Schyler Martin

(continued) He and I have a tendency to become belligerent when we have a few too many. We both like to argue about anything. I can tell when the mood hits him because his eyes become black as coal and he takes his hair out of the usual ponytail. He resembles a tall thin scarecrow with straw hair. The discussions never become violent, merely a test of wills and intellect. They always end up the same way. He tells me, “Well you’re the dumb one who works to collect dead presidents.” This is what he calls money. It is his belief that the pictures of presidents on bills represent a slap in his face. He reasons that many of these presidents oppressed and degraded the history and culture of our ancestors.

At this point, I know it is useless to argue. I simply give him a hug and tell him that he is a crazy old man. My uncle DJ is the closest thing I have to a father. He thinks a lot of me as well. My aunt tells me how sad he gets when I don’t come over to visit at least every other day. It is wonderful when you find someone to sit and have an intellectual conversation with, or simply enjoy a beer together on a warm sunny holiday. Not every conversation is the same, just as every day is different. That must be the attraction --wondering what another visit to my uncle’s beautiful home, nestled snuggly in the great north woods of the Stockbridge-Munsee Indian Reservation, will bring.

(continued) He helped fry fish for the church that evening. Standing over the deep fryer, he wore a black pocket t-shirt cut off at the shoulders. His blue jeans were baggy and faded from dark to light blue. Over his clothing he wore a white apron and on his forehead a blue and white bandanna. He moved quickly to put the fish into flour, then into a secret batter recipe, then into the deep fryer. This was one of his greatest gifts. Later he treated children at the pop machine. A little boy and girl stared at the lit-up pop lights. He dug deep in his faded blue jeans, brought out four quarters, and gave them each two. They traded smiles with the thoughtful man who told them. “Go play and be good."

Painting by Wendy LaTender

(continued) His blue eyes are as wide as saucers, and they are as blue as the ocean, matching the color of his pajamas. They are adorable. Made of soft cotton, the shirt is blue and has light brown sleeves with orange around the neck. There is a monkey on the front of the shirt hanging from a tree with one hand and holding a screwdriver in the other hand. It says,”Mr. Fix It,” on the front in the same orange that is around the neck. The matching pants have little screw drivers, hammers, and wrenches scattered from top to bottom.  

My heart swelled with love just staring at my beautiful son. He was sitting in a big chair like a big boy and he did it all by himself. These moments are so rare and pass by so quickly. Before I know it he will be all grown up and will not need help from his mother anymore. He must have felt me staring at him because he looked over at me. His thumb popped out of his mouth, and he gave me the cutest smile I had ever seen. It was so big I could see every little tooth in his mouth, even the molar that wasn’t all the way in yet.