His Father had no name

His Mother had no shame

In his search for meaning

He turned to the road

He was thirteen, close to fourteen, and when he woke that morning he was sorrowful and angry.  He knew what he needed to do.  He would not go down the same path again, not even one more time.  He never knew his mother, she was a teenager who dropped him off at the orphanage when he was six months old.  The space on his birth certiifcate where his father's name should have appeared was left blank.

From the time he was six he had lived in thirteen foster homes and had been adopted once.  Each time they returned him to the orphanage and his foster parents all told their version of the same issues; Anger, fighting, running away, hosility and must being incorrigable. He ran away from the Orphanage many times and each time they found him and brought him back.  He knew that this time he needed to put five hundred miles between himself and he city of Omaha, far enough away that they would never find him again.

He stuffed his only belongings in a blanket, threw it over his shoulder and headed for the train sation.  When he found a boxcar with an open door he climbed the ladder, found a darkened corner and curled up for warmth.

The couplings clanked, the railcars groaned to life; he was on his way to an unknown land.  He drifted into a deep slumber listening to the hypnotic THUMP-thump-thump as the iron wheels marked another few feet in his journey.  Deep in the fog of his ears the sound became a loud KNOCK-knock-knock on a door he didn't want to answer.

In his vision he was walking.  Mr. Smith joined him on a path that led to the Indian Agency and he heard a native chant.  The THUMP-thump-thump of the iron wheels became the beating of a drum and he felt a spirit gently lifting forward. 

They passed a lake where buffalo drank and young men and children danced.

Mr. Smith had been the one person who adopted him and showed the most concern for his situation.  As he pointed to an Indian dancer Mr. Smith said "That man is your father." Paul saw the dancer had no face.

This manuscript is in early stages.    I met Skyhawk last year at a local papcake breakfast. I only had two interviews with him before the Pandemic hit.  Once this is over I'll re-trace our footsteps, starting with the pancake breakfast, and continue the story..   

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