Big. Bushy Beard. Hands strong. Soul as Gentle as a Hair Hitting a Rock.
"Washington City should be moved to the heart of the Republic. Closer to all the people. People be forgotten where it is now. Middle of the nation be better all around. Been almost thirteen score now. Country needs a new viewpoint than from the water three or four score from now. Lots of jobs be created. Tear down the old and make new. Tradition of the Republic," he told me one day.
Carson and I go back a bit. Well, a long bit. But we wallow'd in our own worlds. Meet'n just to keep tradition.
When I was young and in my prime, Carson and I would do it all the time. We both got old and gray. Maybe now, twice a day. A'course those few days each year we snuggle and I listen to his words. Rarely ask'n a question.
Yeah, Carson was that kinda guy. This ol' gal couldn't a done better for a friend and fair weather escapades that be magical.
It was dark. Fire spit'n and give'n a sheen around us and fade'n into the night. Supper of spit-cook'd bison, blueberries, fry bread and pinon nuts. Settled our tummy's with margaritas to keep with high desert tradition and all.
Pull'n his knife, which would'a made Bowie hisself feel inadequate in the macho department, Carson threw straight and true into an old aspen. It landed with a huge thud and an owl screech'd.
"'Bout time you told me where you be, bird. Spy'n on us like those foul people in their black buildings hunt'n snipes of delusion. Those vile people ever find a way to bug heaven the universe will cease to exist," he said softly. "Enemy ain't us. It be them. We allow it. We shouldn't. It demeans us as a nation and as a people."
Staring up at the stars and adjust'n his butt on the log, Carson said, "Been think'n about the Republicans and their little schism a go'n on. When people let their hate drip from their mouth it puddles at their feet and drowns their soul."
Kiva the cat slink'd into one of Carson's big boots and peeked out at us. She had just finished her blue popcicle and was probably cold. She be smart and never gets near the fire. Her purrs blend'd into the night.
"Ever tell you 'bout the sasquatch I wrestled down in Lincoln county? I told him his hair look'd like discards from a Kim Jong-un hair cut. All it took a'fore we tangled. He got me in a headlock with his legs. Sasquatch nether regions smells fierce. Come to think of it, Oklahoma could use it to improve their capital punishment protocols, since those folks don't seem too competent," he said to nowhere in particular.
"Whatcha think of Susana Martinez?" I asked while prop'n my ankles up on a stump. Get old enough your body forgets where the outlet is located and all that water runs to the ankles and sloshes around. Gotta give it a second chance to find the drain, I reckon.
Skritch'n his beard Carson remarked, "Best you trust a rattler not to bite. Governor bites outta spite. Hurts the people. Wears a wrinkled spirit, she does. Texans and New Mexicans don't mix well. She proves the point."
Kiva look'd up at me and I saw the reflection of a fall'n star in her eyes. She snuggled deeper into Carson's boot with a quizzled look on her puss.
As I was fix'n a bowl of spirit weed for us, Carson pull'd from his haversack his flute of fine rosewood. He began to play and I could see the desert spirits come closer to the fire. Just like that pied piper fellow, I thought to myself.
Suddenly, Carson stop'd play'n and stood tall, squinty-eye'n the darkness. He tasted the air and breathed in slow, tak'n measure of what lay in the dark. Of what be a'come'n.
Grab'n his arm I said, "What is it, Carson?"
He smiled down on me while tak'n me into a bear hug and said, "Just thought I had a fart a'come'n, She of Two Spirits."
With Kiva poke'n her head out of Carson's boot, we proceeded to strip and ease into the hot spring water near the fire. Kiva, of course, had that look of, "You actually gonna get in water on purpose? Stoopy hoomins!"
Nothing like steam surround'n us while the stars twinkled above. Carson started sing'n...
Mairzy doats and dozy doats
and little lamzy divey.
A kiddley divey too, wooden shoe...
As we lay in each others arms, I said to Carson that there be a big ta-do about children from south of Mexico coming 'cross the border without their parents. That Mexico just hurds them young'ns through to the United States on purpose like.
"Hum," he said, "that ain't good. We should make sure those kids get a medical check-up, new clothes, full tummys and some fold'n money. Then bus them to the northern border and shoo them across. Canada will treat 'em better than this country, I reckon."
I start'd to argue, but after think'n it over, I couldn't find any reason to argue his point.
Noth'n like be'n hurd'd into the arms of Carson Keyes. Yeppers. I may be old, but I ain't dead yet!