we use up our man words the wind leaves our body with the last one and we die…unless we catch unspoken man words left in the wind. But it is also said that God loves to talk to us so much, He has established that we could have as many words as we want when we are speaking to Him. So I talk to Him all the time outside the schoolyard and chase the wind looking for man words left behind.’

  “Having told this to Jacob, Joshua extended his open hands and placed one on his heart and one on Jacob’s. Then he quickly turned away and ran into the field, his raven hair flowing, where he disappeared up the ravine, chasing the wind, speaking to the sky, and waving back to his new friend Jacob.

  “The long episode leading up to this exchange between the two lads opened the door between their unique heritages and melded them into a timeless pool of sweet understanding. The moment was so powerful they couldn’t look at each other for weeks. It was monumental, and the closeness made them both uncomfortable. Jacob quit bringing food from home and made sure he was on the other side of the schoolhouse when Joshua came in from the canyons. They knew instinctively they had established something so deep it would take time to absorb its real meaning before they could enjoy what they had achieved in their innocence.