by Doreen Orion
After Boston-born artist Korczak Ziolkowski won first prize for his sculpture at the 1939 World’s Fair, the Lakota chiefs, seeing all the ruckus in their backyard at Mount Rushmore, invited him to the Black Hills to carve a memorial to their long dead warrior Crazy Horse.
“My fellow chiefs and I would like the white man to know the red man has great heroes, too,” Chief Henry Standing Bear wrote the sculptor.
Crazy Horse, an inspiration to Native American tribes all over the country, resorted to war only when treaty after treaty was broken by the government. His singular desire became for his people to live free, without depending on the white man’s promises or having to seek permission to live as they chose. He never signed a peace treaty, was instrumental in Custer’s defeat at Little Bighorn, and in 1877, was fatally stabbed in the back by an American soldier while under a flag of truce.
Undoubtedly, the artist, who was born exactly thirty years to the day after Crazy Horse died, felt a kinship with the great leader. For Korczak’s fierce independence was also born of mistreatment by those who were charged with looking after him: Orphaned before he could talk, he grew up in a series of foster homes where he was badly abused. He never took a formal art, architecture, or engineering lesson in his life and only started work on the memorial in 1947, after volunteering for service in World War II. Then, much like the man he would spend the rest of his days honoring, Korczak began a lifelong pattern of eschewing government money by turning down a State Department commission to create war memorials in Europe. Instead, he settled in the Black Hills and, while living in a tent, began to tackle the six-hundred-foot mountain.
He not only had to sink a well and build a log cabin to live in, but also construct roads and a 741-step staircase to the top of the summit. In a grainy old film clip in the Visitors Center, an elderly, but still wiry, heavily bearded Korczak looks intently into the camera and tells the story of how, in the early years, he had to crank the temperamental air compressor at the bottom of the mountain (which powered his drills at the top), climb all those steps, and get as much work done as possible before having to head back down to crank it up all over again. During the span of several decades, he broke many bones, endured three back operations, developed arthritis, had a massive heart attack, and underwent bypass surgery. Still, he labored on the memorial until his death in 1982 at age seventy-four. Korczak always understood that his undertaking was too much for one man and one lifetime: He left three books of detailed plans and scale models for others to continue his dream. When completed, all four presidential heads on Mount Rushmore will be able to fit into Crazy Horse’s head alone.
His wife and seven of their ten children vowed to continue, and they have—all with private donations, as Korczak had determined never to take government money for the work, refused to draw a salary, and twice turned down ten million dollars in federal funding. His family continues the project, which will absolutely, positively, and unequivocally be completed sometime this millennium. Although only Crazy Horse’s face is finished, one can still make out the general shape of the warrior, sitting on his horse, pointing off to the distance in answer to the derisive question once asked him by a white man: “Where are your lands, now?”
“My lands are where my dead lie buried,” he replied.
I was surprised to be so moved by what, on the surface, seems like such a small gesture. When one looks at the enormous task still ahead, it’s easy to be skeptical about the wisdom of the entire undertaking. But after hearing the whole story, I realized how unfair it was to judge Korczak solely by what was visible on a mountain. Much more than a sculpture, his legacy is that of a man who stuck to his beliefs in the face of overwhelming hardships, willingly dedicating his life to the pursuit of helping a people regain their dignity, just as he had regained his. I tried to put myself in that selfless situation and sadly concluded I wouldn’t have made it past my first visit to the mountain and the realization that not only would there be no room service, but nary even a room.
Korczak’s influence on me didn’t end at his mountain; back at the campground, as Tim washed our windshield, the elderly woman next door asked if she could pay him to do hers—right then—while her even more elderly husband, who insisted on washing it himself, was at the store. Of course, Project Nerd jumped at the chance. And of course, superheroes never accept payment for their work. As I watched Tim trot over to her RV, I thought of the memorial and realized that while most of us can’t tackle something that huge on behalf of someone else (and while I’ve never washed a vehicle in my life), there are smaller kindnesses to be done, so small, in fact, that though they may seem insignificant to the doer, one never knows what the value might be for the person on the receiving end.
In that spirit, I e-mailed an old friend of my late uncle, who had known him all the way back to his vaudeville days. After George died the previous year, Jerry and I hadn’t kept in touch. But he e-mailed back the very next day to say how much he appreciated hearing from me, that it had been a welcome break from dealing with his wife’s illness, something I didn’t even know about. Jerry’s pleasure at my small gesture pleased and surprised me immensely, and as I got a taste of what Tim must feel with much more regularity, I recalled once remarking to an acquaintance that my husband was a much better person than I. She somehow immediately assumed I was lacking in self-esteem. (I said she was only an acquaintance.)
“Don’t say that!” she snapped. I tried to explain that I was simply stating a fact, a fact I felt no qualms about whatsoever. Tim’s being so kind and thoughtful, not only to others but especially to me, always made me secretly feel like I was getting the better deal in our relationship. Now I was starting to see that it wasn’t about any “deal.” I was witnessing firsthand the pleasure my husband derives from helping people. Taking a deep breath, I resolved to be more like Tim and try some of this kindness-to-others thing he’s always been so keen on, as I wondered if perhaps, at least in this one small way, I shouldn’t necessarily leave the driving to him. (While I had gone into psychiatry in the first place to help people—and I like to think over the years I have—after so long in the “helping professions” it was easy to feel tapped out, unlike my husband, who seems to possess a bottomless reservoir of altruism, at least when he’s not hatching evil plans involving me.)
My skepticism never wavered, however, when we joined the thousands of visitors a year to the Corn Palace, an auditorium in Mitchell, South Dakota. Alas, it is not actually made of corn, but rather simply decorated with it—bushels and bushels and bushels of it—with the occasional oats and prairie grass thrown in, in an utterly misguided attempt to break the monotony. As Tim observed, it was doubtful anyone could get away with saying they made an Ice Palace in this neck of the woods by hosing down a Holiday Inn in January and calling it good. So what in the world is up with the Corn Palace? Voicing our perplexity as to why people would visit the thing, we were told, “It changes every year! If you come back, you’ll never see the same mural again!” We assured the earnest fellow this would not be an issue for us. Adding insult to injury, we tried to salvage the drive out by wandering around, stalking various eateries, but in the township surrounding this supposed Palace of Corn, we could not score even one measly cob.
It was almost Labor Day by the time we left for the Midwest and our next stop, Minnesota. I had assumed the whole “Land of a Thousand Lakes” moniker was hyperbole, but ended up concluding that, rather, it was quite the understatement. Exploring the northern part of the state in Park Rapids and Walker Lake, we found the scenery was so picturesque and peaceful, that while sitting waterside in shirtsleeves at a cute outdoor restaurant, eating fish ’n’ chips made with fresh walleye, seeking shade under a large, colorful umbrella, it was hard to imagine the weather would soon turn as harsh as anywhere in the country.
We headed to Itasca State Park and the headwaters of the Mississippi, where Tim wanted me to take a particular picture of him. It was a guy thing, he explained: He knew we would e
ventually reach New Orleans, where the Mississippi River ends, and thought it would be “neat” if he, er…pretended to go to the head at the headwaters, then, in a manner of speaking, appeared to follow his own trail all the way to the end. Of course, he wanted a record of both auspicious occasions. A diptych of disposal, if you will. I thought it was a grand idea, as for years I had collected photographs of various animals relieving themselves for a bathroom picture book I eventually wanted to publish, Porcelain Inspirations.
Now I was thrilled to get a chance to turn the tables on my sneaky husband, for unbeknownst to him, Tim had just signed up to be the only human entry in my future tome. This would not be the first picture I had taken on our bus trip intended for that particular book. The second day of our meltdown cruise, on Highway 80, a few hours from the Nevada–Utah border, we had, as always when driving to Reno, passed through Battle Mountain. I was fascinated with the town, largely because it epitomized what I saw as the idiocy of the Western custom to brand their peaks, no matter how peak-ed. I never saw this phenomenon in the East, but out west it seemed that any town with even a pimple of a hill felt the compulsion to slap a large letter on it. Why? Did they fear the mount would wander into a rival town’s pasture? In any event, I had Tim stop our rig on the side of the road, determined that Battle Mountain, Nevada, would provide the cover shot for my eventual masterpiece, Porcelain Inspirations, as it had not one but two letters on its crusty, brown lump—BM.
Still, Tim should have known better than to aid and abet my photo fetish, given our last foray into snapshot scatology. Several years before when we were in Yellowstone National Park, we stopped by the side of the road near a herd of bison and even closer to a horde of European tourists. As we scanned the former, me with camera in hand, Tim, ever helpful, exclaimed, “Look! Over there!” I immediately followed his gaze and zoomed in on a rather large specimen, catching the deposit in midair, making for an excellent shot. The tourists, also alerted by Tim’s triumphant call, murmured and strained, trying to figure out what fantastic sight awaited them. When they did…gasps. Then utter silence. Hmm. I thought Europeans were supposed to be less prudish than Americans. I just laughed it off. Tim was mortified.
So here at the headwaters he stood, back to me, on a log that stretched across the river. He planted his feet, strategically placed his hands, and turned his head to the camera, as if surprised at being caught. Just as I snapped the picture, he truly was: A family rounded the corner and stopped in their tracks, not realizing Tim was pretending—not that that would have been much better. I just laughed it off. Tim was mortified.
We scurried away only to run into yet another historical character who tested my cynicism: Mary Gibbs, the first female park commissioner in America, who, in 1903, stood up to a logging company that had built an illegal dam, intending to flood part of the forest for its sluice. A crew even threatened to shoot anyone who touched the levers that opened it. This slight but scrappy twenty-four-year-old took her job (which she assumed upon the death of her father) seriously. After politely, but to no avail, asking the brawny men to stop their activities, she came back with a constable and a warrant in hand. Again, the loggers, holding rifles, offered to make good on their threat. The constable backed down, but not Miss Gibbs. She stared right at them and declared, “I will put my hand there, and you will not shoot it off either.” She did, they didn’t and even more: Impressed by her bravery and determination, they opened it themselves. (She couldn’t have, anyway, as it took the strength of six men.)
Hearing her story, I couldn’t help marveling that while I’d do just about anything to avoid the outdoors (I had once, after all, when tired of craning my neck to view a meteor shower, announced, “I’m going inside to watch it on CNN”), this woman had risked her life for it. Maybe I should see what all the fuss is about.
Tim, always willing to take advantage of my temporary losses of reason, unhooked our bikes from the back of the Jeep and actually got me to take several rides. Normally, I’m not one to exert myself if I can help it. Although I’ve worked out almost every morning for years, I find doing it so abhorrent that I pretty much avoid moving around any more than absolutely necessary the rest of the day. (I once bought a pedometer to measure how many steps I took in a twenty-four-hour period. Then I tried to break my record. For most people, this would involve walking more.)
Tim always thought it strange that while part of my workout included ten minutes on the treadmill at the highest incline, whenever we’d have to walk up the hill to get to our house, I’d whine and make him tow me. (That, of course, didn’t count the times I simply refused and asked him to go home, get the car, and drive thirty seconds to fetch me. If jumping horses can balk at the Olympics when there’s a gold medal at stake, why can’t I?) He didn’t seem to understand that working out while watching some reality TV show took my mind off the exertion part. He actually thought it more interesting to be outside. Not only that, but that the outside itself would make me enjoy the exertion—like it has magical properties or something. (I always assumed my consort had at least twenty IQ points on me, but statements like those really make a Princess wonder.)
Yet as the wide, paved lanes stretched for mile upon stunning mile through forests, skirting still, glimmering bodies of water large and small, they beckoned, just too inviting, even for me. We hardly saw another soul while we pedaled and I marveled how that could be possible with scenery so striking, not to mention exertion so flat and therefore relatively effortless. After all, if I could appreciate how pleasant these excursions were…Maybe these Minnesotans aren’t as hardy as they’re cracked up to be.
Of course I had to take a break from nature for the duty every Princess must perform once in her lifetime—the pilgrimage to Mecca, which in my kingdom is known as the Mall of America.
Roaming it was a workout all in itself—the highest form, in fact, as it combined the truly great indoors with…shopping! Tim, however, was a bit put off by the crowds and dowdiness of it all (neither of which I noticed). While I bought some blouses, he headed over to Ikea, a place he’d heard tell of, but never actually been in. Once inside and fully grasping what it was all about, his Project Nerd sensibilities became highly offended at the notion of giving people the false sense of his sacrosanct, do-it-yourself ethos, when all they were really doing was connecting the dots.
In Minneapolis, we visited one of Tim’s friends from residency, the always hip, always happenin’, and ever-single Dave. Yep, that Dave—Tim’s shill on our first date. His latest girlfriend was lovely, of course. They all are, but we’ve learned through the years not to get too attached.
Tim had always envied Dave: He was movie-star (rather than psychiatrist) handsome, knew hordes of interesting people, and was always dating some woman more fabulous than the last. He seemed to lead a charmed existence, one in which he searched for—and found—experiences and relationships that only got progressively bigger and better. He appeared to live life to the absolute fullest, only to then constantly top himself. Tim, on the other hand, always felt ill-equipped to go out into the world with anything approaching Dave’s sophistication and gregariousness.
Now, for the first time, Tim’s envy of Dave changed, even though Dave had not; Tim realized that at this point in his own life, it was important to be happy with where he was. Although Dave still seemed perfectly content, Tim understood that if he had been the one constantly striving to experience more, he would have been left with less—specifically, without the long-term relationship he had cherished for so many years.
With this new insight, Tim started questioning not only how he defined happiness and the way he thought he should go about achieving it, but even his assumptions about midlife itself. He could now see that the key for successfully navigating through this stage in life was to appreciate how he grew and what he acquired from the youthful experiences he did have, to learn to appreciate what he’d become and develop it further, rather than panicking, always searching for something new. Grea
t. Couldn’t he have figured this out before upending my life with the bus thing?
Our last night, Cap’n Dave took us out on his boat on Lake Minnetonka and invited a few friends along, one of whom, we discovered, had lived through my worst nightmare: having the top of his converted bus sheered off by a low underpass. It happened twenty years ago when, as a late-blooming hippie, Scott packed wife and kids up in a converted school bus and drove to Mexico, where they were having a grand old time. They did think it strange, however, that other Americans they met would often remark, “It’s too bad you haven’t had some hardship here. Then you’d really get to see how wonderful the people are.” Well, the moment his bus rammed into that bridge, creating flying projectiles of all the belongings they’d stowed on top, hordes of people came running up. At first, Scott tried to fend them off, thinking they wanted to scavenge his stuff, but it soon became apparent they only wanted to help.
So Scott, in what I’m sure felt to him like closing a karmic circle, gave me the same admonition: “I hope you have some hardship on your trip.” Right. Any more hardship and I won’t be around to close the karmic loop on the next idiot wife going along when her husband lives his muy loco dream. Still, maybe because I’d been so touched by the accounts of other Midwesterners’ fierce determination against all odds, I found Scott’s story (and perhaps the fact that he was still around to tell it) strangely reassuring.
After Labor Day, we scrambled farther east. I’d been tracking the fall colors on the Internet and we didn’t have long. Months before, just because I knew it would tickle Tim, I’d submitted our rig to Bus Conversions magazine, and I had to admit, it gave even me a thrill when we were informed we’d made the upcoming centerfold. Yes, I had graduated from a fancy-schmancy Ivy League school, then medical school, and was a triple-boarded psychiatrist, but I could now count among my greatest accomplishments fulfilling a lifelong ambition to be a Miss September. Tim, of course, ordered about a dozen copies and sent nearly as many off to family and friends. He had truly become, in Bus Conversions magazine’s highly technical term for those who love their buses, a “busnut.” And I suppose that made me, the wife lugged along on busnut adventures, nothing more than a lugnut.