Running Commentary: #11

Running Commentary: #11
August 14, 2012 -- Tuesday

Reminiscing -- Going back to where it all started


     Long ago, some Saturday's found me at the Indian Boarding School. My friend Nakita lived there in one of those small institutional houses built by the government. They were so drab. No color anywhere. Cheap, brown furniture inside the thin walls. Government issue. Brown dirt outside. No grass, flowers, or bushes holding it down. Blowing away on the wind. Losing more Indian land minute-by-minute.

     I don't remember how I got to Nakita's government house, how long I stayed, or how I got home. Who took me? Who picked me up? I'm guessing it was mother. Who else would it be. I just remember the in-between. Wadding up pieces of paper into small balls. Using spit to make them hard. The ammunition Nakita and I divided up, as we took our places behind the only sofa or chair in the living room. Taking a couple of rubber bands saved in our jean pockets, we began to play war. Spending many Saturday's together, we never tired of this game.

     Nakita came in and out of my life for a number of years after the games-of-war period. We became uncomfortable with each other. I was hop, skipping, and jumping back and forth between the White and Indian worlds; Nakita was one hundred percent Indian. Strange, I don't think I ever met her father. Nor, do I ever remember seeing her mother on those Saturday visits. The wind blew dust in my eyes.

     One time, Nakita came to my house in the hollow to play. The day was hot. School was over for the summer. We had a bike. Where it came from, I don't know because I don't remember ever seeing it again.

     We rode that bike, taking turns, up and down #10 Highway, outside of Tahlequah. The lazy, meandering Illinois River kept us company alongside. Whoever wasn't riding ran whatever distance the rider chose to go. There was only one rule to the game. Don't be greedy with your turn.

     I'm certain I ran barefooted. Every year, I had my own ritual to initiate summertime. Throw off my shoes and run the rocky road from my house to the highway. When I could go the distance without feeling any pain, the feet were tough, ready for all the adventures of summer. It took a few practice runs to pass the test.

     I don't remember any cars on the highway that day. No traffic to break our concentration. Just a steady cycle of one girl riding a bike, one running along behind, waiting her turn. No clouds. Squinting into the bright distance. Feeling the pleasant tickle of sweat. No conversation. Total focus.

     Nakita was the runner. I'd just taken over the bike. "Wait!" I heard her say, as I'd just gotten up to full speed. "I can't feel my legs!" came the word sounds through the wind. I turned my head and could see she had fallen behind. She was in trouble and I braked. "Give me the bike to ride!" she shouted. "I think I've got Polio."

     There was no worse word than Polio in our lives, other than War. I was stunned. I didn't know much about Polio, other than it was very bad. I was a sure-fire-alert word!

     Nakita had come to a dead stop in the middle of the highway. Just a few seconds ago she had been running. This must be really bad. I turned and pedaled as fast as I could to help Nakita.

     Kind of dazed, thinking about Polio, I got off the bike and turned the handlebars over to Nakita and watched as she was miraculously cured. She got on the bike and her legs began to pump in straight, furious strokes. It was a transformation. I stood and watched--dumbfounded. My eyes were in slow motion. Nakita started laughing as she faded away into the distance. I couldn't move.

     "I tricked you. I tricked you!" I though I heard her say. I began to run and finally caught the bike. "You cheated, Nakita. I didn't get my turn. Give it back!" By now, though, Nakita had thought up a new game. Changed the rules. Whoever had possession of the bike was the ruler. She laughed again and told me she was just hot and tired and needed to rest. I was pretty dumb to believe she had Polio, she told me. She laughed again. I don't remember her laugh as being pretty.

     I don't think I was angry with Nakita. But, I did feel shame. I must have felt shame because I've never told anyone this story before. But, I can tell you that whenever I have writing drought, two words are ever present and ready: truth and dishonesty.