Where Pocket Knives Go To Die

Last Saturday night I attended the Indiana High School State Basketball Championship in Indianapolis, Indiana with my wife, son and granddaughter on her tenth birthday weekend. The venue was the Banker's Life Coliseum where the Indiana Pacers play. Since basketball is her passion, it was an exciting occasion for our granddaughter to see the Greensburg High School girls play for the state championship. And it was an exciting occasion for all of us.

My dad died on September 12, 1995, nearly six years to the day before 9-11, September 11, 2001. He could not have imagined the difference in security measures at airports, official buildings and public events.  None of us  imagined. I think about 9-11 every time I walk through a security gate.

Since my mother was alive, I didn't inherit anything from my father. But my mother gave me one thing that she thought he would  have liked for me to have.  She gave me his Case pocket knife that he had carried in his pocket for over forty years. This was a very useful  knife.  Besides the three blades enclosed in the handle, there was a cap lifter with a screwdriver, a can opener and a punch.  From constant use over decades, he had worn the handle to a smooth and rounded surface. Every time I felt the knife in my pocket or used the knife, I thought about my dad. I don't know for a fact that someone's essence and presence can be attached to a physical object, but I do know that in a very powerful way, the memory of someone can be evoked with a place or material thing.

In  June of 2003, after carrying that knife for eight years, I found myself in the Atlanta airport.  My wife and sister treated me with a trip to  New York City for my 50th birthday. Since at that time I didn't fly a lot, it was my first experience with TSA. My pocket knife was the last thing on my mind.  A pocket knife is very comfortable in a pocket. When I unloaded the contents of my pocket into the bowl, the TSA agent told me that the knife had to go.  I asked, "Go where?" And he pointed to the garbage can beside me. In a flash I saw that I only  had two choices.  I could turn around and  not fly to NYC or I could throw my father's knife away and keep going. I tossed it. Dad's lifetime pocket knife was gone forever. Walking away, I knew that I had discarded one of the most valuable objects that I would ever own. As much as I enjoyed the trip, I experienced a type of grief for my knife and for my dad. Over the years, the option of catching the next flight has looked better and better. But it's probably just as well, as that knife would probably have been long, gone by now anyway.

When we got home, I bought another pocket  knife.  With only the three blades, it was not as fancy as my dad's knife, but I found it to be very useful. I carried that knife for about six years. Did I mention a pocket knife is very comfortable in a pocket?  The experience at the Chattanooga airport was the same as in Atlanta. Only this time I didn't have to ask him my options; I just tossed it in the garbage can.

As before, when I got home, I bought another knife much like the one I had thrown away in Chattanooga.  I carried that knife until last Saturday night.. I had learned my lesson in airports and had always left my pocket knife at home or checked it in my luggage.  Last Saturday night with the excitement of the birthday and the big game, when I loaded my pockets, I didn't give my pocket knife a second thought.  Who knew there would be tight security at a  high school basketball game?  At the security gate I asked the official,"What all do you need to see?"  He said, "Your wallet, your cell phone and the contents of your pockets". I retrieved and showed him my pocket knife and asked him my options.  As if I didn't know already, he just pointed to the garbage can beside him.

In the case of my dad's knife, there was an emotional attachment that was much deeper than the knife itself.  With the latter two knives, it was only a pocket knife that I lost.  But I find a pocket knife to be a very useful tool.  I always carry one with me. But I also find a pocket knife to be very comfortable in my pocket. It is not equipped with alarms or flashing lights. Like an infant, it expects you to take care of it. Come to think of it, an infant lets you know when it needs something. A pocket knife remains completely silent.

Sometime in the next few days, I will go to Bass Pro Shop just up the road and buy a new pocket knife.  As with the other two knives, I will have to deal with a pain of regret about my father's knife.  I will know that on both a practical and emotional level no pocket knife will ever replace it. Besides the sentimental value, it was the best pocket knife that I have ever owned.  I will  also know that no matter how thoughtful and careful I am, this will not be the last pocket knife that I will ever buy.  I'm very careful, but I can't anticipate my pocket knife's security threat in 100% of situations.

Greensburg lost the game and I lost my knife, but we had a great time together in that historic coliseum. Some things cut more deeply than others.  All things considered, these losses were just a scratch.

Termite Insurance

One of the best educators I sat under through all my years of  school was Mrs. Bauer.  I had her for freshman speech at the Enterprise High School. Her husband, who went by Mr. Bauer, was my high school French teacher.  Both of them were excellent teachers. My junior year Mrs. Bauer left our school to become a teacher at the Enterprise State Junior College. After graduating from high school, she became my teacher again at that institution.  My second and final year there, she offered me a full scholarship to be on her debate team. I liked the sound of "full scholarship", but I did the math.  What would take more time and effort?  Thanks to the state of Alabama, I could write a check for $67.50 a quarter or work my butt off night and day for her. I chose to write the check.  I don't say "shame on me" often, but "shame on me" for not accepting that offer, for choosing laziness over excellence. I have no regrets of where my life went from there, but in some alternative universe, I honed my speaking and communication skills by being on that debate team. I enjoyed the rewards of a "full ride." In that universe for the rest of my life, my people skills and powers of persuasion were more pronounced and useful. Who knows in that universe I might actually enjoy buying cars.  I'll never know.

What I do know is that I learned a ton of things about myself and about public speaking in that high school speech class. First of all, I learned that a speech is one of three kinds.  It is either a speech to inform, to persuade or to entertain.  That's it. It's one of those.

When I write, I do not consciously categorize my writings.  I just write what I feel like writing. However, when I look over my shoulder, it seems that I most often write to  entertain or to inspire.  One of my readers once told me, "I feel something when I read your stuff."  Well, I often "feel something" when I write.  I'm glad that those feelings sometimes bleed through my words. That entire introduction was to say that these words that follow are to inform and to entertain.  I seriously doubt that you will find these words to be  the least bit inspiring.

Yesterday on my way home from work, an advertisement came on the radio. He was talking about termite insurance.  Termite insurance?  What the heck is termite insurance?  Before I could figure it out, he said that you could get this insurance for $200.00 per month.  Two hundred dollars a month?  That's more than my car insurance!  What do I get for $200.00 per month? No doubt termite protection is a good idea. Homeowners rarely covers termite damage. A barrier bait system makes a lot of sense in termite protection.   But those systems normally cost less than $1,500.00 to install and about $400.00 per year to maintain. Or signing up for an annual termite inspection is a good idea. But that usually costs less than $150.00 per year, much less than $200.00 per month. However, a person who has dealt with extensive termite damage may think the $200.00 per month isn't unreasonable.  The average cost of termite damage repair is $3300.00. But when you consider that many repairs for  less than $500.00 are included in that average,  that means that many jobs are in the tens of thousands of dollars. It's like they say, "The average depth of a swimming pool is five feet. But if you dive in the wrong end, you'll break your neck". All of a sudden termite insurance was beginning to make more sense. Termites have been called "eating machines", because termites never sleep. They just eat. While you sleep, they can do a lot of damage in a relatively short period of time.

As I drove on and  considered all of that, he said that even someone over fifty with diabetes could qualify.  What?  An age and health requirement?  What the heck are  you talking about?  I have to qualify for termite insurance?   But he said it one more time and I finally understood.  He was not selling "termite insurance; all along he had been selling "term life insurance."

These words may not have inspired you, but the experience inspired me.  Today I  made an appointment with my audiologist.

Unnecessary Pain

“I come to you in pieces so you can make me whole.”  Pieces by Red

Human beings feel pain. We are all human beings. So we all feel pain.

If we slam our fingers in the car door it hurts really badly.   If our best friend is killed in an automobile accident, we feel pain. It hurts to our core.  In both of these cases, one physical and the other emotional, there is no way around the pain.  It’s just going to  hurt. And I know from bitter experience the loss of that friend will hurt long after the fingers feel just fine again. In both cases, I would call this necessary pain.

As a human being with nerve endings and emotional triggers, I have experienced my share of necessary pain. As a thirteen year old, my bicycle slid out from under me when I was coasting too fast and leaning too low around a curve with sand on my tires.  I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt.  My face hit the pavement first and the entire right side of my body followed.  My mother about passed out when I showed up at our front door dripping skin and blood.  I have dealt with human loss.  I have dealt with grief and pain. In all these cases there was no way around the pain. It was necessary pain.

But something happened this afternoon to bring to the surface another kind of pain. If actual pain hasn’t been enough to deal  with, I have created for myself, over the years,  a monstrous amount of unnecessary pain. This is pain I have created out of thin air.  It's been real because I've felt it. But it has all been unnecessary. None of it was useful or necessary. This afternoon I was listening to one of my favorite alternative Christian  bands, Red.  I was simultaneously enjoying the music and beating myself up for something that happened in 1983.  More specifically, it was something that didn’t happen. Unnecessary pain.

In June of 1983 I resigned a church position at a Baptist church and immediately accepted another position as youth director of a local United Methodist Church across the street. During my first conversation with my new pastor, he said, “David, there are many things you can do with your youth, but there is one thing you will do.”  I said, “Okay”. And he continued “Every summer you will take them to Ichthus, an outdoor Christian rock experience in Wilmore, Kentucky”.   I’m thinking, “Bring it on. I love Christian contemporary music.” So I said, “Sure. That’s great. Let’s go.”

I didn’t miss that he said, “Christian rock” but I thought, “How much harder can it get than contemporary?”. Turns out. A lot harder.   I was musically raised on Amy Grant, Phil Keaggy, Love Song, 2^nd Chapter of Acts, Michael Card, Keith Green, David Meece and so many others.  I was excited already. At this point I will interject that I do not remember the name of a single “Christian rock band” that was at Ichthus.  I do remember that Phil Keaggy was there one year and the next year Michael Card was a featured artist. And I certainly enjoyed listening to them.  But as for the other fifty or so bands that were there, I don’t remember a single one.  I will now name some of the bands who more than likely were  there: 12 Stones, Anberlin, Ashes Remain, Skillett,  Fireflight, Flyleaf, Kutless and dozens more that I now enjoy listening to. But this afternoon listening to and immensely enjoying Red, I knew in my heart that Red was there.  I'm quite sure that I  heard them sing. And if so I  sat there  with 30,000 other people around me and in my snobbery and indignation didn’t appreciate any of it. Ichthus has been called  the Woodstock of Christian music. The fact that I was there, but wasn't there at all is a crying shame.

Let me explain a bit more about “Christian rock.”  Another category, the category Red is in, is “alternative metal.”  Yes, it’s the hard stuff. Pandora Radio introduced me to  Red about ten years ago.  I was listening to my Switchfoot station when it cycled into a song by Red.  I don’t remember the song, but I remember having an immediate affinity for it.  I now own many Red CDs and have created numerous Spotify playlists of their music.  I listen to Red quite often. To say I love it is an understatement.  Yes, if you listen to Feed the Machine, Darkest Part, Step Inside or Shadow and Soul you will be introduced to their “heavy metal”. But if you keep listening and hear Pieces, Hymn for the Missing or Not Alone, I think you’ll agree that they could play them at about any contemporary church on Sunday morning.  They are that versatile and that good.

And Red was more than likely a featured band at at least one of those Ichthus experiences. So that’s why this afternoon it was vexing my spirit. In 1983 I was watching and listening to musical genius, but I just sat there. I just wish I had not been so musically narrow and arrogant to not appreciate them  when they were right in front of my eyes. That I don't have a memory of it.

So it helped to talk about it. Thanks for listening.  I think I’m over it and can move on.  I will listen to my Red playlist with no unnecessary pain. I promise. And to be fair, most people who were at Woodstock don't remember being there either. But what about the pain I feel every time I wash dishes? I think about how I wish that every now and then I had lingered in the kitchen of 102 Glenn Street after supper  to help Mom with the dishes. I wish I had asked her about her day.  Her life. Asked her about anything, instead of rushing off to  watch Green Acres or the Beverly Hillbillies. I wash a lot of dishes. I feel a lot of pain. And after fifteen years, I still miss my mom so much.  Necessary or unnecessary?

It's All Going to be OK

The Accidental Tourist was a 1988 movie adapted from Anne Tyler’s 1985 novel. Macon Leary (William Hurt) writes travel guides for people who don’t like to travel.  Leary doesn’t enjoy traveling either, but of necessity he has to travel to write the guides. I, on the other hand, love to travel.  I love everything about travel except for airports and airplanes, bus trips, train trips and car trips.  I enjoy everything else, except I  don’t like staying in hotels all that much.  I have not always been this way, but I am now.  But like Macon Leary, when I live in Georgia and my immediate family lives in California and Indiana, I travel quite often.

Last week I found a travel documentary on Netflix called Expedition Happiness.  This young German couple, Felix Starck and Selima Taibi, converted a school  bus into a “tiny house on wheels.”  Felix, Selima and their dog  then hit the road from the eastern US through Canada, down the west coast of the US and south through Mexico. Felix provided most of the narration and commentary. Selima was the camera operator and provided the incredibly beautiful soundtrack with her original music. Needless to say, besides the extraordinary scenery and people they encountered, they also experienced many problems and mishaps along the way. But since I was watching a documentary of their journey, I knew that it all turned out all right. However, I still felt their pain when they encountered particularly difficult circumstances.

The documentary provided much food for thought for me.  I had pen and paper handy and wrote down many of the quotable quotes from the film.

“What if none of it works out?  I know it’s going to work out just fine", Felix said early in their adventure.

“There are two reasons to celebrate today.”  No matter what happened, they always found something to celebrate.

“Let’s see how it goes”, Felix  said quite often.

“We got lucky again”, is what Felix said after they surpassed a difficult “roadblock” (literally).

Once when they were surrounded by armed law enforcement officials, Felix said, “I’m scared as hell. I’m shaking. This is bad. But I’m still positive I guess.”

When they got in situations where the local culture was uncomfortable and sometimes threatening, Felix said, “We need to be respectful of the circumstances and be thankful for the hospitality.”

While in Mexico their bus broke down (not the first time). They were stranded on the side of the road.  Felix said, “ I don’t know what to do. I have no tools to fix this. It can’t be any worse.”  Then when a truck pulled along side of them he said, “We just met a truck driver. He said to ‘follow me’. We are doing that right now. I hope he’s taking us to a mechanic.”   That is what happened. Felix responded, “After like ten minutes and five  bucks we were back on the road.” This was not the first time people came to their rescue.  Of this frequent travel phenomenon, Felix said, “With their help, everything kinda worked out.”

When I was about sixteen years old these words came to me. "If everything is going to be OK, then everything's OK." Maybe my sixteen year old self was trying to tell me something. At that age, except for trips with my family, I had done little traveling. So my words were speaking to something larger than travel.  They were a gestalt for my life. Obviously, if I accept my words for my life, they include travel as well.  

Meanwhile, as Felix said, "There are two reasons to celebrate today". 1. I'm safe and warm and dry. 2. I'm not going anywhere.

Who you gonna call?

"If there's something strange in your neighborhood
Who you gonna call?
If there's something weird
And it don't look good
Who you gonna call?"   Ghostbusters, 1984

As far as I know there are no poltergeist in our home.  I have never encountered anything strange or out of the ordinary. But something happened the other day that made me wonder.

I was in the house alone, standing in our kitchen, when I heard the unmistakable sound of a dial up modem.  If you're too young to be familiar with that sound, you can search it on YouTube and hear dozens of examples.  It's a sound that once you've heard it,you can't mistake it for something else. Since I was already standing up, I wasted no time trying to track down the noise. It wasn't coming from my phone, because my phone was in my pocket.  My first best guess was that the sound was somehow coming from my modem downstairs (although we have not had a dial up in many years).  When I got downstairs, it was no surprise that the sound was not coming from my cable modem that connects all of our digital appliances. At that point it sounded like the screeching was coming from upstairs. By the time I got upstairs, the sound was gone. I had never heard this sound since dispensing of our last dial up modem many years ago. So it was a little disturbing to hear it again.

Last year, my wife and I made reservations to stay in the Grand Colonial Hotel in La Jolla, California. The hotel had come highly recommended so we made arrangements to stay there.  A couple of weeks before the trip, I Googled the hotel to research its amenities and the first hit was that the hotel was haunted.  I'm not a fan of things that go bump in the night, so my first inclination was to cancel the reservation and stay somewhere else.  We talked about it and decided to be brave and to take our chances.  When we were checking in, I asked the clerk about the ghosts and she said, "They're in the old building below us. We don't have any ghosts here."   One less thing.  And in our four days there we were a little bothered by the rather dated decor,  but we weren't disturbed by the paranormal. Those twin girls holding hands at the end of the hotel hall in the Shining have sort of stayed with me. I certainly wanted no part of that.

I spend a lot of time in the Chickamauga Civil War Battlefield at Chickamauga, Georgia. This, the most visited Civil War battlefield, is only about a ten minute drive from my house. So I go there often. This battle was second only to Gettysburg in casualties.  During September 18-20 1862 more than 34,000 Confederate and Union soldiers were killed or seriously wounded. When I'm walking through the woods of Chickamauga with my camera,  although I'm not frightened, I never feel that I am completely alone. It's more of a comforting presence than anything to be afraid of.

But back to my modem.  I have no explanation for why the sound of a dial up modem would present itself in my home.  You may be thinking that I was hearing things.  Well I was hearing things.  If somebody rang the doorbell, I would be hearing things. If my dishwasher was running, I would be hearing things. If I turned on the Bose system, I would be hearing things. Whatever the sound was and wherever it was coming from, I was hearing things. Even if  it was "all in my head", I was hearing things (everything we hear is all in our heads). My first dial up modem, a 1200 baud, was  as slow as Christmas..  My 2400 baud modem was twice as fast.  Then a friend gave me a lightning fast(relatively speaking) 9600 baud modem.  They all were different speeds, but they all sounded about the same.  My modems had to locate and "shake hands" with some distant modem and that process was very noisy. I never timed it, but I was say the process took about forty seconds  to complete.  And there was something very satisfying when those last shrill noises suddenly disappeared with a connection.

We have a one year old boy in our lives.  This little boy delights us in every way possible. He's just beginning to talk and like any fledgling talker he makes up words that sound about right to him.  And, as is always the case with children, what he says is so much cuter than the actual words. He answers pretend phones, for example, with "Weh Woh!"  A few days ago we were expecting good friends to  show up around five o'clock and then the pizza delivery man after that.  When our doorbell rang right on time,  I opened the door with a hearty "Weh Woh!" The pizza  man just stared at me. As he was driving away, he probably wondered if he had seen a ghost.

Cheque Please

In 1983 we lived in a house way out Mission Ridge Road in Rossville, Georgia.  The house was on  the way to nowhere.  Nobody ever “dropped by” to see us. It was a twenty minute drive just to get to a starting place toward some distant destination.  This house was in Walker County, Georgia whose county seat is in Lafayette (pronounced luhFAYette).   At the time US Highway 27 between Ft. Oglethorpe and Lafayette was a farm road.  Well, not exactly. The road was a nice paved two-lane US highway, but because of local traffic including farm equipment and people in no particular hurry to get somewhere, the drive to Lafayette was slow and tedious.  I drove there as little as possible. It took me about forty minutes to get there, so I seldom went there.  There was really nothing I needed or wanted to do in  Lafayette, Georgia.

But as I said, Lafayette was the county seat and the courthouse was there.  Every now and then I needed to conduct official business in the courthouse. Once I was called to jury duty there when I ended up the foreman of the jury. The case was sister vs. sister.  As you can imagine, it was a sad case. In spite of what the court records say, neither sister won that trial. But that’s another story.

Needless to say, in 1983 there was no internet; there was no doing something “online.”  But there was US mail and why I couldn’t take care of this in the mail, I don’t recall.  And since I’m not a procrastinator, I don’t know why I waited until the last day. I guess it was because I hated driving to Lafayette. The fact is that it was the last day to renew my license plate and I had to go to the courthouse to do it.  And apparently it was the last day for a lot of people.  I grabbed the only two things I needed, my renewal notice and my checkbook and headed out the door. I got in my car and started my journey.  I drove up Mission Ridge Road through  the north end of the Chickamauga  Civil War Battlefield and turned south on US Highway 27 through the park. This was before there was an  alternate 27 bypass around the  park.  The 30mph speed limit through the park was strictly enforced. Besides the steep fine, a ticket included a trip to Rome, Georgia an hour away so I respected that speed limit.  At the south  terminus I continued on Highway 27 toward Lafayette. The drivers of cars, trucks and equipment weren’t bad drivers, they were just in no particular hurry to get somewhere.  And because of double yellow lines and opposing traffic, the opportunities to pass were few and far between.  It’s was like waiting for water to boil, it just took a certain amount of time to get to Lafayette, Georgia . There was no alternate route.

The parking lot at the courthouse was full. I found a place to park and walked in.  Inside the courthouse, the line to the clerk’s window was out the door.  There were at least 60 to 70 people in line in front of me. There was nothing else to do  but take my place in  line.  Since the smartphone was still years away and I had not taken a book.  I had nothing to do but wait my turn in line. I may have made small talk with those around me, but I don’t remember.  It took me about an hour to get to the window, but I was finally my turn at the clerk’s window.  I handed her the renewal notice and opened my checkbook.  I don’t think my heart stopped, but something important stopped.  To my surprise and consternation, there were several deposit slips in my book, but no check. No not one.

What happened next only took about ten seconds.  The nice court clerk said, “Sorry.”  And I got out of line.

I could write another 1,000 words or so about my return trip home, the act of retrieving a check and my drive back to Lafayette, but I’ll just tell you that that was about an hour and a half round trip. The parking lot was still full, but I found a place to park and walked in. The line was nearly as long as when I had been there earlier. But this time I brought a book to read. I was walking across the floor to get in line when I caught the cashier’s eye and she caught mine.  Then in one of the top ten acts of kindness in my life, she motioned for me to approach her window. I apologized to the person I was breaking in front of and  I again handed her the renewal notice and wrote a check payable to the tax commissioner.  The transaction took less than a minute.

Some life lessons I have had to learn again and again.  This one I only had to learn once. When a payment is involved, have a method of payment.

A few months after that trial was over, the trial that was sister vs. sister, I was getting a cup of coffee in the McDonald's in Ft. Oglethorpe, Georgia when I saw the sister we had ruled against in the case standing in  another line. That decision we reached in a week long trial was a rather agonizing process and could have gone either way.  I didn’t make eye contact, but she walked over to speak to me.  She asked, “I know you, don’t it?”   And I said, “Yes, you do.”  I braced myself. She smiled and said, “I thought so” and walked away. A top ten relief. 

A four-lane US Highway 27 from Ft. Oglethorpe, Georgia now bypasses Chickamauga Park and is four-lane all the way to Lafayette.  Or so they tell me. 

When Thunder Called: Black Elk's Vision and My Epic Dream

"And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We're captured on the carousel of time.
We can't return, we can only look behind from where we came
And go round and round and round in the circle game."  Joni Mitchell, 1970

"Draw a circle of power around yourself and stand in that circle." Black Elk (1863-1950) Holy man of the Lakota Sioux


I am not a wikasa wankan, holy man; I am wasich, a European, a white man. I do not want to suggest that my dream was as powerful as Black Elk's vision.  I do believe though that my dream was as important to me as Black Elk's vision was to him. At the time of my dream, I knew nothing more of Black Elk than the quote above.  I knew nothing of his vision. I knew nothing of the Thunder Beings who would guide his life.  I knew nothing of his sacred  hoop and of how this hoop radiated out from his heart though his tipi to his people and  eventually encompassed the entire universe.

In the spring of 1982, I was in the Baptist Book Store on Brainerd Road in Chattanooga, Tennessee.  I was there looking for Christmas music for my choirs.  This effort was often a difficult and arduous task.  At that time in my music ministry, I personally directed four choirs, two children’s choirs, a youth choir and adult choir. Just like a farmer with hungry chickens,  pigs and cows, I bought all the feed and I fed all of them twice a day. These choirs had a ravenous appetite for new music and  new challenges.  So it was up to me to find that music.  One of the places I found it was at this Baptist Book Store.  They had a special listening room complete with sample music and a listening device. I spent hours there and often found music I could use. But on this day all those years ago I recall that my efforts were largely unsuccessful. In my discouragement and stupor, as I was leaving the store, I noticed a carousel of cassette tapes.  I assume  that I was looking for Christian contemporary music to listen to when my eyes landed on a “self-help” tape for AA, for recovering alcoholics.  I was a near teetotaler at the time so alcohol was not a problem.  But for some reason I purchased that tape.

I’m reading  yet another book on  the life of Black Elk.  I feel a kinship with him that I can’t explain. The first book I read many years ago, Black Elk Speaks, is a book based on an interview by John Neihardt. This book basically chronicles Black Elk’s vision that he had during a near fatal fever when he was nine years old. This vision was to shape his entire life and deeply affect the life of his people, the Lakota Sioux.  Even on his death bed, he was recounting his vision to those around him.

When I got to my hatchback Honda Accord from that book store and started down the road, I put that tape in the slot in my stereo. What I heard was a series of quotes.  Each quote followed another. Many times the narrator included the author of the quote. There was no explanation or commentary, just quotes narrated by a man. As I listened to the quotes. one of them stopped me, “Draw a circle of power around yourself and stand in that circle. Black Elk”. These words were my introduction to Black Elk, As I heard these words for the first time, I  felt something ping in my spirit.  I don't know  how your inner voice speaks to you, but in that moment mine spoke rather loudly. It told me, “David, this is important. Pay attention to this.” Little did I know that these words would affect me so deeply for the rest of my life. This introduction to American Indians would also lead to a lifetime of reading and research about many native tribes including the Lakota Sioux.   I also didn’t know that they would inspire a dream that would deeply affect me as well.

In the case of Black Elk’s vision, his vision of the hoop of the world when he was nine years old, he was very sick and near death. He remained in that condition for twelve days.   None of his family expected him to survive.  In my case, I was a relatively healthy twenty nine year old enjoying a good night’s sleep on no day in particular. I was going through a very serious time of depression and emotional agony. My outside world had never been better.  My inside world was coming apart. That depression would not be diagnosed and treated for another ten years.  I lived among supportive family and friends, but  biochemically and emotionally, I was mostly on my own.

In the dream it was a stifling hot day.  There was no wind. Nothing was moving. I was walking by an elementary school that looked much like the school building of my childhood.  As I continued to walk, I walked into a ball field.  In  the intense noonday heat, I felt as bone dry as the ball field looked. In the dream I was walking to no place in particular, but I was walking toward some distant destination.   And I was trying to escape the oppressive dryness and  heat. My path was taking me towards a backstop fence behind home plate. I noticed a small  opening from a tear  at the base of the fence just behind home plate.  Instead of walking all the way around the fence, I decided to crawl through that hole.  I approached the hole, first put my head and then my body through it.

Not unlike Alice’s rabbit hole or the wardrobe that led to Narnia, I emerged into another dimension, another world.  Just like Black Elk could never adequately put into words his vision, I have no words that describe what I witnessed and experienced.  But after 36 years it's all still very vivid in my memory.  At this point in my travels I was in a long hall  of sorts surrounded by cages.  The cages were full of fantastic animals. These animals only “exist” in children’s books and fairy tales.  They were all shapes and colors and squawking their respective noises. I was not frightened or afraid.  They were not menacing and seemed to mean me no harm.  As I continued to walk through this hall, I continued to encounter these fabulous animals. Then at the end of the hall I emerged into a realm of incredible light and beauty.  This place was made of colors that don’t exist on earth.  There was a beautiful lake surrounded by beautiful lush trees, shrubs and greenery.  There were birds flying over my head.  And a gentle breeze exaggerated the perfect temperature. To say I was in paradise would be an understatement.  But although I was in paradise, paradise was not in me.  I still felt as heavy and as down as I did on that ball field. At that point I noticed that I was wearing a belt full of heavy tools. It was a utility belt, the kind worn by pole climbers who work for utility companies.  I tried to unfasten it but I couldn’t find a clasp. I felt a sort of despair that I could be in such a beautiful place and still feel such misery.  I looked out over the lake and saw a black cloud gathering in the distance.  Although I had not felt threatened by those animals, the cloud was giving me concern. The cloud grew larger and larger and closer and closer and bolts of lightning were flashing down on the lake.Thunder was pounding the valley around the lake.  Now this black cloud was overhead and I felt like my end was near. My entire body was tingling and my hair was standing on end. All of a sudden  there was a bright flash of light with a simultaneous clash of thunder. And I was struck by lightning.  The bolt struck my head and immediately found the ground through my body. Instead of dying,  I was still very much alive. The burdensome belt that I had been wearing had fallen to the ground and I was standing totally unrestrained.    I ran and I danced in my freedom. I was not only physically free of any restraints, but I had never felt so good in my life. It was the joy of an innocent child.  I had been completely purged of any negative thought or emotion.  In my exuberance I looked over the lake and  I shouted as loudly as possible, “I don’t work on electricity!  I AM E-LEC-TRICITYYYY!!”   And I woke up.

After several days I still couldn’t shake the dream. Although I can’t say I was in some sort of mystical dream state, the dream definitely stayed on my  mind.  After about a week I sought out a Baptist  minister, a trusted friend of mine.. After telling him the dream, he said "you need to go talk to Joe," Joe was a mutual Lutheran minister friend.  He told me that Joe was quite versed in dream interpretation.  So I called Joe and made an appointment to see him. The morning I sat down with Joe he wasted no time in asking me about my dream.  He said “Tell me your dream.”  Although it was impossible then and now to put the experience into words, I did the best I could. After relating the dream he looked at me and said, “Young man, God has given you an epic dream.”  I asked what that meant and he continued, “An epic dream is a dream that if you pay attention to it and figure out what it means, it will change the direction of your life.” Then  he gave me two cassette tapes on dream interpretation.  Joe told me that if I listened to the tapes and followed their instruction I would be able to find the meaning in my dream. It took hours, but I did as he instructed. 

It’s an odd thing about that “change the direction of your life” thing.  The dream did in fact change the direction of my life, but it was only years later looking back that I saw the truth of those words.  Although my path started bending almost immediately, that lightning strike didn’t  happen for another ten years. And that utility belt was still problematic.  Now with the perspective of thirty six years, it’s very easy for me to see exactly where that road began “diverging in the yellow wood.” But then my path seemed to be going about the same direction.

Black Elk was no saint. He was a first cousin of Crazy Horse who has been called the fiercest fighter of the Lakota Sioux and one of the last to surrender to the reservation.  As a teenager Black Elk  took  his first scalp from one of Custer's soldiers at the Battle of the Little Bighorn. A few years later he killed soldiers of the 7th Cavalry at the massacre at Wounded Knee, that is, the massacre of nearly 300 Lakota old men, women and children by the 7th Calvary. A few Indians had guns, the soldiers had repeating rifles and Hotchkiss machine guns. They followed those trying to escape down a ravine and into  the creek. Black Elk was a fearless fighter of the Lakota Sioux. But through the power of his vision, he was also a holy man, a healer. Hundreds came to him for spiritual, emotional and physical help. Black Elk's power was known throughout the reservation and his tribe. But after Wounded Knee he traded his pipe for the rosary.  He was baptized  Nicolas Black Elk, after St. Nicolas,  by a Jesuit priest on the Pine Ridge Reservation near the Wounded Knee Creek. He spent the last 40 years of his life as a catechist, a non-ordained Roman Catholic priest.  Over those 40 years he was able to bring in over 400 men, women and children into the Christian faith. When asked by his biographer John Neihardt why he surrendered his native religion for Catholicism, he said, "Because my children have to live in this world.."

Last October, the formal process began toward the canonization of Black Elk, that Nicolas Black Elk will become the second American Indian to become a saint. There's little doubt whether or not he will be confirmed. Since St. Nick is already taken, I don't know who he will be.  As for me, I'll never be a saint, but  I do know that Black Elk's circle of power changed the direction of my life and has been a part of all the good I've ever done for myself or anyone else.  That useless trip to the Baptist Book Store in 1982 had some value after all.