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Authors: Richard W. Jennings
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and South Dakota. To my convenient way of thinking, there is no more long-standing tradition in the relationship between Indians and whites than relentless mutual exploitation.
Thus, my conscience shuddered only slightly when I said, "He wants to publish a book of your poems in conjunction with an exhibit of your art. He needs about sixty talismans and an equal number of poems. Can you do it?"
"It may take a while," Chief Leopard Frog replied. "But yes, of course I can."
"Way to go," I said encouragingly. "Let's get started right away, shall we?"
"I'll need some fresh notebooks," he said.
"Why don't we do the talismans first," I suggested. "We can always do a rush job later on the poems. How hard is it to write a poem?"
"Then I'll have to find another bee tree," Chief Leopard Frog explained. "That last one is about petered out."
"I'll help you," I replied. "Just follow the bees, right?"
One Sunday morning, back when there had been a First United Methodist Church of Paisley, the Reverend Dr. F. Foster Frost preached these words:
"Someday," he declared to his tiny congregation, a well-intentioned group that included my mother and myself, "God will demand that you pay for your sins."
In my experience, Dr. Frost was dead wrong. There's no "someday" about it. It's more like "within forty-five minutes. If you're really lucky, half a day."
Three hours after Chief Leopard Frog and I struck out in search of a new bee tree, I lay swollen and writhing in pain in my nest of quilts.
"Didn't I tell you that you're allergic to bee stings?" my mother shouted. "I'm beginning to wonder if you
can
be homeschooled. You're such a slow leaner."
"Ohhhh," I replied.
God's punishment is swift.
Meanwhile, however, Chief Leopard Frog sat outside on the front porch, whistling a happy tune as he whittled away like a happy-go-lucky dwarf in a Disney cartoon.
A Title That Couldn't Be Verse
NO SOONER WERE WE ALL AFLUTTER , what with poems and talismans, than Paisley, Kansas, was deflated like a hot-air balloon shot in its side by a vintage two-barrel shotgun.
Ka-ploop!
Things slowed down after that, and in Paisley, let me tell you, that's pretty doggone slow. Any slower and it would have been on a par with glacier formation or amber solidification.
I recovered from bee stings and broken bones and a bonked head while Chief Leopard Frog whittled and wrote poetry and whittled some more and my mother watched
Oprah
on TV and nobody but nobody came down our road, not even the FedEx man, who I had been certain would be back for my mother's fried chicken.
Pumpkins grew. Spiders crawled. My toe, the one I'd accidentally photographed into the fourth dimension, remained missing.
During this interlude I paused to reflect on the outrageous lie I had told my best friend. I was in a situation of my own making in which I could not defend my actions. That I was encouraged to do so by others, namely Milton Swartzman, only made it worse, because it proved me to be a moral weakling.
And yet I needed the money.
Isn't that what bank robbers say?
I was no better than a bank robber.
If it were not for the warning from the witch doctor's widow, I would have taken my own macro portrait.
That's how small I felt.
Like a bug.
Somehow, I was going to have to tell Chief Leopard Frog the truth.
Ohhhh,
I thought to myself.
I'd rather be stung by bees!
"How's it coming?" I asked him, taking a seat beside him on the porch.
"Many talismans. Many poems. Many more to do," he replied.
"I wish I could help, but I simply don't have your talent," I said.
"All art comes from the same source," Chief Leopard Frog observed.
"I reckon," I replied. "But I couldn't write a poem if my future depended on it."
"You photograph poems," Chief Leopard Frog said. "Very fine, very beautiful, revealing a magic world."
"Why, thank you, Chief. That's kind of you to say," I answered, sincerely flattered. "I'd like to be able to do more, but it's expensive."
"All art is costly to
Thus, my conscience shuddered only slightly when I said, "He wants to publish a book of your poems in conjunction with an exhibit of your art. He needs about sixty talismans and an equal number of poems. Can you do it?"
"It may take a while," Chief Leopard Frog replied. "But yes, of course I can."
"Way to go," I said encouragingly. "Let's get started right away, shall we?"
"I'll need some fresh notebooks," he said.
"Why don't we do the talismans first," I suggested. "We can always do a rush job later on the poems. How hard is it to write a poem?"
"Then I'll have to find another bee tree," Chief Leopard Frog explained. "That last one is about petered out."
"I'll help you," I replied. "Just follow the bees, right?"
One Sunday morning, back when there had been a First United Methodist Church of Paisley, the Reverend Dr. F. Foster Frost preached these words:
"Someday," he declared to his tiny congregation, a well-intentioned group that included my mother and myself, "God will demand that you pay for your sins."
In my experience, Dr. Frost was dead wrong. There's no "someday" about it. It's more like "within forty-five minutes. If you're really lucky, half a day."
Three hours after Chief Leopard Frog and I struck out in search of a new bee tree, I lay swollen and writhing in pain in my nest of quilts.
"Didn't I tell you that you're allergic to bee stings?" my mother shouted. "I'm beginning to wonder if you
can
be homeschooled. You're such a slow leaner."
"Ohhhh," I replied.
God's punishment is swift.
Meanwhile, however, Chief Leopard Frog sat outside on the front porch, whistling a happy tune as he whittled away like a happy-go-lucky dwarf in a Disney cartoon.
A Title That Couldn't Be Verse
NO SOONER WERE WE ALL AFLUTTER , what with poems and talismans, than Paisley, Kansas, was deflated like a hot-air balloon shot in its side by a vintage two-barrel shotgun.
Ka-ploop!
Things slowed down after that, and in Paisley, let me tell you, that's pretty doggone slow. Any slower and it would have been on a par with glacier formation or amber solidification.
I recovered from bee stings and broken bones and a bonked head while Chief Leopard Frog whittled and wrote poetry and whittled some more and my mother watched
Oprah
on TV and nobody but nobody came down our road, not even the FedEx man, who I had been certain would be back for my mother's fried chicken.
Pumpkins grew. Spiders crawled. My toe, the one I'd accidentally photographed into the fourth dimension, remained missing.
During this interlude I paused to reflect on the outrageous lie I had told my best friend. I was in a situation of my own making in which I could not defend my actions. That I was encouraged to do so by others, namely Milton Swartzman, only made it worse, because it proved me to be a moral weakling.
And yet I needed the money.
Isn't that what bank robbers say?
I was no better than a bank robber.
If it were not for the warning from the witch doctor's widow, I would have taken my own macro portrait.
That's how small I felt.
Like a bug.
Somehow, I was going to have to tell Chief Leopard Frog the truth.
Ohhhh,
I thought to myself.
I'd rather be stung by bees!
"How's it coming?" I asked him, taking a seat beside him on the porch.
"Many talismans. Many poems. Many more to do," he replied.
"I wish I could help, but I simply don't have your talent," I said.
"All art comes from the same source," Chief Leopard Frog observed.
"I reckon," I replied. "But I couldn't write a poem if my future depended on it."
"You photograph poems," Chief Leopard Frog said. "Very fine, very beautiful, revealing a magic world."
"Why, thank you, Chief. That's kind of you to say," I answered, sincerely flattered. "I'd like to be able to do more, but it's expensive."
"All art is costly to
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