For Daddy, On His Valentine Birthday

I had never imagined

not once

until yesterday

that those magical days

of wandering

through the woods

with an all-day sucker

staying in earshot

of the chainsaw

and later

the axe's chop and clack

exploring the mysterious

dark creek down in the

bottom

I didn't know those moments

could be remembered

as anything but

adventurous, luxurious

exciting

but now

I think of your freezing hands

your aching muscles

lifting the axe above

your head over and over

all day long

I see the mountain 

of triangular logs

in the back of the trailer

heaped high for us to sit on 

as we dodged low-hanging

branches on the way 

home

and I realize

only now

the neatly stacked

pile of wood

warming us through the

winter

was the fruit of 

a day of labor

and not 

a day of fun

The Anthem Of My Fierce Heart

"From A Wigwam" was the first song I learned to play on the piano that I really liked. It was on the last page of the book Teaching Little Fingers To Play, and it was a 'hands-together' song. Not only that, but my left hand played two notes at once for the entire song. Those two notes provided the Indian drum-type rhythm while my right hand played the 'Ba ba, Ba ba-ba bam' part.

It was very fierce sounding to my young ears, and it pleased my fierce little Indian heart. Deep down, I knew I was an Indian, and finally I could express my wildness in song.

I was almost certain I was an Indian because my cousin Mark was a real, 100% Indian. Since I was related to him, it was only logical that I was at least part Indian, despite my pale skin, green eyes and un-black hair. Mark, on the other hand, had jet-black hair and skin as brown as the moccasins he wore every day that summer.

According to Mark, the ultimate proof of authentic Indianhood was the ability to find arrowheads, and he had found many along the gravel road leading to my Papaw's house. I was awed by those finds, and I would imagine bows and arrows and feathers and scalps as I smoothed them in my hands. But I always had to give them back, which was woeful since, to my great consternation, I had not found my own yet.

My lack of success did not stop me from looking every day, my eyes glued to the ground. I never stopped believing that one day I would find my proof, and everyone would know that I was a displaced Indian princess, wild at heart and worthy of the anthem in my beginning piano book.

*Disclaimer: when I was growing up, the political (and geographically) correct term Native Americans did not yet exist, so we did not yet know we were supposed be playing Cowboys and Native Americans.