Running Barefoot
Page 90
The peculiarities in the story made me wonder if many of the Native American legends had started out as truths long ago, and had gotten warped in the telling from one generation to the next, like that game children played at parties where everyone sits in a circle and one person whispers something in the ear of the person sitting next to them, and that person repeats what he heard to the person sitting next to him and so on, until it travels around the entire circle. If the circle is big enough the phrase at the end rarely even resembles the original phrase. I asked Samuel what he thought of my theory.
“Most likely some of that has happened,” Samuel acquiesced. “There was no way to accurately record the stories because we didn’t have a written language. Many of our legends and our history have been recorded now, however, and I guess you could say that is one bright spot in the assimilation of the Navajo children into American schools. We can speak and write in English and can preserve our culture in that way.
“I think many of the legends weren’t ever truths to begin with, though. Not in the way you mean, at least. Many of the legends were stories the native people used to teach their children and to create a code of conduct in which to live by. They didn’t have a bible to teach their children about a loving Savior, His atonement, and a life after this one. I think many of our legends are an attempt to explain what they didn’t understand – including where they came from and why they existed. They wanted to know what we all want to know. Who am I? Why am I here?”
I pondered what Samuel had said and wondered about my own desperate questions after Kasey had died. It hadn’t been until he died that I really questioned God’s plan for me. I hadn’t really questioned who I was and why I was here until I could no longer look at my future with any kind of joy or anticipation, until I needed help finding a reason to continue. It was then that I had needed answers most of all, and the only answer I had found, my only reason for being, had become my father’s need. Then Sonja had needed me, and I had found a measure of joy in service, and it had sustained me. Until now. Now I had questions again.
We rolled into Levan at about 6:30 that night. I felt haggard and filthy, but was loath to part with Samuel for any length of time. I suggested that we rendezvous back at my place for dinner in an hour, giving each of us a chance to freshen up after several days of showering with a bucket and a hand towel.
I greeted my happy dog with a hug and a kiss and stumbled into the bathroom avoiding the mirror entirely, deciding that what I didn’t know couldn’t hurt me. I scrubbed and lathered and moisturized and came out of the shower feeling almost new again. I threw all the clothes from the five day trip into the wash and pulled on a skirt, a light weight pink top, and enjoyed putting on make up with a full mirror for the first time in days. My nose was a little sunburned and my cheeks had a few more freckles, but when I was done I looked refreshed, and my hair gleamed around my shoulders.
I started some pasta on the stove and defrosted some sausage in the microwave. I fried it up and poured some homemade tomato sauce over it that I had canned a few weeks previous and decided it would suffice for an easy meal. I ran out to my garden on a whim, craving fresh vegetables in a salad and was just straightening up with my basket full of produce when Samuel surprised me, walking around the corner of the house towards me. My heart performed a series of flips, and I caught my breath before it left me senseless. How, after only an hour apart, could I be so desperately happy to see him? His black hair shone, and his warm skin glowed as he shot me a smile that sent a jolt from my stomach to my now wobbly knees. I curled my bare feet in the cool dirt pushing up between my toes and smiled back at him, waiting for him to reach me.
He stopped in front of me, and without missing a beat, he took the basket from my hand, set it down beside my feet, and wrapped his arms around me. He smelled wonderful – like juniper trees, Ivory soap and temptation all mixed together. My eyelids fluttered closed as his lips found mine and didn’t retreat for several long minutes.
“I missed you,” he breathed, and there was a rueful expression on his face as my eyelids lifted heavily to meet his gaze. He dropped another kiss on my needy lips as he leaned down and picked up the basket of vegetables, looping his free arm around my waist as we made our way into the house.
We ate with Yazzie sleeping at our feet, and the sound of a distant lawn mower humming through the open kitchen window. Beethoven softly serenaded us from the living room stereo, and I had been lost in the music and the meal for quite some time when I realized that Samuel had stopped eating and was listening intently.
I watched him, waiting for him to tell me what was wrong.
“What is that called?”
“The piece?”
“No…..not the name of the piece. The musical term. You explained it to me once. I just remembered it as I was listening to the music continually return to that one sound….what is it called?
“Do you mean the tonic note?” I asked, surprised.
“Yeah, I think that’s what you called it.”
“Your ear has become very sharp. You’re hearing the tonic note, even when it isn’t being played. It’s more subtle in this piece than in some other works.”
“Explain it to me again,” he demanded, his expression one of deep concentration.
“Well…..a tonic note is the first note of a scale, which serves as the home base around which all the other pitches revolve and to which they ultimately gravitate. If a song has a strong tonic base you can hum the tonic note throughout the song, and it will blend with every note and chord.”
“Most likely some of that has happened,” Samuel acquiesced. “There was no way to accurately record the stories because we didn’t have a written language. Many of our legends and our history have been recorded now, however, and I guess you could say that is one bright spot in the assimilation of the Navajo children into American schools. We can speak and write in English and can preserve our culture in that way.
“I think many of the legends weren’t ever truths to begin with, though. Not in the way you mean, at least. Many of the legends were stories the native people used to teach their children and to create a code of conduct in which to live by. They didn’t have a bible to teach their children about a loving Savior, His atonement, and a life after this one. I think many of our legends are an attempt to explain what they didn’t understand – including where they came from and why they existed. They wanted to know what we all want to know. Who am I? Why am I here?”
I pondered what Samuel had said and wondered about my own desperate questions after Kasey had died. It hadn’t been until he died that I really questioned God’s plan for me. I hadn’t really questioned who I was and why I was here until I could no longer look at my future with any kind of joy or anticipation, until I needed help finding a reason to continue. It was then that I had needed answers most of all, and the only answer I had found, my only reason for being, had become my father’s need. Then Sonja had needed me, and I had found a measure of joy in service, and it had sustained me. Until now. Now I had questions again.
We rolled into Levan at about 6:30 that night. I felt haggard and filthy, but was loath to part with Samuel for any length of time. I suggested that we rendezvous back at my place for dinner in an hour, giving each of us a chance to freshen up after several days of showering with a bucket and a hand towel.
I greeted my happy dog with a hug and a kiss and stumbled into the bathroom avoiding the mirror entirely, deciding that what I didn’t know couldn’t hurt me. I scrubbed and lathered and moisturized and came out of the shower feeling almost new again. I threw all the clothes from the five day trip into the wash and pulled on a skirt, a light weight pink top, and enjoyed putting on make up with a full mirror for the first time in days. My nose was a little sunburned and my cheeks had a few more freckles, but when I was done I looked refreshed, and my hair gleamed around my shoulders.
I started some pasta on the stove and defrosted some sausage in the microwave. I fried it up and poured some homemade tomato sauce over it that I had canned a few weeks previous and decided it would suffice for an easy meal. I ran out to my garden on a whim, craving fresh vegetables in a salad and was just straightening up with my basket full of produce when Samuel surprised me, walking around the corner of the house towards me. My heart performed a series of flips, and I caught my breath before it left me senseless. How, after only an hour apart, could I be so desperately happy to see him? His black hair shone, and his warm skin glowed as he shot me a smile that sent a jolt from my stomach to my now wobbly knees. I curled my bare feet in the cool dirt pushing up between my toes and smiled back at him, waiting for him to reach me.
He stopped in front of me, and without missing a beat, he took the basket from my hand, set it down beside my feet, and wrapped his arms around me. He smelled wonderful – like juniper trees, Ivory soap and temptation all mixed together. My eyelids fluttered closed as his lips found mine and didn’t retreat for several long minutes.
“I missed you,” he breathed, and there was a rueful expression on his face as my eyelids lifted heavily to meet his gaze. He dropped another kiss on my needy lips as he leaned down and picked up the basket of vegetables, looping his free arm around my waist as we made our way into the house.
We ate with Yazzie sleeping at our feet, and the sound of a distant lawn mower humming through the open kitchen window. Beethoven softly serenaded us from the living room stereo, and I had been lost in the music and the meal for quite some time when I realized that Samuel had stopped eating and was listening intently.
I watched him, waiting for him to tell me what was wrong.
“What is that called?”
“The piece?”
“No…..not the name of the piece. The musical term. You explained it to me once. I just remembered it as I was listening to the music continually return to that one sound….what is it called?
“Do you mean the tonic note?” I asked, surprised.
“Yeah, I think that’s what you called it.”
“Your ear has become very sharp. You’re hearing the tonic note, even when it isn’t being played. It’s more subtle in this piece than in some other works.”
“Explain it to me again,” he demanded, his expression one of deep concentration.
“Well…..a tonic note is the first note of a scale, which serves as the home base around which all the other pitches revolve and to which they ultimately gravitate. If a song has a strong tonic base you can hum the tonic note throughout the song, and it will blend with every note and chord.”
