An Artiste Makes Me A Sandwich

I stepped out of my office, a renovated section of the ol’ JC Penny building, and enjoyed a brisk walk down the street lined with grungy half-melted snow. Traffic kicked up brown spittle and I took great care not to step too close to the curb.

It was grey outside, but not un-enjoyable. A slight breeze carried the smells of food from the restaurants in Downtown Bismarck. Grilled meat seemed to be the dominant smell and I imagined a cadre of carnivorous cave men grunting in JL Beers, thumping their forks and knives on the tables in impatient anticipation.

A little cakery sits on Broadway. It changes names and handlers it seems every other month. They serve specialty sandwiches and soups of the day. I’ve stopped in there a few times, and its like a hen house. By hen, I mean, testosterone impaired. The clucks of the women-folk are accompanied by the clinks of freshly-brewed coffee, expensive tea, and forks used to delicately peck at their special sandwiches.

I walk past the man-cave and the hen house towards Caffé Aroma. You read that right, two effs. It’s a nice little coffee and sandwich joint tucked away inside a building. The owners liken it to having “a warm, friendly, family atmosphere.” I liken it to a library that you can eat and drink in and that’s comfortable to me.

A wooden carving of a cowboy greets patrons with a real red kerchief tied around his neck. It’s cracked with age and because it’s dry. Terribly dry. It could probably turn to ash in a minute with a Miyagi friction rub – you know, the rub that Master Miyagi does to heal Danielson’s charlie horse – and the thing is dusty as hell. Not the kind of dust that’s earned out in the field rustlin’ ponies, but the sickening kind of dust that’s more of a build up of dead skin.

I order a cold turkey sandwich to go and because I’m feeling healthy I order it on wheat. I over-pronounce the “wh” in wheat like Stewie Griffin accompanied by an arching brow. The sandwich artiste looks at like she wants to laugh but isn’t sure that she should laugh because I might be serious.

 It takes a few minutes to prepare so I nonchalantly peruse the place. I pick a magazine from the bottom of a neat stack of National Geographics and casually make non-committal remarks, “hmmm,” and “mmm-mmmm,” before setting it down on the corner of the table.

My sandwich is ready in a jiff. I feel a little guilty with leaving the magazines disheveled so I reach in to my wallet and pull out two bucks for a tip – I always leave a tip whether I’m feeling saucy, artsey, or convivial. Then I beat a hasty retreat back to work.

Upon my return I crack open the Styrofoam box and waiting for me inside is a great sandwich. I asked for a turkey on wheat. The artiste must have been feeling generous today. Inside lay a thick warm slice of twelve grain wheat – that’s wwhheat – bread, on which lay about four delicate turkey slices, fresh thick cut provolone cheese, and about eight rashers of crispy bacon, topped again with that wonderful warm wwhheet bread.

Let me just share with you I don’t have any great love for twelve-grain bread. My bread shouldn’t crunch without being toasted, God damn it. Perhaps it was the artistic presentation of the sandwich, or the cold gray day, or my sanctum of an office away from man-caves and hen-houses, but it almost melted in my mouth.

I rarely visit Caffé Aroma, but the few times I’ve been there, I’ve requested bacon with my sandwich. I didn’t ask for it this time, but these people KNOW their patrons. I ate every bite of my sandwich and bacon that I didn’t realize I wanted until the anonymous artiste remembered for me. 

Watering My Pony In The Winter

Interstate 94 in North Dakota in the heart of winter.

Watering My Pony In The Winter
Concurrent Lives Throughout Time

By Dakota Wind
BISMARCK, N.D. - Sometimes when I’m doing simple mundane things in my car I like to imagine instances of myself in another time. For instance, yesterday was bitterly cold, the kind of cold that numbs your face and mouth making it difficult to talk, like your mouth is full of cotton, that you can’t pronounce anything correctly, almost like you’re unintentionally doing an Arnold Schwarzenegger or a Godfather impression. It’s that cold. I digress.

So I was filling my car, and I imagined for a moment, myself in a field of snow and frozen grass on a day as cold as the Godfather, with a horse. A grey pony, because my car is grey, prancing in an earnest attempt to keep himself warm in the bracing cold, and instead of gassing my car up I’m breaking ice down by the river so that my pony can get water. I’m watering my pony.

 Johnny Depp as Barnabas Collins. Interesting movie.

Say that I have an active imagination. I like to tell my boys that I wanted to give them names like Magneto, Wolverine and X, or Mayhem, Maverick and Havok, or Han, Anakin and Lando. I like to tell them stories about how I found one in a field in a smoldering crater, another was a government experiment thrust into my wife’s arms to raise but one day The Man will come to collect, or that the youngest was a vampire named Barnabas Collins.

Maybe I’m a reincarnated brave from the days of warriors. Maybe I’m a soldier from the French and Indian War. I can’t say with any certainty that I believe in reincarnation, but I dream of long ago battles, long ago love, and long ago death. Maybe dreams transcend time and I’m living multiple lives concurrently throughout history.

In the days of tradition, a good hunter could bring down a bison with five arrows. A braggart would say that he brought one down with three. 

When I came back to reality, shivering from watering my pony, I replaced the fuel nozzle and twisted the gas cap back on. The warrior from long ago would have patted his pony, threw his bison robe over his shoulders and adjusted it for maximum warmth before mounting up – I turned my ignition and adjusted the heat to blast my windows and feet. I to go work to sit at my computer, and the warrior goes on his hunt.

What makes for an interesting twist here with my curious imaginings is that a few weeks ago my youngest son told my beloved bride that he dreamt I was riding horse and hunting bison.

It made me smile. I’m in the right place at the right time and doing the right thing.

Winter On The Great Plains

Sundogs. In Lakota they're referred to as campfires.

Cold On The Great Plains
Winter & Sundogs On The Missouri River

By Dakota Wind
BISMARCK, N.D. - This morning was cold. It’s not enough to say it was cold. This morning was a little windy, and it’s not enough to say that it was windy because this is the Great Plains, the land of sky and wind. I like to think of it that way. It sounds minimal and majestic.

This morning was cold. It was the kind of cold that reaches through one’s clothes and seizes your intimates with its freezing embrace and just squeezes the warmth right out. It was the kind of cold that made me blink back tears when I dared to step out and start my little beast.

The snow and ice sounded brittle like styrofoam when I stepped on it. Jesus, on the Great Plains it gets cold enough that even the snow and ice groan and ache.

My little beast wasn’t feeling like a beast and it started like a crotchety bastard. I swear it fought the ignition, and then sputtered thrice before defiantly turning over. On the Great Plains, cars have character and mine was acting like a frosty bitch.

...I filled a bowl with frosted flakes which seemed to fit the feel of the morning so far...

I let it warm up in the garage whilst I finished prepping for the day. I dived into the dresser and rolled into a pair of khaki pants, thick woolen socks and a Def Leppard t-shirt, and then I filled a bowl with frosted flakes which seemed to fit the feel of the morning so far. My son Isaiah – we call him Zay – meanwhile had already broken fast, dressed and took care of our little pup that the boys call Penny, but I like to call Pensethilea after the Amazon warrior whom Achilles fell in love.

We got in the car and found that the frosty bitch had warmed up agreeably and we set off down the road.

The sun hadn’t yet risen as we pulled onto the main road. My car seemed to protest against acceleration as I brought the needle up to fifty-five. The drive was normal, that is to say it was boring and uneventful but for the promise of the sun, of light and warmth, as purple twilight became golden dawn.

I turned my car back onto the road and drove into the sunrise and sundogs.

On each side of the sun as the daystar ascended into the sky appeared the striking phenomena commonly called sundogs. I don’t know about how or why the natural event became known as a sundog, and I’ve never been particularly fond of the term.

I dropped my boy off at school and told him to have fun, but not too much fun. I have a benediction I like to impart on my boys when I drop them off at school, “Work hard. Study. Graduate, and go to college.” I don’t know that they care to hear me say it or even if they listen, but its something that I remember by grandmother said to me. I don’t recall that I listened all the time either when she said it.

I turned my car back onto the road and drove into the sunrise and sundogs.

The Lakota people have the traditional story about the sundog, and know it by another name, Wi’ačé’ičiti. It means The Sun Makes A Campfire For Itself.  Suffice to say that only on the Great Plains does it get cold enough that even the sun makes fires for itself.

It was an awesome site to witness. The sundogs, the campfires if you will, burned rainbows on each side of the sun. The sun itself was set in colors of purple and pink and nearly unbearable to directly at, but I imagine that it’s like looking at the first dawn of creation. The campfires are still hanging in the air when I park my little beast.

...silent beauty of the morning sun and the campfires make me feel small inside as I stand in my reverie...

The campfires remind me of my childhood. They remind me of the living room in my grandmother’s home back on Standing Rock.  The living room had floor to ceiling windows on one side and another large window on another side which allowed for sunlight from morning until late afternoon. I’m reminded of sunrises over Lake Oahe on long-ago mornings, and of my grandfather, my lala, coaxing his car to start so he could take my brother and I to school.

The immense and silent beauty of the morning sun and the campfires make me feel small inside as I stand in my reverie. I wouldn’t call myself traditional, but I’m suddenly inspired to reach into my glove compartment and take out my tobacco. I remove my glove and delicately reach for a pinch of sweet potent tobacco and sprinkle it betwixt my fingers in fond remembrance of my grandparents.

They watched over me and now its my turn to watch over my sons. 

Winter's Kiss Reminds Me Of My Grandfather

A lovely dusk just north of Fort Yates, N.D.
A Reflection:
Childhood Remembered 

By Dakota Wind
FORT YATES, N.D. - The morning arrived on the Missouri River valley with a slow swell of purples and reds. The air hung heavy with a thick curtain of fog which slowly dispelled as early morning became go-to-work morning. The fog had turned to frost and heavily clung to every surface. Windows became frosty effigies of stained glass with fantastic whorls and impossible leaves. The trees had clothed their bare winter branches with thick delicate coats of frost. The trees were so heavy with frost that the morning shadows they cast were as the summer shade again.

I started the car, my little beast, and he came to life rather reluctantly, as though he would rather sleep in. “I feel the same,” I said and patted him on the roof. I imagine another man in the days of warriors in the same spot I stand, rousing his horse and talking to it in a like manner.

In the old days, when fog smothered the land with its cool, almost tangible embrace, it was an in between time and an in between place between our world and the next. Some might leave a pinch of tobacco or an offering of food for the spirits visiting the people. My grandmother shared a tall glass of water with the world and gave thanks for living.

There’s frost on my windshield and for a moment I regret that I must scrape away winter’s kiss on my little beast. I spend a minute tracing the stitches of frost on my window, lost in thought, and I am reminded of my lala (grandfather) just then. Though we lived maybe six blocks from school, he insisted on giving my brother and me a ride on the coldest days, sometimes even when it was warm too. Wordlessly, we did a lot of things without words it seemed but I cherish the memories, he would rouse his car and scrape its windows and I would watch him scrape from inside the car and we would share smiles when he cleared my window.

...for a moment that I am my grandfather and he is me...

I felt the sweet heavy pang of memory in my heart as I cleared my son’s window. He’s eleven now. When he was a toddler and sat in a car seat in the back, I scraped the windows in wintertime and we would share smiles and wave as I cleared his window. For a moment, I saw that little boy again waiting in my car and I wonder if that’s how my lala saw me, a juxtaposition of past and present sharing the same space. By looking at me and smiling, did he see the future? Did he see my son reflected in my eyes? I like to imagine, in the in-between times like dawn, and the in-between spaces created by the fog, that for a moment that I am my grandfather and he is me, and I can feel love surrounding me, holding me, lifting me, as I look on my son. Maybe, just maybe if look carefully I’ll see my grandsons as he looks to me and see his grandfathers.

I hate measuring time, but the world I live in draws me from that place of fog and frost and memory. I get in my pony and put on some Def Leppard. I indulge my imagination once more, and see a warrior dusting off his blanket and settling it on his horse’s back before getting on. I settle into my seat and buckle up, and he straightens his pony-drag (travois). I am ready for the day and my work is the hunt.

It’s my turn to take my son to school. 

Calling A Horse

My youngest son out in the field.

Calling A Horse
A Kind Of Magic

By Dakota Wind
GREAT PLAINS - Today I offer a short reflection of a kind of magic I witnessed.

This evening, as the sun was setting and some fluffs of clouds cast a light pall over the evening light, my youngest son ran a fleet sprint to the fence in the back yard. Upon reaching the prickly barrier, he began to whistle as loud and as high as he could, almost birdlike like a meadowlark with short bursts of tune, then a short breath, then the same whistle again.

From over the hill and around the neighbor's fence came a brown horse with black socks and a shiny black mane, one of three horses of the neighbor's. A few years ago, our immediate next door neighbor declared to us "to be careful. That one horse bites." I've never had a horse bite me and we've not had issues with the neighbor's horses before, so I let my son finish calling the horse.

My son stood right at the fence, careful not to let the barbed wire prick him or his blue GAP hoodie, and he held his right hand up, palm out. All the while his little high-pitched whistle carried in the crisp evening air.

The horse charged across the field of dead brown grass, short to medium native prairie grasses, leftovers from last summer's growth. It slowed to a trot when it reached the fence line and tossed its mane proudly to and fro before reaching its neck over the top wire and lowering her head to Elijah's hand.

Magic? Yes it is. There's something strong and magical beating in the innocent heart of my son that calls to the pure and natural world around us, and to witness it, that was to witness something mysterious and sacred.

He called the horse and it answered.

Thunderbirds and Dragons on The Northern Plains

Pictograph of a thunderbird on stone.
Thunderbirds & Dragons on Northern Plains
Spring Returns And With It Comes Legends
By Dakota Wind

GREAT PLAINS - The sun set in a dark cloudy sky. There was very little color. No pinks, reds, oranges, or purples. No fanfare for the setting sun but for a dark blue and black sky. The clouds seemed to absorb whatever colors the setting sun usually paints on the evening sky. The stars flickered fitfully through the haze of those thin gauzy clouds that like to hang in the far upper atmosphere. A cool breeze blew across fields of brown grass, what was left of last year’s growth of native prairie grasses. The breeze itself carried a hint of frost that nipped at the inside of my nose when I inhaled deeply, as if one can truly smell cold but its really no different than one can smell rain, only this was colder.

The family had long since gone to bed. The boys usually bid their mother an innocent “goodnight,” and she usually goes in to tuck them in. There’s no “goodnight” for me. Instead, I like to bid them a “Sleep well and wake,” as though there’s no other way for me to say a simple goodnight, and I like it like that.

The rain began to fall as I was preparing for bed. I say “prepare” as though I’m getting ready for a journey of some kind, but preparing myself consists of raking a comb through my silky fine hair, brushing my teeth with that new foaming toothpaste which I rather prefer to the regular paste, and splashing some water on my face, all before I slip under the covers and wrestle with my pillow. My pillow looks like a regular pillow, but it somehow gains a life of its own as I lay my head down as though it decides to get too fluffy and too hot or my head sinks too far into it. But the damn pillow looks just fine sitting there on the blankets.

I’ll slaughter a goat and offer it to the God of Thunder like the heathens of ancient Europe...

The rain fell in large heavy drops. I thought it was hailing at first, but the news person said that pea-size hail was on its way yet. Well, I’ll tell you weather man, I’ll slaughter a goat and offer it to the God of Thunder like the heathens of ancient Europe, but it won’t change the fact that hail is here and it’s falling with the rain on my car.

While the heavy rain and pea-size hail that the weather man said was going to arrive later fell on the house and my car, and maybe its why I personify my car as though its alive that gives me dreams that my car is a version of Bumblebee from Transformers, that gentle breeze carrying that taste of winter decides to change into a roaring beast that’s whipping the neighbor’s garbage cans and shit through our front yard and down the street.

As I’m listening to the wind and rain, personifying my car and wrestling my pillow, I stop for a moment and imagine what it was like for the ancestors to go through a spring thunder storm. I remember reading something on the internet about long ago giant birds called “Teratorns.” Apparently there are as many teratorn sightings as there are bigfoot sightings, these giant winged terrors.

The teratorn is said to have flown before the storms looking for thermals to carry it above the storm it flew before. It is said to have been capable of carrying off people and even bison.

...their wings were the clouds and lighting flashed from their eyes...

Did the ancestors see giant birds? I think so. We have stories of the Wankiya, the Thunderbeings, or as some call them, the Thunderbirds. Thunderbirds rode in on the clouds. No, their wings were the clouds and lighting flashed from their eyes, lighting bolts flew from their claws when they opened their taloned grips.

The Wankiya were a force of nature, that is they weren’t necessarily good but nor were they evil. They flung to the earth their lightning in an ages-old duel with other forces of nature. No, they cleansed the earth, purified the earth with pure rain and electric wrath. Sometimes these Thunderbirds would stretch out a claw and grapple with Unkcegila. Think dragon or serpent. When the Thunderbird and the serpent fought, the fury of the wind was unleashed and the serpent was carried up into the sky and destroyed. The world was cleaned and the day could begin anew, at peace.

I imagine a world, a mystical world, the world before the horse and gun. When the mysteries of creation were respected, honored, and cherished. When the Thunderbirds were real and they really would snap up the unwary traveler or a bison for a meal. I imagine the ancient world of the Great Plains and the dragon or dragons slithering up and down the Missouri River, filling the flood plains, and charming human and animal alike to enter and drown in the crushing depths of the corners of the river.

...I imagine I’m a warrior in another time and place looking at the front right hoof of my pony...

I wonder that such things are real. Did my ancestors personify the wind and rain and river as I personify my pillow and car? I don’t know. They saw things, Teratorns and Loc Ness creatures, things they couldn’t explain and shared hushed stories around the lodge fire. I’m certainly not sitting around the tv and night telling my boys how my pillow makes me snore or how my car drags its ass when I drive it – I finally got under my car and saw that it was a piece of plastic. And then I imagine I’m a warrior in another time and place looking at the front right hoof of my pony only to find a burr or rock.

As I wrestled my pillow and hit it into a comfortable mass, our youngest calls out to his mother. I experience the impulse to go in there and tell him about how the Thunderbirds would snatch children but I decide to wait until he’s older. I don’t think my wife would appreciate my interjection of culture at the moment, but just the thought of it makes me smile. I cleared my throat and said to her, “Your son is calling you.”

I fell asleep comforted by the memory of my grandparents telling me about the traditional Lakota view of the spring thunderstorms.  The wind and rain doesn’t bother me and I slept soundly, and I dreamt of my car as Bumblebee.