THE WAY OF THE SPIRIT - First contact, part 3

If any of my readers care to comment on this book from this point on I will post selected comments to be read here. I reserve the right to choose which to publish in order to keep the discusion on track. I also reserve the right to shorten them if necessay but I will not change any words. If you haven't already read the first two parts of this book please do so now.



THE WAY OF THE SPIRIT - First Contact part 2
The harsh dry wind had turned gentle, carrying the fragrance of lush growth. I was standing in waist high grass, some sort of wild grain. All around me the hills were covered in vegetation, waving in the breeze like a verdant sea. Brooks bubbled in the tiny valleys between the hills, marked by bands of trees along their banks. The parched depresions had become ponds and small lakes, flashing and sparkling in the sun.
Scattered about these ponds in groups of three to half a dozen were rounded huts made of willow hoops and thatched with grass. The nearest group was at the foot of the hill on which I stood. Each hut had its own firepit with a neatly swept stone hearth next to it. Some were in use and wisps of smoke rose from these as women dressed only in leather skirts knelt beside them cooking. Men and women squatted here and there talking and laughing, and around and between them in splendid confusion ran laughing children and barking dogs.
Never had I seen skin the tone of theirs; not the coppery brown of the American Indian, nor the lighter brown of the Oriental and certainly not the color of the deeply tanned Caucasian. These people had skin that could only be called golden. I thought, incongruously, that this was what the rich "beautiful people" tried so hard for but never quite achieved. The hair of these golden people ranged from dark brown to almost blond.
As I stood there in wonder and bewilderment, my eyes were drawn to one man in particular. Medium in height, he wore only a loincloth and leather headband to keep his shoulder length hair under control. All in all, he appeared no different from any of the others.
Storyteller (how did I know his name?) kept the oral history of his tribe in his head and at night entertained any who cared to come to his hearth with stories both traditional and made up on the spot. How did I know that?
As I looked, he turned toward me, palm uplifted in greeting. With a shock I realized that even as I looked at him with my eyes I was somehow seeing myself through his.
The I was again standing, grasping the gouged picnic table top and staring at a salt pan full of alkali. - the bare bones of what had moments before been a lake.
Most of the rest of that day I sat there, my thoughts buzzing like gnats - never quite lighting, ,just going around in aimless circles. I remember thinkig ruefully that whatever the store put in that coffee it could bring a fortune in certain circles.
Eventually I pushed the experience to the back of my mind, as we will with things we can't understand, and in time it became a sort of secret treasure to be taken out and examined from time to time and then packed carefully away again.
When the sun sank low I resumed my journey to Oklahoma to visit my sister. Soon after I arrived I found myself looking at land for sale, something I had not considered before (at least consciously)
Well, I thought, it would be a pleasant place to live once a house was up. My son was grown and happily married with a life of his own, and I had a small income from my Navy retirement. I supposed I had as much right to be a middle aged crazy as the next man. So I became the proud owner of 40 acres on Goats Bluff in the beautiful green hills of Eastern Oklahoma.
My conscious plan was to grow as much as possible of my own food on some cleared land and become one of the growing number of self sufficient homesteaders, but it soon becme apparent that more was going on here than I had bargained for.
The first year was given to clearing brush and stumps and building a small, house that I changed e few years later for a log cabin.
Half way down the North slope of my ridge is a sandstone outcropping, and I found myself drawn there often to sit and daydream. I know now the importance the Nanina place on dreaming, but at the time it just seemed a good place to relax. Often I thought of my experience in New Mexico and wondered what it meant. There is a natural seat on the stone and it seems to have the peculiar property of easing aches and pains with what I presumed was the stored heat from the sun. As I sat there one day, easing a back aching from pulling stumps, my thoughts turned to Storyteller and that peculiar double vision. Almost immediately I felt a jolt where my back rested against the stone as though I had touched a bare electric wire but there is no electricity anywhere near my North slope.
In the same instant a voice spoke loudly. I am certain that the voice was in my ears and not in my mind. The words were strange and had no meaning for me at the time
"Nanina ishtahei". I had heard my first words in the language of the Nanina - a language that had not been heard on Earth in three thousand years, though I did not know it then.
Now I had two experiences to worry over and I chewed at them like a dog with a bone.
Weeks went by with no further happenings. On the one hand I was relieved, but on the other I felt as though I were in quicksand and the only way out was to go farther in, hoping to feel solid ground under my feet.
Then one day as I was working in my new field, I heard the voice again, this time less dramatically for I knew that it came from somewhere in the deep recesses of my own mind. It was Storytellers voice, this time in strangely accented English. "The people are like stone". I knew this was a translation of "Nanina ishtahei" and I also knew, don't ask how, that it signified, "The people are one".
This knowing without knowing how I know was strange to me at the time. It became more frequent, though never commonplace, as time went on.
One more word the voice spoke, "REMEMBER", and now it is my task to remember so that you may remember. REMEMBER the Nanina.
TO BE CONTINUED

THE WAY OF THE SPIRIT - continued

My original title for this book was, The Way of the Nanina but my editor insisted on the present title, even though there were already several books by that name. I wish now I had stuck to my guns but I had never been published and felt it was important to get this book into circulation. My publisher ran off a large batch of copies and promptly went bankrupt. I like to think it wasn't my fault ;-) so I never collected a penny in royalties but that doesn't bother me. Those who are supposed to read it will find a copy somehow.


THE WAY OF THE SPIRIT -First Contact part 1
Some years ago I found myself driving across New Mexico on my way from San Diego to Oklahoma.
As I neared the high plains, I felt the urge to turn off onto a small road. Checking the road atlas I saw that a series of small country roads would lead me in the right direction. I told myself I was bored with the easy but monotonous interstate highway I had been travelling. Ah how we twist and stretch to make the promptings of our soul fit the practical, no-nonsense attitude of modern humanity. Now I need no such excuses. This much at least the Nanina have taught me.
After over 50 miles of travel with no sign of a town, or even sight of a house, and with my gas gauge too close to empty for comfort, I came into a small settlement consisting of one gas station, a dusty store, and perhaps a dozen houses. Gratefully I filled my tank. I bought a loaf of bread, some lunch meat and filled my thermos with coffee. There was a three stool counter where I could have had a bowl of that wonderfully spicy New Mexico chile, but something prompted me to stop somehere at the side of the road to eat. Had I ignored those promptings, my life would never have taken the turn it has.
A few miles from town I found a picnic table, seemingly set up in the middle of nowhere.
As I turned off the engine the silence struck me with a shock. No birds sang or flew in the sky. No horses or cattle cropped the sparse buffalo grass. The sigh of the ever present high plains wind accentuated rather than broke the silence.
A strange prickling sensation made the hair on my arms and the back of my neck stand up, but I reassured myself that it was only the unaccustomed desolation.
As I sat there eating, I read the inevitable graffiti scratched and carved into the table top - Paco 78 - Harry and Alice were here - the common persons one shot at immortality.
Sipping the last of my coffee I looked about me. As far as the eye could see were low, rolling hills; bare brown earth with here and there a dusting of buffalo grass. In the small valleys between the hills deep gullies had been gouged by the infrequent but violent rains. Many of them terminated in shallow depresions crusted with the salt and alkali left behind when the thirsty winds sucked out the water.
I twisted the top onto my thermos and got to my feet. Suddenly dizzy, I grasped the edge of the table for support. I heard the thermos thud to the ground. Everything seemed dim and hazy, as though the sun was slowly going out. I seemed unable to focus on anything. I remember thinking,"Oh great. I'm about to pass out and there hasn't been a car along since I got here".
Children laughing? Dogs barking? Was I hallucinating? Then as my vision cleared I thought I had lost my mind.
TO BE CONTINUED If you haven't read the first part of this book please do so before reading this part.

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THE WAY OF THE SPIRIT - introduction

Those who have read some of my wacky humor and (I hope) enjoyed it may find this book quite a departure. I take no credit for the wisdom it contains as you will see if you continue to read it. It was a given book. Somehow a connection was made which enabled it to be passed on from a Story Teller of a tribe that lived on the North American continent three thousand years ago. I was merely the scribe. I truly believe you will find comfort in reading and discussing it.


THE WAY OF THE SPIRIT - Billy Whiskers
Copyright 1990
I am Nan. A word which means a person apart. The very concept of a loner was bewildering to the people I remember; the gentle Nanina. It was to them as though a foot were to live and walk about without being part of a body.
Yet, strangely, I must be Nan in order to properly remember them, for a memory 3,000 years old can stand few distractions.
They were a beautiful, wise and gentle people with a natural grace that the world hungers for today. I see their dust blow past in the wind and know that their legacy is a memory in one mind alone. This must not be!
So now I give their memory into your keeping. Do with it as you will, but remember the Nanina.
I weep as I write these words but not for the Nanina, for their lives were full and their days were joyful. The were ishtahei (like a stone) and complete in a way the world has forgotten. Their lives poured from their very souls and the words of their souls were uttered by their mortal mouths.
TO BE CONTINUED

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Alzheimer Gal still hanging in there

They never did pin down the cause of her seizure but she's in rehab at a fascility in Lemon Grove. It remains to be seen how much of her they can bring back but they did a great job last time this happened. I hope you will forgive me if I abandon this story for now and substitute parts from my one and only published book "The Way of the Spirit" ISBN 0935127100 . It's been out of print for some time but you can find it if you google it. I'll try to get the introduction in tomorrow; Hoody

Apologies

I hope my readers will forgive me. The Alzheimer Gal is back in the hospital. This time she had a seizure and I had to call the ambulance crew to come get her. There was no way she could make it to the car.
I'll try to get back to the story but I have no idea when.
Hoody

OLD FOLKS AT HOME - Part 3

I must apologize for being so late continuing this story but the Alzheimer Gal has been having some lung trouble and had to spend a few days in the hospital. I was also at a sort of crossroads in the story and couldn't decide where I was going. I usually create the characters and then let them create the story but it seems Maybell was asleep. At any rate, here is the continuation. I hope you find it enjoyable.
If you haven't already done so please read the first parts of this story before reading this.
Old Folks at Home - Part 3


OLD FOLKS AT HOME - Part 3
The day room is buzzing with groups sitting in every corner trying to figure out what The Pole meant. I asked him once if he knew what they meant himself or if the words just came to him but he just smiled that sad smile of his. I've often wondered about that.
I don't join any of the groups. I like to sort of wander around and listen in. It leaves me a lot more options. Over by the French doors one group thinks it has something to do with a game. Someone suggests solitaire but that's just silly. If he had said,"Red on black", it might have worked but who ever saw a deck of cards with the suits in red and green? Miss Thompkins, who we call The Flower Child (she never married, poor thing) suggests Monopoly but she's a little vague at times. Alzheimers, you know.
They don't seem to be getting anywhere so I wander over to the group near the coffee and cookies table. Old Annie is sure he was talking about a traffic light which at least makes sense but I hardly think Sergeant Cho was here to discuss a traffic accident.
I notice The Artist is sitting by herself furiously scribbling on her sketch pad. Oh, didn't I tell you about her? Well she wears these black leotards with a paint spattered smock over them, which is rather peculiar since I've never seen her painting. She carries her sketch pad and charcoal sticks everywhere she goes and her hands are always soiled. She is - well - a bit on the chubby side, to be charitable. She has this stringy black hair (dyed I'm sure) that looks as though it had never seen a hair brush or been washed. On top of it there is a black beret that has seen better days. There is no offensive odor about her so I suspect she bathes in secret and then works hard to appear unbathed. She is supposed to be very tallented but she drew my portrait once (she draws everyone) and it didn't look like me at all. Would you believe she made me appear old with a crepey neck? Mister Truman agreed it didn't do me justice.
I look over her shoulder and see that she is furiously sketching a very hard looking man. I quickly step away and supress a girlish giggle when I recognize him. I hardly think John Dillinger has anything to do with the case in hand.
The Major has his own usual followers and they are seated in a group below the TV set. Perfectly alligned of course. No circles for the Major. Everything must be in straight lines. He has his own chalkboard which he drags out at times like this and it is filled with words and phrases all connected by arrows pointing every which way. He is standing in front of it with his silly pointer lecturing on how it all fits together but he doesn't really seem to be coming to any conclusions.
I sense Mister Truman looking at me and fold my fan to indicate that he has my attention. For a Yankee, well sort of a Yankee (he is from Kansas) he is quite well versed in the language of the fan. He has come to invite me for a stroll in the garden. As we step outside the French doors I shift my fan to my left hand to indicate that he may take my hand if he wishes.
It really isn't much of a garden by Atlanta standards. Just some geraniums and annuals like marigolds and petunias transplanted out of flats, but one must make do at times.
It should have been quite peacefull and perhaps romantic but unfortunately The Highlander is there playing his bagpipes. I don't really mind the pipes. They are quite stirring at times but they are hardly the proper instrument for playing, "Roll Out the Barrell" which he is industriously, if somewhat wheezily, pumping out at present. As usual he is dressed in kilts. He tries very hard for a Scots burr in his speech but there is a bit too much Brooklyn in it for it to sound authentic.
To be continued

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