By Lee Coleman, Commentary
Enid News & Eagle
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Being a native Georgian, my move to Oklahoma last November was quite an eye opener in many regards. We moved to the Panhandle and I had no idea what was awaiting me with Old Man Winter right around the corner. Boy, what a learning curve of sorts that was!
One thing I have become particularly fond of are the Indian names to a lot of towns here. There is some Indian heritage in my bloodline.
In fact, my ancestors were the very first settlers in Saluda, South Carolina. Three brothers came from England and they were greeted by, amongst many things, the Cherokee Indians.
My father always tried to be involved in the activities my brother and I participated in. However, Dad sometimes had a way of going overboard.
When I was about 10 years old, our local YMCA sponsored a program for kids called The Indian Guides. Dad jumped right in there and signed me up without my knowledge of my new commitment. Hey, I was 10 and I had important stuff to do. Like trying to figure out why my brand new blue Pro Keds tennis shoes couldn’t make a chubby kid run faster and jump higher as Keds had advertised.
Of course, I didn’t have an option. The Indian Guides will help build character and all that stuff I was told. So, I caved. I started thinking of all the Indian stories my grandmother had told me over the years about our Cherokee heritage and I got all excited.
My idea of Indian Guides was wearing big, colorful war bonnets, shooting bows and arrows at the Great White Buffalo and riding across the wind swept plains on my pony named Scout. Wrong again. Our Indian costume consisted of white jeans with these red frilly things running up and down the leg, a yellow YMCA t-shirt and a yellow headband with a single red feather glued to the back of it. Good grief.
When you are in the third grade and one of the chubby kids in the neighborhood, a get-up like that would definitely get you beat up if spotted by one of the big kids.
The saving grace that summer, or so I thought, was the father/son IG camp. They had several competitive recreational sports that I did enjoy. Until the time came for The Big Sky Canoe Race, Dad and I would race other dads and their sons.
When the time came, me and some of my new friends made our way down a hill to the lake where Dad waited on me. My dad, as a rule, was a jokester and I always knew when he was up to something when he would get this grin on his face that closely resembled a donkey eating briars. My dad, much to my chagrin, knew I didn’t like snakes.
As we approached, Dad suddenly screamed to the top of his lungs, “Le-e-e-e-e! Don’t step on that big snake in front of you!” Turning and hauling buggy, knocking over my new friends in tow, I scrambled to get out of there until I heard the laughing. My dear sweet father had set me up. Everybody knew the gag was coming but yours truly.
Red faced and sullen, I reluctantly climbed into the canoe. As the race started, Dad was yelling, “Left-right, left-right. Paddle faster. Faster!” Yeah right. I’ll get right on that. As the sound of that laughter continued to ring in my ears, I reached my end. I started rocking the canoe from side to side while Dad strongly encouraged me to not do this. Too late briar-eater. Over we went.
It was hysterical. Dad was none too pleased with my decision-making process. Well, look at it this way Dad. Better to go swimming than to step on a big snake!
We laughed about that story for years. Dad and I shared a lot of laughs together and when he died 17 years ago, a part of me died also.
I am certain wherever Dad is today, he is sitting in that canoe and looking down at me and grinning with that silly little grin. When I think of my Dad, I can’t help but laugh.
Better to be laughing than crying.
