Chapter 11. Powwow Pete

 

       Carlos said we were driving his mom’s old Packard to the powwow because its trunk was bigger than the trunk in Mom’s new Ford, but I never paid much attention to the big brown cardboard box in the back of the car. If I had, I would have thought it was our picnic. Well, Gramma has always said I have two stomachs and no brain.

       Sometimes, she says something in Spanish that translates to: “I wish you had a stomach for work the way you have a stomach for food.”

       I think she’s just kidding. Carlos and I help her whenever she asks us to. But maybe not. I’ve heard that during The Depression, kids used to have to work as hard as the grown-ups. Maybe Gramma isn’t used to kids sittin’ around doin’ nothin’ all day when they’re not in school.

       I found out when we got to the campsite the box in our trunk was full of Indian men’s ribbon shirts with lots of different colors of ribbons that swing when the dancer moves. They must be the prettiest shirts my mom and her crew have ever made.

        Not long after we pulled up, Mom opened the trunk to the car and a line started to form. Before Carlos and I headed for the dance circle, she was shoving bills in her pocket and   joking with the men not to wash the shirts with their light clothes unless they wanted pink and blue underwear. Mom is always explaining the washing instructions to men. My Uncle Benny’s the worst. He thinks he can put anything in a washer as long as the lid will shut. His white clothes always look like ugly Easter eggs. One time, he took Gramma a whole pillowcase full of pinky underwear he’d washed with a red shirt. She got out the bluing bottle and spent the whole day trying to make them white again.

    Aunt Pauline told her, “Just give up and sew some lace on them.”

       Gramma couldn’t do that. She’d be afraid one of us might say, “Ain’t ya got no shame?”

       Of course we never would. That would be disrespectful, and then she’d say we had no shame.

       While Mom was busy selling her shirts, Powwow Pete, who’s kind of a tribal policeman, started going around and checking out the booths to see what everyone was selling. Mom was real nervous. I think it was because you’re supposed to be Comanche or at least some kind of Indian to be able to sell at a tribal powwow, and she was afraid Powwow Pete would kick her out when he came to her car. But he didn’t. It wasn’t a mistake, either, because Powwow Pete and Mom have been friends for years and he knows for sure we’re Mexican.

       He not only didn’t throw her out, he even bought a shirt. Normally, he wears those Navajo cotton prints with a small design. Mom has scouts all over who are supposed to tell her if they see Powwow Pete wearing a bright red shirt with ribbons. She spends so much time with him whenever he buys a shirt you’d think he was her favorite customer. I don’t understand it. It’s not as if he’s her best customer. He only buys about one shirt a year. Sometimes, I think they’re sweet on each other, except Mom always says the last thing she needs is another man in her life. Well, I need one, even if she doesn’t. Powwow Pete would sure make a good dad for me. He’s real nice. I’ve never heard him yell at anybody. Not even once. I’ve put him on my New Dad List. I’m pretty sure he isn’t married because he’s always alone at the powwows.

       Carlos and I checked out the layout of the grounds and looked to see if there were any dancers crazy enough to jump around in the hot sun, but everyone was lying low. One thing you have to understand about Indians is their watches run on Indian Time. That means, no matter what the schedule says, the dances don’t start until it cools off, or until they’re darn good and ready.

       Then we went to the tepees and said hello to Mildred. She has a three-pole tepee instead of the usual Comanche four-pole tepee because someone from another tribe gave it to her. She says it’s much better in a windstorm. It’s really big, but she has set up her kitchen outside the tent anyway since there are so many of us. When we stopped by, I noticed she had wrought iron skillets, in every size, lined up and ready to go.

       Mildred promised Carlos he could sleep right in the middle of the tepee tonight so he can look up through the top and see the stars. He’s really excited. I think he’s already working on that star badge for Adventure Club. I told Mildred I like the glow inside of the tepee that comes from the sun shining through the canvas and she says the glow of all of the tepees at night is her favorite. So the three of us agree a tepee is the best place to be, day or night, in the summer.

       Mom’s never been as wild about tents. I guess that’s because, in Cyril—that’s another little town here in Oklahoma—the whole Ramirez family had to pick cotton and live in a tent year-around during The Depression. That’s when my Gramma sold homemade tortillas for extra money. Her kids delivered them so fast they’d still be hot when they got there. I’ve got another relative who sold some kind of grass, but no one will tell me who. Or why. Doesn’t everybody have more grass than they can afford to water anyway? Mildred says she understands why Mom has bad feelings about The Depression because all of the families had a rough time in those days. I guess lots of people went without a lot of stuff in The Great Depression—especially food—so why do they call it that? What was so great about it? They should call it The Boo-Hoo Depression.

       Mildred wonders if it was something about the lack of luxuries, like coffee, during that time that made Carlos’s mom love coffee so much. Although she was too young to drink coffee then, she says she always got sips from her dad—my grampa. All day we spotted her drinking out of the coffeepots all over the campground. I think she does it because she likes to visit and everyone always offers her coffee, so she drinks it. By the end of the day, she’s had so much coffee she can’t sleep, so she sits up and drinks more coffee, and visits some more.

       Really, it’s too hot for anything in a cup. How can Aunt Pauline bounce around from coffeepot to coffeepot with a coffee cup when it’s so hot outside that people are almost standing around campfires to cool off? Even the grasshoppers are panting in the grass, and all the talk about dancing all day has dried up with the moisture in the air. We don’t expect to see any dancing until it cools off tonight. Still, Mildred says to look at Aunt Pauline, you’d think she was as cool as a watermelon in the creek.

       Speaking of creeks, Carlos and I checked out the creek bed and it wasn’t dry! Lots of kids were there swimming and swinging way out over the water on an old tire swing and then dropping right in the middle where it must be at least twelve feet deep. We hadn’t brought our suits from the car because neither of us had held out any hope we’d see enough water to get wet in. Once we were there, it was too far to go back and get them, so we jumped in with our clothes on. It was so hot we knew we’d dry off before the sun went down and it cooled off. Besides, Gramma wasn’t around to worry about us catchin’ our death.

       Some of the boys at the creek had war whoops that would make John Wayne break out in a sweat. Carlos and I tried it, but we sounded more like Tarzan than Geronimo or Santanta. Everyone was real nice even though they mentioned I obviously wasn’t pure Indian. That’s important here. The Comanches want to build up their tribe and don’t usually cotton to outsiders coming in, getting married, and then having kids that aren’t all Indian. I didn’t say much around those kids because I was afraid they wouldn’t be happy at all if they found out Carlos and I weren’t even part Comanche, we’re Aztec! Those are Indians from Mexico, Mom told me so.

       Carlos doesn’t have to worry about whether or not he looks like an Indian. He has dark eyes and dark hair. When we go to a powwow, he looks Indian. When we go for pizza, he looks Italian. When we go for Chinese food, he looks at the menu. Ha!

       At the powwow that night, the Comanches showed how gracious they can be to outsiders: Powwow Pete, all dressed up in his new red shirt, asked Mom if she wanted to join the women in their round dance. Mom said no because she was so busy packing shirts she forgot her dance shawl, and she knows it’s disrespectful not to have one on while dancing with the other women. I could tell she was real disappointed. During the night, we saw a lot of Mom’s shirts in the ring and in the stands. Only the fancy dancers—Indians who dance at dance contests—wear feathered costumes when they dance. During the day, when it’s real hot, they don’t bother unless there’s prize money because the hot sun fades their feathers. Lots of times we’ve seen the men dancers dying their feathers before the dance so they would look new.

       Carlos and I like to walk around and watch the dancers get ready. Sometimes, we hear the men talking and laughing about the Navajo Indians during the war who used to talk their native language on their radios so the Japanese and Germans couldn’t tell what they were saying. They never did figure out what the messages were. Ha! I guess they’ll think twice before they tangle with Navajos again.

       Mom explained to me how the Comanche men have always been warriors, so they’re proud of their military service. That’s why they wear their family’s military patches on a strip of material over their shoulder when they dance. Powwow Pete’s is so long it almost touches the ground. Both sides, front and back, are covered in Army patches. Carlos says some of them are from relatives, but most of them are his. He’s a real war hero for sure.

       The Comanche women support their men. That’s why, I guess, a lot of the women wear powwow dresses made from Oriental silks sent to them by their husbands and sons who are stationed overseas. It’s pretty neat, but it takes a little getting used to—Indian women wearing fringed dresses made from Oriental silks with little dragons all over them—underneath traditional Indian shawls with Oklahoma wildflowers embroidered along the bottom.

       At the end of the night, when we walked back to our tepee, I told Mom it was too bad we weren’t really Comanches.

       Aunt Pauline said, “You still have a chance to join the tribe.”

       Then she giggled. Mom got embarrassed and told her to shush. I don’t think she knows about their outsider policy, or maybe she was carried away by the romance of it all. Mom has always said she reads too many love stories.

       Speaking of romance and getting carried away, I noticed a lot of both were happening on the way back to our tepee. All over the prairie, I could hear the sounds of laughing women and men chasing each other in the dark under the stars.

       Mildred commented, “Nine months from now, the Comanche tribe is going to have a lot more members.”

       I asked her how she knew, but she just laughed. Carlos poked me in the ribs. He hates it when I act dumb. I keep telling him I’m not acting, I am dumb! That’s why I’m always asking so many questions.

       If I didn’t know better, I’d think Powwow Pete would like to marry Mom and increase the tribe a little. Every time I saw him and he wasn’t dancing, he was looking at her. And what a dancer he is. He’s not a fancy dancer, but he’s a proud warrior who means business when he joins the men’s dance circle. I can’t take my eyes off him when the drums start and he begins to move. Good-looking too. He’s thin, and must be four or five inches taller than Mom’s five feet. He keeps his salt and pepper hair tied back in a low ponytail with a faded black and white Western bandanna tied around his forehead. He might change his shirt, but he never changes the color of his bandanna. I don’t know why. Maybe he only has one. I’d like to see him put a feather in it, but I guess he’s too modern for that. Mom calls him a Weekend Comanche. She says that means he powwows on Saturday and Sunday and works a regular job during the week.

       I think Mom should grab him quick, before some other girl does. Of course, his name isn’t really Powwow Pete; Carlos and I call him that for fun. Mom just calls him Pete. Sometimes, I see him wearing the calico shirts to town that he buys from her. I’m sure he doesn’t wear them when he’s working on his old resort he’s restoring, because he’s doing a lot of the fixing on the place himself, and you don’t need handmade shirts for that.

       The resort is really a great place, even without Pete fixing it up. Each little cabin is made of big red round sandstones that are almost the size of basketballs. There’s a little barbecue on each porch and the bedroom windows face the lake.

       Anyone who stays there is welcome to go swimming, only no one from around here does unless they’ve had a lot of beer because the lake is full of snakes. I’ve never actually heard of anyone getting bitten, but wouldn’t it curdle your blood to look down and see a snake just inches from your legs? That would be enough to make most people swallow water and sink. Lots of tourists will really go for the cabins, though, if he ever gets the spiders and scorpions out.

       After the powwow, Pete showed up at Mildred’s tepee for a late supper. She had invited him. He didn’t sit next to Mom, but he sat right across the table from her so he could talk to her and she could read his lips. Carlos says he’s one smart Indian. Mildred grinned so much you would have thought she had a big piece of fry bread wedged between her cheeks.

       I heard Aunt Pauline ask her, “Where’s mine?”

       Mildred told her she had a nice Kiowa man picked out for her at the next inter-tribal powwow. Aunt Pauline said she’d just wait to see if Pete has a brother.

       I don’t think she’s too serious about this Mr. Sparks guy she’s been dating. She’s always making fun of him behind his back because he won’t even try a tortilla.

       Aunt Pauline says, “He’s a meat and potatoes man—and it’s starting to show.”

       She says a few beans and some rice would do him good. I have a feeling it’s not just the meat and potatoes that’s bothering her. It has something to do with trust, I think. For some reason, Aunt Pauline doesn’t trust white men who don’t make an effort to fit in with the family. She says she knows from experience they’re bad news, no matter how good they look or how much money they have.

       I wanted to hear what Mom and Pete said to each other, but some of the Indian men were talking about a rock head that has been found at the bottom of a local gravel pit, and I forgot all about Mom and Pete. Anyway, I’m sure Carlos and I will hear all about what was said on the way home if we pretend to be asleep.

       I guess there’s not much of a chance our moms will be able to tell us any more about the rock head. When men talk to our moms, they don’t mention that kind of stuff. They could talk about it to me; I wouldn’t get bored at all. From what I heard last night, it has eyes, a nose, and a mouth carved on it. The geologist told the men it isn’t really old, but then, how did it get all the way to the bottom of the gravel pit? I had so many questions, but I was afraid to ask because they might have figured out I wasn’t a Comanche and wasn’t even supposed to be there.

       Carlos says the only reason I can pass for Indian at all is because I’m so brown and my hair is dark brown now. When I was a little kid, it was blond. Carlos says my dad was getting real mad when it started to turn brown, so my Aunt Vera dyed it blond again to keep my dad from giving my mom a beating. I don’t remember that, but if you look at the photos in the family scrapbook, you can see how my hair changed colors for awhile.

       Even to this day, when I go over to Summit, the first thing Dad and Frieda say to me is, “If you get any browner, Girl, people are going to think you’re colored.”

       So what? If it matters to anyone, he can ask me and I’ll tell him what I am. That is, if I ever figure it out myself! Every time I ask Dad what he is, he says something different. So far he’s been Swedish, Dutch, Irish, and Norwegian. I don’t think he really knows. So. I’m part Mexican and part who-knows-what? I sure wish he’d get it figured out, because, at school, the teachers are always asking us where our relatives came from. Sometimes, I say I’m part Mexican and part Norwegian. Then I tell another teacher I’m part Mexican and part Swedish. I never say I’m part Mexican and part German because I hear they’re mean.

       During powwows, when I have to pass for Indian, I’m lucky my eyes aren’t blue like my dad’s; they’re Army green. Anyway, they’re so swollen from the prairie grass most of the time they could be purple and no one would notice. Carlos says the real color of my eyes is bloodshot.

       When Pete left, he went over to Mildred and said a few quiet words. She just giggled. Mom asked her what he’d said but all Mildred would say is Mom had better make a fancy dance shawl before the next powwow, because Pete wanted her to join the dance circle. I’d be more excited about this if I didn’t know the tribe would never let Pete marry a Mexican because of the baby-thing. I drifted off to sleep before Mildred got the marshmallows roasted, so I missed looking for stars through the smoke-hole of the tepee with Carlos. I guess Mildred stayed up with him and helped him to identify some of the stars she knows. She had a flashlight so they looked some of them up in Carlos’ new Adventure Club book.

       The next morning, while Mom and Aunt Pauline packed the car, Carlos and I walked around the field and picked up loose shoes and pieces of clothing and laid them all in a neat row by the road so whoever lost them could find them. I made fun of Carlos because he insisted on using a stick to pick up the lady’s underwear. Funny thing is, we found a red high-heeled shoe out there. How dumb can a woman get? Out there, a woman running across the prairie at night needs boots to protect her from snakes and chiggers.

       Before we left, Carlos and I picked a bouquet of wildflowers for Mildred. She’s such a nice lady. She kept checking on us all night to make sure we weren’t cold and chased mosquitoes off of us in the dark.

       Indians must have great night vision because every time she leaped over us to slap a mosquito we always heard a satisfied “Got ’em!”

       Not only that, but she never stepped on anyone, and we were packed in there tighter than feathers on an eagle.

       In the car, Carlos and I pretended to sleep so we could hear what had happened when we were off in other places. I guess Aunt Pauline bought some pretty silver and turquoise Navajo jewelry that she said had a more delicate design than Comanche jewelry, and Mom made a small bundle on those shirts. She let Aunt Pauline drive so she could count bills all the way home. Seemed like every pocket she had was full of money.

       There’s something else going on, but I’m not sure what. Every once in awhile Aunt Pauline would offer to turn the car around so Mom could go and look for some Indian that seemed to have fallen in love with her. This guy doesn’t sound like Pete, and every time they think of him they both laugh hysterically. It doesn’t make much sense. How could some guy fall in love with my Mom in just one day?

       Pete is number one on my list, but to keep from ever having to go back to Dad and Frieda’s, I’d say “Yes!” if my mom wanted to marry this new guy. Heck, I’d say “Yes!” if she wanted to marry a buffalo!

        Carlos says I’ll still have to go over and visit my dad, even if Mom gets remarried, but I keep hoping that somehow I won’t.

       I wish we could straighten it out, because we have a paper to put out as soon as we get home, and if my Mom’s getting married, it would make a great front page story. Carlos said I should start working on the drawing, and write the story later.

       Then we got a great idea! Maybe we could get my mom to buy an ad about her sewing business in our paper. I got out my tablet and got started on an ad right away:

 

If you need a fancy dress or shirt and can’t sew a lick,

come to Grace, or you’ll look like a hick!

 

Chapter 13. 'Squitos, Snakes, and...Alligators?!

 

       The next morning, the first thing I heard was the metallic click when Dad snapped his Zippo lighter shut after lighting his first cigarette. To me, it sounded like a gun was being cocked and it shot me out of my bed faster than if someone would have yelled, "Indians!" at the top of his lungs.

       I'd set out my clothes the night before--heavy jeans, long-sleeved coral-colored shirt, and my straw hat, so it didn't take me long to get ready. Waaay too many clothes for as hot as it was going to be, but it would take twice as many to keep off the pesky blood-sucking 'squitoes at the lake.

       This was an unhappy compromise. And I do mean unhappy. I put on my black high-top tennis shoes in the futile hope the mosquitoes wouldn't be able to bite through Goodyear rubber. Past experience had yielded at least three ankle bites inside my shoes, one of them right underneath the round rubber seal. Oklahoma mosquitoes are pros.

       I didn't even bother to check myself out in the mirror. I knew what I looked like. I headed out to help Dad load the boat, but he was already in Willie, his fishing Jeep, smoking a cigarette.

        "Where's the boat?"

        "We're not taking any boat, Gal."

        "Did you already dig the worms?"

        "Not usin' worms. Usin' minnows," he grumbled.

       Oh. This was different. Dad was actually going to let me use some of his precious minnows he raised in an old cement artillery horse trough out by where he raised the rabbits. Up until now, he'd only shared those slimy squirts with his officer friends.

        "So how come were not taking the boat?"

        "No need to take a boat for the two of us."

       Oh. I guess if Frieda were coming along we'd have hitched up the Egyptian raft with a full team of eunuchs wearing their best gold loincloths (read about that in the library, too).

        "Where we goin?"

        "Figured we'd try Lake Elmer." Dad ground out his half-finished cigarette and lit another one.

       Oklahoma is full of lakes, but this turned out to be the summer Dad kept going back to the same lake, over and over again. I don't know why, nobody else ever went there because they all knew it was fished out. Maybe if he'd tried a different lake, we'd have caught more fish, but I didn't say so. Whenever Dad was moody, I tried to be quieter than a mouse in a cat's bowl. Mom taught me that. He put Old Willie in reverse and as I hopped in it was already rolling backwards. Holy Smoke! Where's the fire? I didn't even get breakfast. Well, for all I knew, breakfast was canceled for the summer.

       Great. No breakfast, no damn book. Well, I had news for Frieda: she could read and eat chocolates all afternoon and she still wouldn't be no lady. When we got home for supper, she'd still be an ugly WAC with a five o'clock shadow that looked like a black smudge had come up through her Pearl of the Prairie makeup. She bought that stuff at The Parisian and I hate to think what she'd look like without it. As it was, she was uglier than a frog in the middle of the road after a big truck went by. Carlos made that one up. Pretty funny, huh?

       I sat real still as Dad made a sudden turn and headed for downtown instead of toward the lake. Before I'd caught my breath, he'd turned into Wimp's, a little hole in the wall cafe run by a relative of ours. I never could figure out exactly how he is related to us, but he is. In our family, we never throw out a relative just because they're no longer married to one of my aunts or uncles. We just add the new relative right on top of the old one, sort of like one of those New York sandwiches where they keep piling meat on until the top doesn't even fit anymore. Aunt Norah makes those kinds of sandwiches when she comes home to visit.

       Pretty soon, no one can even remember why old Joe is a member of our sandwich ... er ... family, they just know that he is. Without a word, Dad motioned me to sit next to him on one of the bar stools at the counter. I don't ever remember sitting at a booth there. Dad says the booths are for real customers, not family. He ordered two sausages and egg breakfasts and hid his nose in a cup of coffee. Strange, he usually lets me pick what I want from the big grease-stained menu.

       It was also unusual that he wasn't even talking to our relative. Wimpy went on about this and that and the other thing that was going on in town and Dad just drank his coffee, and barely even nodded at what Wimpy said. He didn't even look up when Wimpy said there was talk about shortening the fishing season because the water in the lake was so low. That usually gets Dad going because he says the same fish are still in there, ready to catch, and it's not like the fishermen are going out there and drinking the water. I'm not sure why they do it myself, but there's a whole bunch of men who meet once a month and decide these things. Dad calls them the Fish and Fart Department, and it seems like, most of the time, their main job is to get after Dad's goat. Wimpy had to leave us to go cook our breakfast, so he never seemed to notice Dad was in one of his moods. Or maybe he thought Dad was cranky because he hadn't had enough coffee yet.

       I was so hungry I didn't much care whether Dad made nice with his relative or not. I was grateful for the breakfast plate that arrived in a quick manner with two perfect pods of boiled okra, Wimp's trademark, alongside the eggs. Dad always hid his okra underneath his napkin, having long ago given up on getting Wimp to not put it on his plate, but I always ate mine. That Wimpy sure knows how to make a plate look pretty. While I ate, I tried to figure out what the sign behind Wimpy's counter meant:

 

WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE TO ANYONE.

      

       What did that mean? I asked Dad, but he just mumbled something about riff-raff into his coffee cup. I figured the way I was dressed, Wimpy might think I was riff-raff. Did I have to eat fast in case he decided to jerk my plate right out from under my fork? Just in case, I decided to eat my okra first.

       Things still didn't feel right, even though they did feel a lot better since I'd finally gotten some food in my belly. Then it hit me: when we left the house, Frieda was frying sausage. She was cooking for us, at least for Dad, and he left without eating it. Weird. She's gonna still be mad by the time we get home. Just you wait.

       When we headed out of town toward Cache, I could see the purple outline of the Wichita Mountain Wildlife Refuge in the horizon. I figure they call it that because of all of the parties people have out there. Mountains that looked a blackish purple from a distance began to bloom with reds, pinks, and oranges as we got closer to the sandstone rocks. It really is a magical place. Most people don't realize how much water is out there. If you know where to look for it, there are streams, creeks, and ponds I'm sure only us and a few Indians know about.

       As we go along the road I always keep my eyes peeled for quail, turtles, snakes, and other neat stuff. Once, I saw an armadillo in broad daylight. That's rare since they prefer to move around at night. Dad said something must have scared him out of his hole. Most of the time I just see trap door spiders and turtles. Oklahoma must have more turtles than cow pies. Years ago, Dad used to catch torturos big enough to make soup out of. They cook up real good if you can keep your mind off of the fact you're about to eat some poor turtle who was just minding his business, swimming in the lake, and all of a sudden he finds out he's swimming in a big soup pot. Now that Dad has a little more money, he doesn't bother with things like turtles and squirrels anymore. He says they're too much trouble for the amount of meat that's on them.

       At the beginning of the wildlife refuge, there's a beautiful pond on the top of a red sandstone hill. It's my favorite spot. The water is so clear and deep and the whole edge is surrounded by huge red, sandstone boulders. It's the kind of place Esther Williams would like to do the backstroke in with a gardenia behind her ear, except I don't think she'd like the snakes.

       I've never seen so many snakes in one place. They could be just water snakes that aren't poisonous--they just bite real mean--but they move so fast it's hard to identify them. Doesn't matter much anyway. If any water snake ever bit me, I'd probably die from fright, whether it was poisonous or not. To see the most snakes at my favorite pond you have to sneak up on them. That's why I always walk real quiet to the waters edge. There's one place where there's a cement containment wall, and the snakes like to rest their chins on the rough cement. If I'm quiet enough, I can see at least three or four all lined up, resting there in the water. Sure is a shame. Esther would really love that pond. Bet Mom could make her a special swimsuit: one with feathers, fringe and Indian beads all over it to wear when she went swimming in there.

       Well, this morning, we went right past my favorite pond and headed for the backside of Lake Elmer. The first thing we did was check the flag pole to see if a red warning flag flew at the top of the hill. That would mean Fort Sill was practicing their artillery, and a bomb could land there. As long as I can remember, Dad has ignored those flags, saying he was an artillery sergeant, and if they were going to be using the lake as a practice range, he'd by God know about it. It has gotten so bad that my Uncle CG won't even go out in a boat with him anymore. Especially if it's my uncle's boat.

       Dad made a sharp turn through some tall weeds where I don't think there ever was a road. When did he decide it was necessary to break trail for buffalo? I ain't never seen a rougher fishing spot in my life. There was nothing but weeds as high as my dad's chest and they went all the way down to the water where they mixed with the mesquite trees that live on the edge of the bank. And the water over there was deep. I couldn't even see the bottom, and not just because the water was black, either, which it was.

       Well, I stood there kind of dumbfounded. What the heck was wrong with the dock? There was no way to cast a fishing line here with all of the brush so close to the water. Not even a big rock to climb onto. What was Dad thinking?

       As we fought our way through three-foot tall grass and moved closer to the lake edge, I heard the snakes start to drop off the tree limbs into the water. They make a real special sound: ploop, ploop. Guess they smelled the minnows in the bait bucket Dad had tied on a short rope to the belt loop in the front of my jeans.

       He motioned for me to go in there, where I was, and said he was going to go around the bend and try his luck in another place. Where? Over closer to the dock? His parting words to me were not to try to keep the snakes from eating my bait because it would only make them mad. The best thing to do, he said, was to raise my arms and let them come and get it if they wanted to. He said he'd be back about three oclock to get me. Before he left, he turned and reminded me, "Remember, Gal, them that don't fish, don't eat."

       Well. Okay. I took my spinning rod and moved into the warm water that felt real cool after I'd stood out in the hot sun listening to him jabber about bait and snakes. Before I took two steps, I was in blackish water up to my chest, and my minnow bucket that didn't have a lid because Dad broke it off years ago floated right in front of my throat. I put a minnow on my hook and made a couple of casts. It was real quiet. Too quiet. Now that I think about it, all the birds stopped singing and flew away when I waded out into that water.

       All of a sudden, here they came.

       Not the fish.

       Not the birds--Snakes! Lots of them.

       They made a sizzling sound as they raced over the water toward me and stirred up the top of the water until it was covered in foam. I tried to step back, but every time I stepped back, the bucket followed me. Those snakes had a picnic in my bait bucket. There were so many I couldn't keep my eyes on them all. Snake's mothers must not teach them any manners because none of them formed a line to the left. They all tried to be first to get into my bucket.

       The water around me boiled like a soup pot, and I wondered for a split second what was going to happen when all of the bait was gone and they were still hungry. I raised my arms way up to stay out of their way as much as I could and waited for one of them to mistake my armpit for bait, when suddenly, they were gone. All of them at once.

       That's when I felt something big and hard and spiny go between my legs. Whatever it was, it was so big it almost knocked me off my feet. Oh, Jesus, an alligator, I thought. What else could it be? And me without even a Buddhist rosary.

       I stood real still and waited to see if one of my legs headed across the lake without me, but nothing happened. I waited some more. I think I wet my pants, but it was hard to tell standing chest high in lake water that was thick and stinky anyhow. I remembered that Carlos's teacher told his class once that there used to be alligators in Oklahoma years and years ago. Maybe they didn't all die off.

       Somehow I didn't care so much that I wouldn't have any fish when Dad got back except that no fish at three o'clock meant I'd not have any dinner, and I've missed a lot of meals lately what with Dad or Frieda being in a bad mood about one thing or another. It also meant I'd have to hear those damn chickens clucking in the peach trees again.

       Shit. Now, I know my mom would say ladies don't use that kind of language, but how many ladies do you know who have to swim with snakes and alligators with live bait up around their chest. If they did, they'd say more than "Darn it!" I guarantee you.

       I was so mad at Dad I could spit. I looked around and thought nobody could see me, so I sort of floated my pole in front of me and started to quietly tread water. If I was gonna die, I was gonna take one last swim. But also, I knew I'd better not be dry when Dad got back. I didn't have a watch, so I couldn't dry off and then get wet again before he came to pick me up.

       I never saw another snake. Guess they needed a nap after gorging themselves on my dad's fancy bait. I never saw the alligator, either. But to be sure, every once in awhile, I'd reach down and count my legs.

       Pretty soon, here came Dad. He didn't get any fish, either. He didn't seem very interested in my snake story and he was awfully quiet. On the way home, he lit a cigarette, looked at me long and hard out of the corner of his eye and asked, "When did you learn to swim, Gal?" I didn't bother to answer him because somehow I knew he wasn't really interested in an answer. This was one of those rat-tailical questions they tell us about in school. I was glad because I wasn't ready yet to tell him I was learning to swim at the post pools because he might have made me stay home. He'd probably say he was worried that the soldiers might try to grab me if they saw me in a swimsuit. I know he'd never believe me when I told him they were real nice and never bothered us at all. Were just kids, and they've got their hands full with the college girls that show up in two piece swimsuits and those big beach towels for two.

       When we got closer to home, he said he was going to drop me off at my mom's for a few days, because Frieda was going to be mad. I shouldn't come over. He'd call me. Well, that was fine with me. At least I'd get dinner, and I couldn't wait to tell my cousin what a dumb place my father took me to fish.

       The minute I walked in the door, I could smell chicken being cooked in tomatoes and cumin, and hot Mexican biscuits in the oven. When I went in the kitchen, there was Gramma, cooking up a storm. Momma and Aunt Pauline still had customers that had come all the way from Kentucky to order shirts, so they weren't helping.

       Carlos was there at the kitchen table listening to Gramma tell him all about what life was like when she was a little girl in Texas. Guess she had a real exciting life because she had to get married at fourteen to a man over thirty-five because her folks had so many kids they couldn't feed them all. Gramma had a whole wagonload of kids herself. Wonder why Mom and Aunt Pauline only had one each?

       Later, while I was telling my story to Carlos about my fishing trip, it dawned on me: Dad wasn't even wet when he came back to get me. He hadn't been fishing at all, maybe because he'd forgotten to take some of my minnows. At first, Carlos listened to me like I was telling one of Uncle Benny's tall tales, but he finally believed me. He just shook his head. I know one thing for sure. Before I put any more names on my New Dad List, I'm going to make sure they have a bait bucket with a lid on it.