I have only a few scattered memories of my father. I was five when my parents split, just seven when he died. I remember visiting my dad at a small house in the desert. There was an old Indian man living next door. I don’t remember his name, and I never met him again. My father was born and raised on a farm in Arizona and was no stranger to reservations and native people. I don’t think he was as comfortable with a 6-year-old kid.
My father had the old man watch me while he was out, and I must have been feeling unsure of things. The old man could see, and he was kind. He made a toy for me from two large coat buttons with thread laced through the holes, cradling the buttons like two high wire walkers meeting face-to-face on a sagging tight rope. When the old man pulled on the ends, removing the slack, the buttons would spin in opposite directions, creating a mystical whirling, buzzing, mantra-like sound. The rotation would slow as the string twisted tight from the button’s momentum. Another pull would start the process again. He handed it over to me. Pull, whirl, contract, pull, whirl, repeat. I was enchanted. Some things we remember.
The old man was old 50 years ago. He had to have been born before the turn of the century. While I made the toy sing its mysterious song, he told me a story about going to “the school with the white kids.” The old man said when he arrived at the school, all the kids on the playground ran away from him if he got close or tried to join what they were doing. He was confused. He said the kids kept yelling “cooties.” He didn’t know what it meant, but he knew it was bad, and he withdrew to his solitude.