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Ole Man

Richard K. Williams

It was shortly after the veteran’s flag rising
On the morning of our ceremonial dance, Hethuska
Someone requested I to go ask Ole man Kerchee
Head of the Comanche war dance society
Would he offer the prayer for the Afternoon Meal?

Never having spoken to him before
I approached him respectfully
He was eighty four or five years old
Sitting on a bench outside the Dance Arbor, his son stood at his side

I introduced myself; he turned his face toward me
Looking up at me through the lenses of his sunglasses
I made my request as respectfully as I knew how
Ole Man stared at me for a moment
He replied in the affirmative, continuing to hold my gaze
He seemed to be gauging me somehow

He asked if I was the camp crier, the Wajeypa
I replied yes
He asked me if the head man had asked me to be the crier
Again I said yes
Turning to his son, Ole man asked for a cigarette
While waiting to receive it, he explained how
He hadn’t had a smoke in over four years
I watched him slowly prepare to smoke
When I felt hands on my shoulders
And Melvin Junior shift my position directly in front of his father
Telling me “Stand here he’s going to bless you.”

Ole Man took several deep drags on the smoke
He stood before me blowing smoke into his hands
Then speaking in Comanche, he rubbed his smoked hands over me
He repeated the process several times

I have no idea what he said in his native tongue
A cause of remorse to this day
When he finished, he said these words

 
“Now, you are the crier, I made you the crier
The way I was made crier. If you go to a dance and
You feel the need to speak, you do it.”
“If anyone asks you who gave you the right to speak
You tell them I did, Ole Man Kerchee
I’m known all over Indian Country.”

Ole Man’s gone now
He lived a long full life
I have the honor of carrying
That tiny piece of it with me

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