Special Bulletin

The first school I went to only had eighteen kids, and that was only if you counted the kids in all eight grades taught there. When we moved off the reservation, the second school was so big that they had teachers who only taught one subject.
I soon found out they even had something called “a MUSIC teacher.” After recess that third afternoon in school, my class marched over to the music hall and the teacher handed out toys to everyone.  “I get a trumpet.” “I get a drum.” “I get a clarinet.” Every child in front of me knew exactly what they got, and asked for it by name. Sweet little Roberta asked for a flute. She had white spots on her cheeks and I wanted to marry her. Then it was my turn to stand in front of the teacher. She smiled down at me, waiting for just a moment in order that I might speak. Then she asked… “And what do you get, little boy?”
I had no idea in the world what any of the toys were, much less how you played with them. My head wobbled from side to side as I gazed at all the  gleaming choices. Could I just pick my own and her never know the difference? Then the spell was broken.
“He’s just a hick, Miss Thompson.” Someone called.
“Yeah, he don’t know NOTHING!” I knew that voice and it was Roberta herself who had cracked the insult across my cringing back. My very soul winced at the contempt she flooded the room with. I swore in my wrath that I’d never love  her again, and even if she begged me, I would never marry her.
{At least,} I reflected bitterly, {at least Barbara Bruce doesn’t know I have been unfaithful.}
It was small consolation when some of the girls giggled and all of the boys snickered, all around the room. Bright red shame burned my face to a crisp,  ready to serve.  But that teacher was sweet. She smiled reassuringly, and searched all around behind her. Finally her hand selected a silver triangle for me. It  was beautiful, but had kind of an oily taste.
Right up on the top row of the bleachers she put me. “Just ring this rod against the triangle in time with the music,” she told me kindly. A sweet little DING showed me exactly what she expected. Oh, it was a beautiful ding. I thought it was the best little ding I had ever heard dinged in my life.
When all was in readiness she stood before us, and brought out a huge plateful of multi-colored biscuits. “Everyone who does their part really well this afternoon will get a cupcake.”

The way everyone there craned their neck to smell I knew cupcakes were delicious, though I couldn’t get a whiff. Still, I  resolved to do my ding so well that she gave me TWO of them.

Miss Thompson set the tray behind her, and raised her arm. The room grew hushed. Then her arm floated up and down — back and forth — like a feather that didn’t know where the ground was. Sweet sounds eddied up all around me. My ears were so keenly delighted that my mouth watered. My very soul expanded in joyous gratitude towards heaven. This was it, I decided. This was what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I was going to make joyous sounds for the angels to feast on in heaven.
Others had better toys. They already had more skill. But I would get to help my classmates cook up some music. A simple little DING now and then would be my share, kind of like adding salt to the pudding.

But I was confused.
{Do I ding it now?} I wondered. {Or now? — – Or should I have dinged it when the fat boy clanged his dinner plates together?}

Sweat burst from my brow as I stood there, poised forever to pitch in my little ding to the clamorous roar.

Finally I just threw caution to the wind.

I — began to make my ding.
From the startled glances around me I knew my ding wasn’t quite right. So I tried harder; then I tried faster. I dinged my little triangle when Miss  Thompson’s arm was going up; I dinged it when the skinny kid in blue beside me puckered his lips up to call up the cows that were messing around in the corn.
One by one the other children ceased to play and commenced to watching me.
Soon, I too paused, and glanced all around. The whole  room grew hushed and expectant, looking from me to the music teacher.  My most fervent prayers had been answered; I - was the center of attention.
My victory did not taste good at all.  Miss Thompson shook her head sadly. She peeked up at me twice, and shook her head again with a whisper each time.

I was learning though. Even from that distance I could read the words that never left her lips. “Why me Lord? Why me?”
Then she reluctantly crept up the bleachers, and gently pried the little triangle out of my hands.

I knew right then that I was not going to get a cupcake.

I knew it just as sure as the world.

I had never felt more alone in all my life.

Later I discovered that life is full of little disappointments for all of us. They can crush us to the bone when they happen, yet bring bright smiles and  treasured memories just a short few weeks later.

Losing a cupcake however –

That is a tragedy that takes many, many years before the memories are revealed for treasures we cherish forever.

The world imploded at 13:32:16 on 24 December 2008 – give or take a day or so.

I remember it just like it was yesterday. I had been working hard all morning, cutting up firewood, cleaning out the fireplace, hauling out the ashes, pumping water for the mules, currying the goats, scrubbing the outhouse clean as a whistle so I could decorate the walls with balls of holly — you know, the usual stuff us civilized people do every day.
Not suspecting a thing I put up my tools and stepped inside the front door. Everything looked just as I had left it, but in retrospect I realize that was because I wasn’t looking that hard. Like I said, I didn’t suspect a thing when I walked in that door. Why should I have suspected anything? The sun was still shining and the river was still flowing, you know — the important things of life were still going.
Since there was nothing else to do I sat down in front of the computer and went to work without much more ado. The first address wouldn’t come up, nor the second, nor the third, and no, not even the fourth. Then I looked at my mechanical connections to the Internet, and fired up fresh and new 5 or 6 times.
Finally I did give up and called the service provider and learned they were not able to provide service at the present time. That’s when I glanced at the computer’s clock… 13:32:16 on 24 December of 2008 That’s what it said and it’s never off more than a day or so.

I called around and there was no Internet service anywhere in the state; Arkansas had been severed. Yes, but the phone still worked. Dimly I remembered calling the office to hear how things were going instead of just bringing up the latest reports and SEEING how the office was doing. Subsequently I called to see how the Oklahoma office was holding out. My caller-outer wouldn’t call out. I dialed again and realized there was no signal whatsoever; my outside caller was all called out.

Along about that moment I realized I was sitting in the dark. The light bulb had lost its glow; the heater had quit heating — and ye gads boy, the computer screen was totally blank. At this point I realized the French Maid was gone, keeping her word to swim back to France for her green card, thus leaving me with a sink full of dishes to dish out. The faucet had quit dripping which meant there is no water. In verifying this fact I realized just how bad my situation was– that in fact there is no electricity. My phone doesn’t even phone up a buzz this time.

Do you realize what this means? No toaster, no refrigerator, no freezer, no vacuum cleaner, no radio — and IF I’d had a television it would probably have quit too! Did I mention that the heater had quit? Wo, oh wo ist me — that means the electric blanket has ceased to function as well. My bright idea of living in a state of fiercely defended independence is imploding rapidly.

Frost has already formed on the soot-darkened windows. I wipe it aside in one place and glance down my empty road. “I’ve got to get out of here,” I moan loudly, “Where oh where is the little boy who lives down the lane that swore he would come up the lane and show me how to saddle up a mule before winter sets in and locks me up?”

I am locked up, wrapped inside a cocoon of ice and snow, violently wrenched from the clutching tendrils of every civilized comfort I had denied any desire for. Wo, oh wo ist me.

I don’t mind having to cook outside over an open fire. No, no; it’s that freezing to death while I cook supper that bothers me. Damn this getting-away-from-it-all nonsense anyway. Here it is 13:47:13 on 24 December 2008 and I may not live long enough to unwrap my Christmas presents.

The wild squirrels have ignored me for almost a year now. Two days ago a whole passel of them began swinging towards me through the trees. I live miles from anyone. Yet, someone must have told them I was feeding birds here. More effective than Tarzan, they clambered from limb to limb and then from tree to tree. They came like a rumbling wave, then paused expectantly in the sweet gum near the front window.

One emissary came swishing down to investigate my offerings. I was amazed that she rejected the corn. Peanut butter, that was a delicacy. She clipped onto the pine cone twig and took it back up into the tree. It didn’t take long for all of them to consume the peanut butter and then the pine cones dropped, and the lone emissary returned.

There is a 3/8″ board right by the window. After investigating my offerings one more time, she climbed upon the board and peered at me through the window. She peered first with her left eye, then with her right one. Then she chattered a bit.

I flicked my finger against the window pane a few times to scare her off. She didn’t scare, so I ignored her. When she gave up and leaped for the tree I glanced up. All the other squirrels were gone; they had given up before she did.

The back bedroom is 50 feet from the front window. Yesterday I lay dreaming in bed until about 11:00 Suddenly I noticed the tree branches swaying in the oak outside my window. Two squirrels were working their way towards the house. One paused expectantly and almost angrily the other one soon ventured closer, climbing right to the very tips of branches and leaping to another twig on another branch. In short order she was within 10 feet of my window sill. Gathering herself up almost into a ball she made the leap with effortless grace and noises came through the window so she must have been chattering at me.

I looked at her pleading face, and pretended I was asleep. At last she gave up and leaped back the way she had come. Isn’t it strange though that those squirrels came right to my house the first time, and came right to my bedroom window the second time. It is almost as though they could communicate.

Once upon a time, about 30 years ago - actually it was 31 years ago almost to the day. We were in the park: the kids disappeared and directly they came back bearing a bundle of furry joy. “Daddy, look at the puppy we’ve got. Can we keep it?”

I glanced at it one time and shook my head. “No, you know I don’t like girl dogs and I don’t like little dogs. This is a little girl dog. Take her back.”

“But Daddy, this is a Great Dane.”

Surprised that I had made such a blunder I glanced at her again and made the same identification. But surely my kids would not lie to me about such an important matter. Therefore I said, “Okay, if she is a Great Dane then you can keep her.”

We named her Honey, and she never growed another inch in any direction. Somehow, my always honest kids had mistook a little bitty dog with a Great Dane. She was such a little dog that I never dreamed she would turn into a hunter and a killer.

The first indication she had those skills was when she brought down a jack rabbit, almost three times her size. When I reached down to touch her prey she growled at me. “Good girl,” I said and took my hand away rapidly.

That little dog soon became my favorite dog. One day I noticed her slipping off with the big dog we had at that time. He was a real killer and while he was around nobody, not even giants, dared lay a hand near my son. As I kept them in sight I noticed they parted company at the fence row: her going to the right and him to the left. She trotted ahead of him about three of her lengths and they maintained that form all the way down the fence row. A rabbit leaped out as Honey came even with it, and Wolf snapped it up.

There was no sharing in his mind. Honey kept a respectful distance until he was finished dining, then they started on down the fence row in the same form as before. “Now, what is she getting out of this?” I wondered. Then I thought about it some more and I wondered how in the world she had taught Wolf what to do so that they flushed game together as a team.

They caught two more rabbits, and Wolf shared not. He was a reluctant participant on the next hunt, but he did catch the next flush — and left it lay. Honey dined and then both dogs returned home. It was a fine working partnership, and it amazed me that it worked so well without communication.

Sheep poison was a constant danger in that area and Wolf finally got his share. Soon we had another dog just his size. It wasn’t a month before I saw him tagging just behind Honey down a turn row. Somehow she had trained a second dog to hunt and do her killing for her. She trained the next one too, and I think she almost trained a third one after that. That last one’s favorite meal was skunk. If he came upon the track of a skunk he would leave Honey sitting still and go after it. If he didn’t lose the trail and come back Honey would come on home and wait for him.

Unfortunately, that dog insisted on sharing his catch and would lug it home proudly to share it with Honey. Indeed, he always gave her the head, and he started from the tail. We had some tearful times with those dogs after that.

The older I get the more I wonder if maybe animals don’t have a form of communication that we can’t see or hear.  Morning after morning I have watched hordes of blackbirds launch from their roosting tree at the same time, spiral in a bewildering swirl just once, then zoom away as if they had but one mind.  I’ve seen buzzards do the same thing, repeatedly.  It is uncanny.  How did those squirrels find my home at the same time? How did Honey train at least three dogs to hunt her way? It is weird man, really weird.

We had a big bear that didn’t have sense enough to let well enough alone. Usually we let bears run free up here but Old Smokey decided to give up a life of accidental menus and took to doing a buffet special on our tender little calves.

When the dogs saw Old Smokey, they ran. When we called the Game and Fish Department the guy on the phone stuttered into silence for a long moment then said: “We can’t track him down for you, but if you can show us where he is we’ll come and get him.”

That insult was like telling us to sprinkle salt on his tail. Bears don’t sleep in the same hole twice. Bears don’t carry an alarm clock. Bears don’t even carry salt and pepper. How were we going to keep Old Smokey in one place long enough for the Game and Fish to come get him?

Well, fry Wee Willy for an oyster because he came up with a plan. He pursed his lips thoughtfully as he hung up the phone then asked if I still had that five gallons of Skippy Peanut Butter?

“No, all I have left is three gallons.”

He shrugged. “You get it out and drag out our surge mixer and I’ll go into town, be back in a few minutes.”

True to his words, Wee Willy was back in a few minutes, smiling with his lips, eyes narrowed. Into my five gallon bucket of peanut butter he poured a whole bottle of Jack Daniels. Then we mixed it until you couldn’t see anything but peanut butter.

Then we took the bucket down to where Old Smokey was dining on uncooked beef. Wee Willy was grinning when we set the bucket down. “Old Smokey is just about to get hot under the collar.”

We checked for damages the next day, nothing. The second day, nothing. The third day it was hard to tell if any residue there was part of our peanut butter bucket. There were pieces strewn everywhere, and not a spot of peanut butter to be found.

Wee Willy circled one way and sent me another. Directly he hollered. “Come on over here, I found him.”

Sure enough, there was Old Smokey. All four feet were sticking straight up in the air and he was snoring up a big storm. Wee Willy nudged the bear with his cowboy boot and there wasn’t even a grunt. We went back to the truck for some rope and a winch.

It was kind of a ticklish job and I was breathing real hard by the time we got the bear tied front paws to back paws and curved around a fair sized oak. Wee Willy was grinning like a possum when he called Fish and Game. “We have found Old Smokey. Yawl come and get him.”

Two of them arrived a few hours later, suspicious as they could be. “Where is he?”

We took them up the hard way and led them to the rock-strewn hill side that looked down at Old Smokey. “What’s he doing?” they asked, more suspicious than ever.

“I guess he’s sleeping,” said Wee Willy. “He’s had a hard night of it.”

We stayed where we were and watched them slip and slide down the hill. The closer they got to Old Smokey the more suspicious they became. When they got right down to him they walked around and around that oak tree, trying to figure out why Old Smokey was ignoring them. Every few steps one of them would stop, turn his head and look back up the hill at us.

Finally one of them got brave enough to walk up and touch one of the knots on the rope. Then they walked around and around the oak tree and studied Old Smokey from every angle, and then they conferred, glancing our way frequently. Decision reached, they came scrambling back up the hill towards us.

“We’ll need you to help us load him.”

Wee Willy lashed out at them indignantly. “We found him; we even tied him up for you, it’s your turn to do something.”

Bear Dreams