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The Newsletter >
Smoking Indian Totem Pole?
August 14, 2008
Goodly Folk,
When our granddaughter, Zoe, realized her Utah
grandmother was getting ready to fly home after a Christmas
visit, she exclaimed, “But, Grandma Stahle, I just found
you!”
Grandma Stahle cried.
When our grandson, Conner, wants you to turn his
“Transformer” toy into a robot he bends backwards at the
waist and flings his arms out as if he’s being crucified.
People look at him and wonder, “What’s wrong with him?”
Zoe has been using the English language in a tender,
insightful way pretty much since her lips could form
sounds. Conner has invented a form of sign language that
requires a United Nations interpreter and a guide book.
That’s boys and girls for you.
I try to reassure Zoe and Conner’s mom that everything
is as it should be—Zoe is good with words, and Conner is
good with . . . sticks.
Trying to reassure her further, I tell her about her
fifty-year old father (a boy) whose main methods of
communication sometimes makes me wonder if he’s having
mini-strokes, or possibly drunk. For example, during a
recent conversation I believe that he may have exhibited
nine of the ten symptoms of insanity.
Sighing, I said, “Gosh, I feel like kind of a bum
sometimes. You know, I could get a little part time job
while I’m finishing up school.”
He said, “Go be . . .” He drifted off into silence.
His pupils dilated.
“What were you going to say? Go be what? You faded out
there, buddy.” I poked him.
“ . . . a Wal-Mart greeter.”
“Hey, don’t think I couldn’t, mister. I could do as
good a job as a lot of those folks. I like people. I’m
chatty. I’d make sure nobody got one of those shopping
carts with the wacky wheels of death. What do you think
about that?”
Silence. I poked him again.
Jumping, he said, “Yeah, you could be a smoking Indian
totem pole.”
“What? A smoking Indian what? What are you trying to
say?” I asked.
He looked as stumped as I felt, and then my mind
reading, extra-sensory perception kicked in.
“Are you trying to say a cigar store Indian?”
He laughed and said, “Oh, right, that’s what I’m trying
to say.”
“Whaaaat? What does a cigar store Indian, or as you put
it, a smoking Indian totem pole have to do with being a
Wal-Mart greeter?”
At this point, my husband bent backwards at the waist
and flung his arms out as if he were being crucified.
That’s boys and girls for you. Some of us are good with
words and some of us are good with . . . sticks.
Love and expressions of love,
Linda (Welcome to Wal-Mart) Zern
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