Mantled-Chere “Littlehorse of the Big Valley, was quite the genius, he was invited to indulge-himself in academia as a Theories-major while at the Indian-college where he’d set-standards for prep and dissertation. Under its masters honorary-program… Yet in this evincive-aspect, he-adjured the very good possibility of a profound-career. Though-not embellished, pertinence to decide, to intend;to seek rising-membership in the ‘precis’-of Indian guided-men. He had met Sarah while assisting in reservation-work, she was a head-teacher, he was the superintendent-whose gentle green-eyes teased-him into her-wishes… Perceptive, rewarding and worthwhile, they fell in-love doing the things they-loved. Eventually, Chere was made a councilman where his-father was Chief in-residence. He-was a proud& dignified-man, who-was quite-serious about leadership, it was passed-on more in blood than kind. But also Chere was such a man descended-to be followed, to lead, as implicit as if-simile, he-was delivered into his-position…
Sam “Little-feather”, knew him as a boy in Indian high-school where he was needing a talented adjuster/requisitor with smarts, thoughtfulness and ingenuity. And so Samuel was hired out of college to fulfill a devout duty-master to what would be a ruling-native. “Sam, you’re not going to talk of the grand-routine because I already know it, and because you do it, so well…” Sam smiled then went-back to what he knew was his job, well-done. Chere then, started reading his Oxford Companion to how to be a gracious host, and the 12-rules of acknowledging and conformingly;‘make the best’, for the whole… Sam, went about cleaning and quietly looked-over the Chief’s itineraries. Sam was Chere’s right-hand man;and hope-well- ‘left’. With the many coming terms-he’d be prepared for his few-moments Sam thought was the chiming-sound, of last ream… He’d stay devoted to even if a stepping-down, leader. He’d knew he had his day, but now he-should ‘shine’, in his deserving-glory.
~~~
That evening, he wandered out into the cool night-air and engage his communion with those who-needed him… Bo Jon was late for his father’s emergence from his cottage on the anointed-grounds built some 5-years before, it had been a huge contract built-upon the pristine mountainside of the regions fertile-land. He was the receiving-conductor, and his-people steadfast in their work to demonstrate the resourceful, hardworking and grandly, endowed reflection of his-accord. His son Bo Ron-stood along-side his mother and soon his sister would show-up. Bo Jon was the oldest and was making his-way into tribal territory and register-with the pauntach. Immediately, Shana ran to her-father as the only-proud and affectionate women could do. His-wife and his oldest-boy stood along the greeting-line respectfully, awaiting the promenade. Bo had showed up soon after the Chieftain had met all his-compatriots. Chere-was on his way into his ready for a night’s wake in which the major local-leaders could have intercourse, with their-fellows. This would-be where the regents deliberated over their commended-digest of fortune of protocol-evident, essential and those-precepts that would lead to the ringing-in of a new-leader.
Presumptuous, it-seemed, but no-one entered a grouping until, he’d went-to sleep… Bo Jon slowly walked up to his Chief and leader to attend-to the attention of his nation’s tribal-steward, who was his Dad. Unoppose, Bo Jon went to his father-in homage, “Dear, Chief my-father who I asks for his prevailing, to meet his-son who wishes to meet with him…” “You may, my brave.” “Dear father, I am here to be the embracer of his-relevance of pact, in this time. You are my dear-Chief… How may I serve you…” Chere, felt esteemed in his now, matured-son. “Son, you have not fallen far from the tree, do not assume your father eats the ‘apple’”. “Barthelemew, I am glad to see-you…” They-conversed some on the sadder-of a man who-was his father, first. He-shared his-life and that, maybe he could share his-father’s love;his son’s historic record, and had been one to guide-him, through-out his-life. Then he-settled, his-son into being pertaining-to be the derivation-of “gravity“, and not-“gratuity“…
Bo knew his-father was never, in-overexertion, from private-lecture, to trials of tradition, never totaling-’less’ than expedience in-experience, this was his depiction in ‘implication’… Bo-had shown up late, yet his father-knew he was now separate-from his tribe, in focus. His-Dad never focused on pending, yet on-expedite. And now, he-was prevalently, provisioned.
Bo Jon went-to join Barthelemew Reginald, and Shana, as well as his mother Sarah now getting acquainted-with the peers of old-ties. “Dear, Barthelemew. My son, I am glad to see you.” His mother gave him a hug. “Dear, brother Bo, we are together, again…” Said his brother Bo Ron. “You-are dear to me my sweet, brother.” Said Shana, the baby. They spoke-over how they’d fared since last seeing each-other. Bo Jon and his family-became cordial as the Chief’s descendants, and bequeathe. As they-represented the ‘symbol’-of the leadership-substance. The venerable-distinction of their-leader rested-on their-shoulders. Barthelemew Reginald was typically, off living his career in California running his carrier-business which he’d done for decades, he’d been profitable and held a seat on both the city, and Cherokee Nation’s council-to Indian affairs. A demonstrably, good-standing citizen. While Shana was a married-teacher at the Indian college in Reno. She’d made stands for women’s progress-in and outside of the nation, and a regular editor-of the ‘Zhanshi-Squaw’ a 20,000 subscriber reservation-magazine. As the oldest-sibling Bo Jon had-served devotedly with the agronomic, legal and constructional of Indian-advancment, which he was now resigned-from for some-years.
Each had made their own way. Devoted to tribe& duty in earnest. Yet as the ceremony progress and went on Bo Jon was beginning to recognize that his Chief was getting older in-years. He could begin to see his father’s frailty… He-stayed-off from his-father as he-carried on his duties of meeting his-people. The celebration-went on into the night. The varying nation’s had song, dance, speeches and pow-wows for all the ranks of Cherokee Nation… Bo Jon began to worry. Since he hadn’t seen him in sometime but he knew he father was growing old.
As night-fell he-decided to sit and reflect by one of the fire-pits set for the cool-evenings for those wanting warmth. Bo Jon sat gazing into the flames… And old and tattered native walked-up. He did not disturb-him. Then, Bo looked-up. Seeing he looked rather poor he asked him if he wanted food and drink. He declined, “But I see you, my-friend are worried.” “What is it that bothers you on a night of celebration?” He-told him about his father& the great-weight he carried and how he had been away and wondered if he had wronged his father, the Chief.
The old man offered to tell an old-tale which may help him understand a father and his son. The old man took a deep-breath, and said he will tell him the story…
*There was a boy who went with his father into the wild-lands were there was no-one to be found. The father told the son. Take our only two-pints of water to find a village… The son hesitated, thinking that he’d leave the father alone and he would die. He told his father, still again he commanded the boy. So he went, alone into unknown country. He rode the entire day, then he could not leave him to die any-longer. The father said to the son, ‘I am proud, you have done as I’ve told…’ This is a parable to you, may you find its benefit.- Bo looked again into the flames and then to the old worn man, he was gone.
Next-morning Bo was to begin final nations-fellowship of dancing, eating and words seated at the far end was the host Chief Standing Bear, then his family and entourage, and all-nations of the tribe and onward… Then-on the other end was seated Bo Jon just down from his father and he glanced as the dancing began. He looked all around with dignified-respect. He finally, peered at the greatest Chieftain holding the greatest tribe. There, in the White Falcon, Owl, Wolf and Ermine was the old Indian. He winked slightly when Bo’s eyes met his, as the celebration went on…
The end
Susan Hudson-Social worker, extraordinaire…
[Fourteen]
Susan was never superstitious,
nor stupid as she arrived at work that morning to a room full-of clients who were all in need of her concern, one of the four staff commissioned by the small-county, and state stipend set aside for a local border-reservation and others living-near its services requiring medical, abuse and family services… If not for this lone outpost, many would have to drive miles and some put in-prison or taken-away by state law… Many were just requiring a “leg-up”, a hand to help, or a necessary-arm to assist. Susan Hudson and her care-team, did what dozens of well-paid professionals would-do for the average of 3.4 hours a day with 10 days off a-month…
But these four persons a director, two agents and a supervisor compiled-to their job with dedication, being very effective in-their conduction-of-duties… Being perceptive, extremely, attentive and able to cut the mustard in daunting, situations. No, Susan was a strong-willed, honorable and demonstrably-sincere to her job as head-C.S.W. running the Chaucahouca Outreach-Center. Into which most of population around the area came-for assistance.
Susan-was an astute-worker, she-listened well, and was an ‘active’-assistant to all she-assisted. Many had received her-services. Whether-it was helping a family get back-on their-feet or attending alcohol rehab with a new-individual… She was rarely, astonished even if they didn’t know-it. She was a ’quality’ person who could encourage as well as aid, in most civil-areas. So she had a large workload yet not-one went-untended… She was a ‘people’-person and a self-starter, devoted to givinh her life-over to discipline, and sacrifice, a person accomplished-at enabling. That was her relationships in-life, duty, deed devotion and inner-vision, at being insightful.
…As she-traveled to Barbara’s house she speculated-over what were the symptoms of her client’s life… Ex-drug user, a small-child with no-father. Her-mother, whom both went-out of her way-to help, yet didn’t put-up with deviation, or lying. She-believed in being there, but not as the one-taken advantage. She wanted no-surprises. Sue-respected her compassionate, prioritized-interests. …She had different or developmental-issues. Which, with each-case, required special-factors and focus, having to be dealt-with, accordingly…
“Chauca-Social Service Center, how may I help you?”, said the voluntary-secretary. She listened to the person on the other end of the line. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll see if she’s in.”- Susan had just walked through the door she-noticed all the patrons seated around the small vestibule about thirty people were there awaiting her. She had awakened to a 4 a.m.-alarm, prepared-coffee, dressed and looked over-overload of office-work she had that day… Now that she-was in, she had to start all-over. She-answered the call, and others, which averaged 68-to-75 a-day. Being the head-supervisor, as well, she was in-charge managerial-duties which included instructional-advice, guidance and immediate-assistance... Devoted to her job, paid a state salary which didn’t near-meet all her job-duties. She-enjoyed it, that’s what kept her working 14-hour shifts.
…“This is Sue, how can I help?” The voice-on the calling-end was nervous and frightened, it was Barbara Welk. She was a single-mother, living-with her Mom, she was also a recovering-addict who was changing her-ways, and how, after 3-years of being ‘clean’, she was taking-care of her life… “Ms. Sue, its my Mom again. A friend-visited to talk, and she thought it was a dealer, “I think she didn’t believe me…” “We had an argument, and now she is in an uproar, says…” Susan listened attentive and caringly, “Barbara this is what I want you to do…” She-instructed her to take care of her daughter, stay calm and stay-out of her Mom’s way… “…Yes, ma’am.” “You’ll come visit, won’t you?” Susan agreed, giving her client-confidence.
Her-secretary put-through another-call, until she was filling 12-calls for aid, under a number-of
circumstances. It could have overwhelmed a simple social-worker. But it was par-for-the-course for Susan Hudson a veteran of ‘critical-need‘. Before long, she’d be adjoining those-in the sitting-room, feeling with care, concern, compassion and decency. Before 10 a.m., finishing the clients on-call and twenty paperwork charts.
Totally, an high-margined constituent… At break, she ate a warm bologna sandwich on rye with mayo, and tomato soup and cheese-crackers. She had done her median capabilities, she was reading a 6-month back-issue of the New Yorker(her favorite magazine) in the small-kitchen donated to them by an appreciative successful-client. Susan never doubted, in perception and low-priority. Within minutes she’d be within the small-village of mostly Chicano-residence.
She-drove a foreign sports-coupe big enough for two adults and two-children. She didn’t mind that it was second-hand given by an old friend a half-decade ago. She’d kept good care of it, change the tires kept maintenance and did all the work. Most days, she had a minute of time to herself. Her-patrons adored her, her-charming smile the donuts and cookies she-brought in and the expressed positive-attitude that more than once shined hope-on a friend’s day. As requiem therein, she performed a ‘rectification’-of all those intricate, intimate problematic-syndromes that spanned-social and domestic-bonds. She was Chaucahouca Center’s “heart”, while its doctrine was illustrated by the many patrons acknowledging, successiveful… For today, the future for people in the reservation-region, was assured.
But first, the hard-work from registration to record-division documentation, the origin and arrival for those-of social-welfare intents, based-on those few who acted as forefront of affirmed, facilitation… Many people, in being instrumentally, valued and avowed by the service, and the commanding-commited…
As Sue drove 56-miles around the limited-circle of clientele, like so few people who’d given time to help-others, she’d given no less than reprise and resolution, to those she could-assist... Redeeming in proud beneficence and reward of reverence. When she went exploring into the needy-lives requesting aid... She breathed-in the fresh spring-air of Arizona’s bush-country which covered two-thirds of her assistees’ lives. As important as any job in arduous service, it was the most-‘integral‘… Yet unlike, a job-occupation, Susan never doubted her-job, having-’success’ and ‘failure’. Happiness and heartache, and part of the immense-drama of her-career. Not an easy occupation not everyone was up-to it. Some, it was a born-occupation. Susan was one of these, though it was an ‘easy’ expectancy…
Susan was in her twenties, she was a college-student majoring in psychology with sociology-minor, she accepted the grad-clinical at Chaucahouca, on-edge of the reservation… She was interested-in doing a study on the low-income socially, disadvantaged. Arriving-at the Center to something, ”unique”. Astonished to find that so many people needed the center’s services. Unexpected, but intensely-moving… …She decided to first put-in 4-instead of 2-hours a day, then she changed her-major and put in 25-hours a-week. It was truly a moving-experience, and it was motivational. Though, it could have been considered a tiring, selfless-act it was dedicational, and rewarding. As she matured, grew adept, and growing skilled-in helping-others. From development to devising, Sue was a worthy and instilled, competent… Though, working assigned-services and a certain-subjectivity…
***
…Welk’s problems, aiming her in the right-direction with a-nudge, here, a guiding-reminder, there… Barbara had thought of Sue as a loving and caring second-mother. Now her-mother had became distraught over an incident or reproach. She, did not approve. …Susan had a way of gently swaying her into being convinced to keep-trying. So now, their-relationship had been saved and the family kept-together, which was the important-thing…
…“So Margaret thinks you’re involved-with the wrong-crowd, again.” “Does she have reason-to believe such a-thing?” “No, definitely, not.” “I’ve been on the straight-and-narrow for 3-years. …Only thing is, some of my old-crowd came-over the other-day. They were rowdy and wanted me to go-out with them, I told them ‘no’.” “They tried to insist, but I refused.” She was becoming nervous and reticent. Susan knew she should
try to comfort and help her figure it out-for herself. “Barbara, I know you didn’t do anything wrong and your mother was probably, over-reacting…”
…”She is very-critical of what could happen..” “So you should-not become excited, you did the right-thing…” Susan-stayed a-while with her, and talked indicatively, with her mother who had been refusing to-respond… It was 3 p.m., when she left the home of the Welk’s family. Staying to iron-things out, which they had reconciled and agreed-to understandingly, and even had-time to make her daughter-cookies. It turned-into a small-party. And everything turned-out, okay. Susan didn’t notice the black-truck sitting-at the street-corner as she pulled out onto the roadway looked-both ways, barely noticing it as she passed...
The car followed 6-car lengths behind. She had been oblivious, as she went about her-job… She stayed at a hostess’ house, until 6:00 p.m. Then she decided it was time to-go. But the grand-patriarch of the family, who’d spent most of the visit in his-rocker peering-through a front-window had something to say, he spoke very little-English, so he-needed translation… He said that there was a black-truck sitting at the corner-waiting… Since she was only-vehicle in such a isolated-area, it was probably, directly-related to her arrival…
The Continuing tales of Bo Jon Littlehorse, P.I. Page 15