The Hoppy Toad and the Injun Braves

        We were not Ernest Hemingway and his alter ego Nick up in the wiles of northern Michigan, but we lived outdoors, threw around fishing poles and dreamed of... adventure. Far from the lights, noises, distractions, and comforts of home, we the young men of our church congregation and our added buddies were in the trees and woods and streams and lakes of south-central Indiana, and left to our own constraints, social conventions, and imaginary concoctions.

    The order of the Arrow, or the Order of the Arrow, a secretive society or group within the Boy Scouts, impressed upon me and others a solemnity towards the American Indian that I appreciated-- I had studied, or read about the tribes of the North American continent for years, I had mentally constructed many things about the natives of our history and lore, had admired many of these peoples and their leaders more than the white colonizers, the same Europeans of whom I myself had descended from.

    The scouts looked to the outdoor, intrepid, and naturally-based native Americans, or First Nation peoples as the Canadians came to call them.

    We were young, naive; some like me had hopes and dreams of other things, perhaps greater or unique, or even typical of such children in my region, or country, or world-wide...

    Some hopes of solid futures seemed ruined by my parents' situation. Alas, they are imperfect; they became untethered from their earlier commitments in marriage, which had its mental and practical effects on me.

    Unmoored me, perhaps left me a bit adrift, even doubtful in many processes, big and small, even larger groups and aspirations like my faith, and my own personal worth or value. Perhaps the introduction of serious doubts and concerns influenced me more than I could imagine.

    Dealing with or not dealing with the reality of divorce at that age, a formidable time.

    And I wanted things to be more about me, not about them. Selfish? Perhaps.

    Bobby had been raised by his single mom for all his life. His dad perhaps played little or no part. Except money, I guess.

    We all had our problems and issues.

    So, the toad, this little amphibian victim to be, was just a totemic sacrifice of opportunity.

    It was all meant to be, and no one was seriously hurt.

    Perhaps part of me was healed, as nature and God proves bigger than all of us.

    We thank the heavens for such things, in the oppressive heat of the summer of August.

    

    Us Indians in the wild.