Birds of a Different Feather

Last week I flew out to Washington state. It was not intended to be a pleasure trip, but I have learned to grab some joy no matter what the circumstances. I keep an eye out for a rainbow even when I can't see the end of my nose for the clouds. This trip was no exception to that rule.

My Hubby had suddenly become very ill while working on his currant construction project, yet another Indian gaming casino. Serious enough that his company sent for me. I often tease Hub about being a corporate whore, but when the chips were low, the company was there for us. I was on a flight to the coast before I even could comprehended the severity of my circumstances. Hubbies junior manager, Gitme Mitch, was designated as my own personal assistant/body guard. I was met at the airport and driven directly to my husbands room. His project manager had taken detailed notes of the time spent in the ICU including lab results, names and conversations with specialists consulted, even dialogues with visitors and nurses personal stats. Nothing occurred in that hospital room that was not documented in triplicate. I believe he even issuded receipts for all gifts and cards received. The tribal elders visit and present of spiritual healing sweet grass were dually noted.

I stayed in the most lavish riverside suite available close to the hospital, and ate every meal at the finest restaurants Gitme could produce. Would of been a blast if it were not for the shadow of my sick Hubby that followed me everywhere. As much as I longed to be alone with that shadow, every time I looked around, there would be Gitme. "What do you have planned for today? Anything you have in mind that I can do for you?", he would ask as he picked me up from my hotel to shuttle me to the hospital. "Want to stop on the way for breakfast or do you just want me to pick you something up and bring it to the cardiatric unit?" No wonder there is heart decease involved in all this lavish overabundance. Gitme became my keeper, afraid to leave me alone to my own demise that he would be held accountable.

The company took to tag team entertaining of me to distract me from any despair. There must be a file of my vital stastiscs somewhere in main offices. Men who's names I have only heard my hubby refer to in passing seamed to know every nuance of my personal life. Dialog I swore Hub had never paid attention to were now being repeated back to me by the suits whose names were just inconsequential to me. Maybe Gitme always held a private briefing meeting when he made dinner reservations for whatever bisness ecsalone on call for the evening.

One morning I got up early and was looking down at the beatiful river walk from the terrace of my suite. I was watching the parade of yuppie joggers bounce by dressed in their designer gear when I got a wild hair and decided to ditch Gitme and wig out on my own for awhile. Before Gitme could show up at my door I was on that path, planning on enjoying some much needed time alone with my thoughts as I walked the two miles to the hospital.

Dressed in my trophy wife uniform, dress, tasteful jewlery, high heels, and matching purse, I hit the trail. For that short period of time, as I sashayed along, I finally felt like I had some control over my circumstances. I was, afterall, getting myself to the hospital thank you. Nevermind the fact that I wasn't totally sure were the hospital was located.

The people I encountered along the upscale rivers edge put the Minnesota nice theory to shame. It was their etticate not only to greet me with direct eye contact, but also exchange a few words of pleasantness beyond my usual customary "Hello". I was immensely enjoying the beautiful view and social interaction. Along the path were numerous statues, attributing the strengths of the early settlers of the area. It was at Sister Mary's memorial that I knew I must veer of the path and head uptown towards the hospital.

My surroundings soon began to change as I ventured north. The regal brick buildings showed signs of neglect. Abandoned store fronts replaced the grandeur of the river front. I admired the creative artistic ability of graffiti covered empty lots. The early morning sun rose now warmly to a more direct angle. There were no leisurely pedestrians to banter with.

Feeling a slight burn in my legs from the exertion of my now up hill journey, I looked ahead and see the series of interstate overpasses and train tracks I must traverse to reach my destination. I also see a solitary figure slowly walking in my direction.

A tall, broad man wearing a small backpack was heading toward me. He is looking past me, down toward the direction of the river I have just come from, so I seize this opportunity to size him up. He is handsome, with long, well groomed dark brown hair. A native American, simply dressed in kakki's and a t-shirt. Maybe it is the angle of the hill he is on top of, from were I am looking, he is huge.

"Good Morning!" I am the fist to speak, as I chirp my bright greeting, looking directly into his dark chocolate eyes. This seams to startle the man, as he hesitates briefly before nodding in my direction, avoiding my face as he does. So far this morning he is the only individual not to address me, but in my memory I pass it of to a cultural sign of respect that until we are formal introduced, I am rude to look into his Lakoda eyes.

As I reach the crest of the hill, I start to see more people again. Scary people. Some are pushing grocery carts full of flotsem. Some are talking... to themselves. All of them need a bath and a laundry mat. There are no vagrants in my rosy little surburban world. I am about to walk into the heart of their subculture, under the bridges of the overpasses.

To late to show fear I step into the shadows underneath the train tracks. With my basic survival instinct I think WWEKD? I know what Jesus Christ would do, and that I am not capable of. I refer to what Erika Kane, invincible soap opera queen would do. I fluff my hairy little munkay feathers up to full size and purposely stride on. I walk tall with my shoulders back, head up. I ball both hands into fists that I swing as I take as long strong of strides as my short skirt and platforms allow.

It is hard to see my dank surroundings as I stomp on over the uneven broken pavement. The groups of dark figures indistinguishable but the smells of stale chemical smoke mixed with alcohol and urine unmistakable. I ignore the propresitions so indecent I'm unsure what they are offering, and do not even turn my head at the hoots and cat calls that follow my three block journey through hell. Tables are turned and they now look searchingly into my face as I pass, as if to read the my history as I infringe upon their territory. My heart raced with fear more than the exertion of the treck as my mind took survey of the valuables I was carrying. Not that I was thinking of material things. How would I find my way safe in a strange city totally alone with nothing? It was more than alittle surprising I made it through unviolated. It was with much relief I reached the medical facility on shaky legs.

Although Hubby was delighted to see me there early, once he found out I had walked was on the phone immediately to Gitme. In a hushed voice I heard him hiss, "She walked, and I'm not real happy about that!", as if I were a child naively unaware of my self imposed danger. Within minutes Gitme arrives in the room, red and gushing apologies at this fopah. A company car was brought to the hospital for my use encase of any more impulsive unchaparoned jaunts.

After a long, seemingly endless day of waiting at the hospital for test results and a diagnosis it is time for me to go and let my husband rest for the night. Gitme obediently walks me out to the parking ramp were the the car is waiting for me and offers to once again take me out for dinner. I decline his offer as I stare at the back of the bus stop bench on the corner. More sitting throught another pretencious dinner is the last thing I want I think as I reconize a large solitary man waiting in the bus shelter. Was I followed here? "Nite Gitme, talk to you in the morning", I tell him as a jangle the car keys in the air and clutch the map he had printed out for me. I walk toward my waiting vehicle but double back toward the bus stop and plop down on the bench along side it's sole inhabitant. Out of the corner of my eye I see him give me a slight nod, which I return. I do not want to drive back to my lonely hotel, I want to walk again and stretch my little used legs. Still holding the map in my hand I simply voice my thought out loud. "I need to walk back to my hotel safely." Again the nod as he reached down for his backpack and stood.

Our steps were slow in comparison to the ones I took that morning. Richard shortened his strides, which my heel bitten feet greatly appreciated. After brief introductions, Rick became my dignified tour guide. There were no jeers as we passed under the bridges. He did find us a cleaner passage route than were I had passed before. Not one off color remark accosted us now as we walked. The hostile gazes were now shifted else were. Rick pointing out the natural attractions I had overlooked in my haste earlier. At Sister Marys statute he spoke of the destruction and pain the missionary's efforts had caused his nation. He told me of the unwritten history of the problems the damn had caused the wild flora when the flour mill was built on the river. He pointed out wild Rusk growing along the watersedge. It is good for coughs I was enlightened. Rick relayed this information with out vindictiveness or pretence. For him it was just fact. This was not a conversation with an uneducated man. I yearned to ask him how he came about his current living conditions.

Safe once again back in my hotels couryard I thought it expected that I pay this man for his service. Mustering as much poise as I could, I asked him to have dinner with me in the hotel. Rick glanced down at himself inappropriately dressed as I did. We ate at the less formal grill inside.

Seated in a booth that looked out at the hotels gift shop I admired some native glass beaded jewelry displayed in it's window as we waited for our food. With new etheauseasim Rick told me of his past life of a fancy dancer. His entire family had worked on his intricate performing costume. Mothers and sisters cut the leather and sewed the beads and designed the fringe. Fathers and uncles supplied the quills, and dyes, and feathers. Every eagle feather on his costume had been numbered and registered and accounted for with the federal government. Feathers of the eagle are thought of with great spiritual reverence. As is the bird it's self. Some values our cultures do share. I was imagining the impressive figure Rick must have made all decked out in his performing regalia as I was finishing my desert. It was right before we said goodnight that with the first real glint of sadness Rick also told me if one were to lose an eagle feather off of his costume during a dance that it was a sign of bad luck and shame to the dancer who had aloud this to happen. The dancer that had this misfortune happen was responsible to cover the entire cost of the pow-wow, even if it cost him his last penny. I then understood why this distinguished man spent his time communing with a subculture under a bridge.

A few days later I had busted my Hubby out of that hospital and brought him back to the hotel to recuperate before catching a flight back home. Packing our belongings into suitcases for the airport, I spotted the sweet grass the tribal elders had brought for my husband while regaining his strength. As we dropped our room keys off the the front desk, I told my Hubby I would meet him at our waiting car. I grabbed up that sweet grass braid and sprinted down the jogging trail. I left that lucky healing gift at Sister Marys feet. Have a safe journey, Rick. I know you will find it.