Indian Blanket and the Mohawk (a short Story)

Indian Blanket and the Mohawk
(A Sketch in Life—1953-57)


I was but a kid back in ’53 to ‘58, my brother Mike, two years older than I, we seemed to get along better then, better than now that is. When we were both young we’d play in the backyard, up a ways was a long embankment, with rolling hills behind (I once put a fire to that hill, but that is another story); anyhow, we’d lie on our Indian blankets by the house in the backyard, play cowboys and Indians, Mike had a Mohawk, thus, you know who he was in the drama, daring he was, it was the last few summers I’m talking about, prior to our moving, from Arch Street to Cayuga Street, we even built a tent out of those old Indian blankets, we were together nearly all the time back then. Then one day we up and moved, as I previous and briefly mentioned, we just disappeared: grandpa, mom, me and Mike, we up and disappeared just like those days did, playing on the Indian Blanket, Cowboys and Indians. Oh I know, I was but seven years old, he was nine, and we were young, so very young between those years, of 1953 to 1958. Things change, it is part of life, I know this, and well they do, we must move on, correct? Oh yes, yes indeed, that is part of the encirclement, the grip and squeeze life has on us, and we have our own children then, and we hope they will carry on the saga, the compressed life we are given.
Mom used to talk to Uncle Wally all the time about those far-off days they seemed to have had, with so many memories to linger on—I think they had more to say than they do nowadays at the United Nations. They talked about old times, I heard them talking, she told me so also, and I thought, what will Mike and me have to talk about when we get old, and now we are old, or getting there and we still do not talk on such matters, have not found the secret of reminiscing. Harboring no disrespect, it is not Mike’s forte, Mike don’t talk much, doesn’t waist words on dead dogs, when there are live lions. It is just the way he is, so I guess I got to write it out for him, lest we die without a word of tribute for those far-off days on the Indian Blanket, and similar episodes, God forbid that be the solution, maybe he forgot, but we used to play those silly games. I suppose he’d not be happy if I told his friends he did, the Indian sage that is, he was always so self-conscious on how he looked to his friends.

Dedicated to Mike Siluk
Written: 2003 (reedited 5-2008)