When I was 11 years old, we moved
into a new house and got a dog who loved to run around the new house with a toothbrush in his mouth. That was also the year that the Chief came to live with us.
Our brand new house was on a windy road in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, amidst grand country French homes, wrought iron fences, sparkling swimming pools, Koi ponds, and perfectly manicured lawns. My parents built our new home from the ground up, pouring carefully over floor plans, measuring out furniture on blueprints, collaborating with contractors. This was their dream home.
We moved in on the
day that my sister and I returned home from overnight camp. Within two hours,
we went from bunking in a log cabin in the Poconos full of mice and mildew to a brand
new Main Line home full of possibilities.
There would be touch football games, tennis matches, softball, roller
hockey in the driveway, barbecuing on the deck, playing in the snow, roasting marsh-mellows
in my parents’ bedroom fireplace, screaming contests at the dinner table,
blasting music on the vintage jukebox, singing karaoke, baking daddy cookies in the pale pink kitchen.
The windows in my
bright bedroom overlooked the backyard, wooden deck, green
grass, and tennis court beyond.
“How ‘bout we build a zip line out your bedroom window straight down to
the tennis court?” my dad asked, with a twinkle in his eye. My dad had the best ideas and I often
wondered if he was really a ten year old boy stuck in a dad’s body. He was as excited about this new house that he had worked so hard to build, as a little boy would be about a new tree house.
It looked like a
suburban dream. And, for my
family, it was.
“Do you guys want
to paint the rock?” my dad asked the week after we moved in. The "rock" was a gigantic boulder, roughly the size of a Prius, that stood just beyond the wooden deck in the backyard.
Between the two of us, my sister, Alissa, was the “artist.” She had perfected her two signature drawings; one, the hind quarters of an elephant, and two, the face of a dog with long droopy ears and freckles, by the time she was eight. (I was never much of an artist, save for the time I created an abstract masterpiece when I colored off the pages of my coloring book and right up my bedroom wall).
Between the two of us, my sister, Alissa, was the “artist.” She had perfected her two signature drawings; one, the hind quarters of an elephant, and two, the face of a dog with long droopy ears and freckles, by the time she was eight. (I was never much of an artist, save for the time I created an abstract masterpiece when I colored off the pages of my coloring book and right up my bedroom wall).
“Dad, paint it,
like how?” my sister asked, rolling her eyes. At 14, Alissa was way too cool for craft projects, let alone
outdoor craft projects in the late August humidity.
“However you
want,” my dad replied, “be creative.”
An hour later,
after a trip to the paint store, my sister and I went out back with brushes and
paints in hand and a master plan.
We decided to doodle on the boulder precisely the same crap that we had doodled all over the lined pages
of our school notebooks for years.
First, our initials: “SH,” “AH,” “SBH,” “AMH” (my sister decided to give
herself the middle name “Miranda” at this stage in her life because my parents
had never given her one). Then we
added our flowery signatures that we were constantly revising for the eventual
stardom that awaited us. Next we
scrawled: “Benetton, Ton Sur Ton, Guess Jeans.” I painted my signature “snoopy on top of doghouse,” (which
slightly resembled “snoopy on top of embalming table at morgue.” My sister topped it off with her piece
de resistance: “Alissa Rules.”
We were creative
geniuses.
“WHAT are you
girls doing?” my dad asked, slightly horrified by the sight of the
boulder. We smiled as proudly as
Michelangelo must have.
“Dad, do you like
it?” I asked.
“I thought you
were going to paint . . . I don’t know, a mural or something . . .”
“This IS a mural!”
Alissa retorted, tossing her wooden paintbrush in the bucket with a clank.
There was no use
arguing, so my dad didn’t bother.
I’m sure he prayed for a monsoon to sweep through Bryn Mawr and wash
away intense coats of “Benetton” and “Alissa Rules” and all of our other
artistic nonsense.
The monsoon never
came and our masterpiece remained for years. But, my dad believed that if anyone could turn around the
energy (or lack thereof) of our otherwise gorgeous backyard, surely a shaman
could. You see, not only was my
dad a big kid at heart, he believed he was a Native American reincarnated.
“Ten men are
coming tomorrow to deliver the Chief!” my dad announced one day upon his return
from a business trip to North Carolina.
“Wha-?” my mom nearly coughed out some chicken salad.
“I bought a Native
American chief, for the backyard, it’s spectacular. 10 feet tall wooden sculpture,” he explained as nonchalantly as if he had
purchased a new perennial for the garden.
“Where do you
think it’s going to go?” my mom asked, skeptically.
“Right out there,
by the rock.”
Of course.
He was so confident it was as if the spirits had spoken to him in a dream. “He’ll watch over the house,” my dad continued, without a hint of jest. “And besides, I think the backyard could use a little fang-ship.”
Of course.
He was so confident it was as if the spirits had spoken to him in a dream. “He’ll watch over the house,” my dad continued, without a hint of jest. “And besides, I think the backyard could use a little fang-ship.”
“You mean, “FENG SHUI?” my mom responded, carefully enough for a five year old to get the
correction.
“Oh, you know what
I mean!”
The Native gods
must have been crazy because sure enough a flat-bed truck rolled up several
days later and out came the Chief.
Just like my dad promised (or threatened), it took ten beefy men to
carry him from the truck to his perch in the backyard and prop him
upright. It was a feat of
mankind. My dad was so overjoyed I
thought he might put on a headdress, torch up a joint, and beat a drum.
He was the only
resident of the Main Line with a 10 foot hand-carved Native
American chief in his backyard.
That was for sure.
And then, the
monsoon hit. (Well, it was a
terrible rainstorm with damaging 50 mph winds. Might as well have been a monsoon).
“I was up all night, thinking about the Chief,” my dad revealed as he strolled into the pale pink kitchen in his signature Cole Haan loafers and button down shirt. “I thought the wind might knock him down, but look!” he said, pointing out the kitchen window, “He’s as strong as an ox.” Alissa and I giggled.
“I was up all night, thinking about the Chief,” my dad revealed as he strolled into the pale pink kitchen in his signature Cole Haan loafers and button down shirt. “I thought the wind might knock him down, but look!” he said, pointing out the kitchen window, “He’s as strong as an ox.” Alissa and I giggled.
“I’m going to
order a plaque for him,” my dad continued. “His name came to me in my dream last night.”
“I thought you
said you were up all night?” my sister chided.
“Yeah, Dad, how
could you have been dream-?
“I had a vision,
okay? A vision. Wow, you two are like little
lawyers!”
“So, Mr. Heenan,
you say you had a vision, last night, the night of - ?” Alissa continued, in
her best prosecutorial tone.
“His name is Chief
Strong Winds, Wisdom Within,” my dad declared.
“Dad, you might
want to check yourself into the nearest psych ward.”
“I’m serious,
doll! That’s his name.”
“No more
questions,” my sister chuckled, rolling her blue eyes three quarters of the way
back into her head.
So, he got the
plaque, hammered on to the Chief’s base and, next thing you know, “Chief Strong
Winds, Wisdom Within,” became a veritable tourist attraction. Or at least a neighborhood attraction. Friends and family wanted their photo
taken with the Chief, much the way tourists enjoy posing with goofy guys
dressed like gladiators in front of The Colosseum.
The Chief has survived some 27 years since then. He has made multiple moves, suffered a minor foot injury, overseen the birth of five little boys, and has even made it to "show and tell" for my son's unit on Native Americans at Thanksgiving time. (I had to explain to his teachers that yes, the Chief really does live in my parents' backyard and not in some protected national space in North Dakota).
How one man could bring so many people and generations together is beyond me. Of course, it's not the Chief I'm referring to; it's the man with the vision, heart, and soul. The man who infuses spirit into everything he does. The Chief's chief.
Love you, Dad.
Love you, Dad.
Thanks for the share. Great stuff, just nice!
ReplyDeletemichelangelo marble