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McEntire’s Bar was comparatively quite. Only me, Wilma, Mac the bartender and Nine-Finger Louie plinking out a show tune on his piano. Or was it a blues tune, or was it a show tune done as a blues tune, or something else? It doesn’t matter. I had with me something that was going to be the center of everyone’s attention.
I didn’t really feel like being friendly tonight. My wife died a very short time ago, and I am not handling it well. But the house gets so quiet. I have to get out. Here I am, middle aged, and facing once again the possibility of dating.
I am frightened. Sometimes I think that I will never be able to make a connection with anyone ever again.
Louie stopped playing and turned to greet me. He noticed the box in my hands. “Feathers,” he said. “That must be your Great-Grandmother’s box.”
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I placed the box on my favorite table. Carved into the top, in a way that reminded me of a sand painting, was a stylized human figure with stalks of what must be corn, or maize to either side. The colors were muted, faded with age, just like me. However, tonight I was resolved. I would enjoy myself if possible, but if that failed, at least I could be entertaining.
“I stopped being “cute” a long time ago,” I began. “These days I strive for Colorful. Bright shirts, little pointed beard, and always loaded with a story.”
“You started to tell us about this before – everything happened. Something about a riverboat and Indians on a forced march?” Mac prodded.
“The Trail of Tears,” I replied, picking up the story. “And the ancestral source of my colorfulness. My Great Grandfather, Andrew Jackson McEntire.”
“Hey, I know that name,” Louie interrupted. “He wrote Minstrel Music and was on the staff of the Goldenrod showboat. You know, the boat that the musical is based on” He turned back to his piano and started playing a quick little tune almost like a ragtime number.
“That’s right,” I said, “but let me tell you the whole story.” Everyone settled down and I began.
“Like you said, Louie, my Great Grandfather, Andrew Jackson McEntire, was a staff musician on the Goldenrod Showboat. On one stop, while the boat was in Cape Giradeu, (that’s a small town in southern Missouri), the government brought thousands of Indians through on a forced march to the east. This march was later called The Trail of Tears. Hundreds died, and everyone on the march lost everything.”
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I paused for a moment, the sharpness of my own loss biting me once again. I thought, not for the first time, about the people on the trail. I looked at the box, pulled myself together and continued.
“Anyway, my colorful Great Grandfather stole a woman from the trail. He married her and she became my great Grandmother. We don’t know much about her other than she was Cherokee. I have no idea what her real name was, we only know her as Elsie, but I do have this box. It’s a shaman’s box. Apparently my Great Grandmother was the daughter of a Shaman.”
I opened the box. Inside was an elongated animal skull and six rough crystals, each a different color. “The Trickster,” I explained, pointing to the skull. “A coyote, and the tools of his tricks - crystals. I don’t know what the stones represent, but a short time ago, I discovered something rather strange.”
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I took the stones from the box and arranged them on the table in a rough line. I passed my hand over them a couple of times and continued. “I have a feel for them now. I won’t watch, but if someone touches just one of them, I can tell which one it was.”
“Let me try it,” Said Wilma.
“OK, “I said. “I will turn away and hide my eyes, but only touch one of them.”
After a few seconds, Wilma said “Ready,” and I turned back to the table. I passed my hand above the stones again, pausing briefly at each one. Finally, I pushed one of the crystals forward. “This one,” I said.
Wilma’s mouth dropped open. “That’s right!” she exclaimed. “How did you do it?”
“I just get a feeling,” I replied, but suddenly it hit me. “No, I just make a connection!” As I spoke, a weight dropped from my soul. I made a connection. Trivial, but an ancient crystal led me to a connection. I was not alone. Without my wife, my world will never be the same, but if I could get a reaction from someone through a stone, maybe, eventually, I could make better connections. On my own, without help from a long dead Shaman and these magic crystals.
The bar was quiet, and for the first time in a long time I felt like I was ready to continue. I quietly gathered the crystals and placed them back in the box. As I turned to go home – I could face my empty house now - I realized that like Pandora, I reached into
a box, and pulled out hope.
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