Dr. Charles Friel was called to examine the man who had been brought into the hospital with a police escort. The patient had fallen from a railing and had been knocked unconscious. Prior to that the police had been dispatched by a 911 call placed by witnesses who observed an apparently drunken man emerge from the public restroom on the south end of Lakeside Park. Amusement at the dancing, mumbling man turned to concern and fright as the man began screaming obscenities, jumping from bench to bench before climbing the the children's play structure.
Physically, the man had been attended to already. A contusion to the head had been addressed, and the man's vital signs were normal. But that was not what Dr. Friel had been called to assess. That was not his area of expertise.
And this was not the first time that Dr. Friel had treated the patient.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Sunday, February 19, 2012
3
Surefooted he began to climb, strong limbed he reached for each strong and new branch. Upward and upward, around and around he made his way, carefully following the living, green side up a tremendous height as the tree grew before him. It was exhilerating to rise. With each movement upward, the fresh air coursed through his chest, he arms felt powerful.
In that moment of triumphant, limitless potential, in that moment when his confidence swelled, a brittle branch snapped beneath his foot. As he felt himself begin to fall, visions swept before him: A crowd of drunken men in a stale, dark room groping the glistening skin of women in ribbons for clothes. He was there as well, clawing at the naked flesh. He had to have it, taste it, hoard it all for himself. He saw men and women in elegant clothes and glimmering jewelery. He saw black, immaculate cars, mansions with room after luxury filled room. He felt that relentless and endless pull toward objects and wealth. Felt that insatiable craving for more. With each purchase, more enslaved to his possessions. He could feel that sense of inadequecy in the constant glare of those that clearly had more than you. He saw a man stumbling down the street, a zombie with a vacuous face and eyes, body of a wrathe, searching for the next hit of methamphetamine. He knew that desperation as well. Everything on earth was empty and grey and unrewarding. Only the next high, that search for regaining that long-lost ecstasy. Below him he felt the open expanse of nothingness as he fell. He saw himself on a filthy floor. Grimey and greasy long hair in a puddle of god-knows-what. An unloved, discarded wreck of human form wasted on the ground. But, catching hold of a living branch, the image of his broken form immediately vanquished. Again, on the tree, upward and upward, a little more reserved, a little more grateful, a little more humble as he climbed.
Far into the sky by now, he rested a moment and looked around. It was marvelous. At once, peaceful and grand. He could see far, far in all directions. Hills and even great mountains below him, towns and even cities stretched out before his untrammeled vision. But as he rested the branch in his hand became brittle and unyielding. It would soon give way. Desperately looking for where to secure himself, he saw that what was once so firm had now decayed. A loud snap and again he felt the terror of falling. More dreaded visions assailed him. A child with a pure, but agonized face, distended stomach from a lack of nutrition. An old man clawing at his stomach in distorted pain. A woman with no hair and a frail, gaunt frame. Torn flesh, broken bones, sores, burnt and blackened skin. All crumbling, all decaying, all breaking down and failing. He felt it within himself. His body weakening, pain rousing from the depths. Cancerous cells twisting and distorting him. His muscles weakening, his joints calcifying and stiffening. He saw himself in a small white bed in a small room. Weak. Immobile. Helpless. Alone.
A new voice came to him:
Do you know where you are?
In that moment of triumphant, limitless potential, in that moment when his confidence swelled, a brittle branch snapped beneath his foot. As he felt himself begin to fall, visions swept before him: A crowd of drunken men in a stale, dark room groping the glistening skin of women in ribbons for clothes. He was there as well, clawing at the naked flesh. He had to have it, taste it, hoard it all for himself. He saw men and women in elegant clothes and glimmering jewelery. He saw black, immaculate cars, mansions with room after luxury filled room. He felt that relentless and endless pull toward objects and wealth. Felt that insatiable craving for more. With each purchase, more enslaved to his possessions. He could feel that sense of inadequecy in the constant glare of those that clearly had more than you. He saw a man stumbling down the street, a zombie with a vacuous face and eyes, body of a wrathe, searching for the next hit of methamphetamine. He knew that desperation as well. Everything on earth was empty and grey and unrewarding. Only the next high, that search for regaining that long-lost ecstasy. Below him he felt the open expanse of nothingness as he fell. He saw himself on a filthy floor. Grimey and greasy long hair in a puddle of god-knows-what. An unloved, discarded wreck of human form wasted on the ground. But, catching hold of a living branch, the image of his broken form immediately vanquished. Again, on the tree, upward and upward, a little more reserved, a little more grateful, a little more humble as he climbed.
Far into the sky by now, he rested a moment and looked around. It was marvelous. At once, peaceful and grand. He could see far, far in all directions. Hills and even great mountains below him, towns and even cities stretched out before his untrammeled vision. But as he rested the branch in his hand became brittle and unyielding. It would soon give way. Desperately looking for where to secure himself, he saw that what was once so firm had now decayed. A loud snap and again he felt the terror of falling. More dreaded visions assailed him. A child with a pure, but agonized face, distended stomach from a lack of nutrition. An old man clawing at his stomach in distorted pain. A woman with no hair and a frail, gaunt frame. Torn flesh, broken bones, sores, burnt and blackened skin. All crumbling, all decaying, all breaking down and failing. He felt it within himself. His body weakening, pain rousing from the depths. Cancerous cells twisting and distorting him. His muscles weakening, his joints calcifying and stiffening. He saw himself in a small white bed in a small room. Weak. Immobile. Helpless. Alone.
A new voice came to him:
Do you know where you are?
Thursday, April 14, 2011
2
The light and color of the raw tattoo gently expanded and contracted. Imperceptible at first, he thought it simply the byproduct of his throbbing mind. But, no, the markings moved, were alive and moved with the rhythmic regularity of a heart beat. Slow. Slow. Slow. The red and oranges and yellows and whites blurred and mixed, then separated and regained their definition. The bird seemed to slowly, gently beat it's wings with each pulse. It was alive, distinct from him.
His mouth was agape, but the mouth in the mirror gently smiled back. He raised his eyes in alarm, but the calm face in the mirror remained placid, unmoved. The eyes glimmered love and the mouth spoke:
I have called you. Hear my words.
It wasn't sound. It was noiseless, but it penetrated him, went straight to his mind. It was pure. It bypassed the filters of ears and senses. The Word made him gently shake. Each Word carried with it a wave of love. An overwhelming onslaught of tenderness and compassion that understood him completely, had known him since before there was time. As it embraced him, he could see himself, drawn in to everything that was and ever would be. Loved as a part, an essential part, of the Whole.
The bird burst forth into flame. Again it pulsed. White became whiter with each successive wave, purer and purer, whiter and whiter and whiter. With each wave of brilliance, he could feel his body melting away, absorbing the light until he was one with the purity, one with the Light. There were no words now. Images moved before him as language. Perfect in their completeness. Perfect in their meaning. Perfect in their comprehension.
Before him was a great and ancient tree. A tree of untold years of permanence. At the base, the right half of the tree grew before him, green and strong, ever growing, ever expanding, ever moving skyward. Each bud sprouted forth and turned into leaves. Each branch multiplied and multiplied again without end.
At the base, the left half of the tree was dark and charred and dying. The leaves were brown and devoid of nutrients. They fell, rained continuously on the ground, each fallen leaf covering the resting place of the leaf that had fallen before it. Each leaf quickly decomposed and absorbed into the earth like a fresh snow on sunlit ground.
As he looked upward the tree twisted around itself chaotically; ever growing, ever dying.
The voice filled him again and commanded him:
Climb.
His mouth was agape, but the mouth in the mirror gently smiled back. He raised his eyes in alarm, but the calm face in the mirror remained placid, unmoved. The eyes glimmered love and the mouth spoke:
I have called you. Hear my words.
It wasn't sound. It was noiseless, but it penetrated him, went straight to his mind. It was pure. It bypassed the filters of ears and senses. The Word made him gently shake. Each Word carried with it a wave of love. An overwhelming onslaught of tenderness and compassion that understood him completely, had known him since before there was time. As it embraced him, he could see himself, drawn in to everything that was and ever would be. Loved as a part, an essential part, of the Whole.
The bird burst forth into flame. Again it pulsed. White became whiter with each successive wave, purer and purer, whiter and whiter and whiter. With each wave of brilliance, he could feel his body melting away, absorbing the light until he was one with the purity, one with the Light. There were no words now. Images moved before him as language. Perfect in their completeness. Perfect in their meaning. Perfect in their comprehension.
Before him was a great and ancient tree. A tree of untold years of permanence. At the base, the right half of the tree grew before him, green and strong, ever growing, ever expanding, ever moving skyward. Each bud sprouted forth and turned into leaves. Each branch multiplied and multiplied again without end.
At the base, the left half of the tree was dark and charred and dying. The leaves were brown and devoid of nutrients. They fell, rained continuously on the ground, each fallen leaf covering the resting place of the leaf that had fallen before it. Each leaf quickly decomposed and absorbed into the earth like a fresh snow on sunlit ground.
As he looked upward the tree twisted around itself chaotically; ever growing, ever dying.
The voice filled him again and commanded him:
Climb.
Friday, April 1, 2011
1
" Then said I, Woe is me! for I am undone; because I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips: for mine eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts."
Peter Sherman awoke in a fog. Ripped from the dreams of a young man, disoriented by the patterns of school friends and parents as they dissolved and gave way to a new world. His body ached. He was lying on a hard surface that he did not remember or recognize. He was aware of people passing by him, walking by him, looking down. Some incredulous, some utterly indifferent. Foreign faces. Whispers in an unknown tongue. His body ached, the hard surface he lay on did not help either. His brothers, Teague and Allen were nowhere to be seen. His chest really hurt, sore and throbbing. He looked down to see small drops of blood on the front of his light blue buttoned up shirt. A shirt he had never worn before and did not recognize. He closed his eyes a moment, quite sure that when he opened them again, the landscape would become familiar to him again. He had done this before on vacations, awaking in some strange hotel. Just a few moments and the mind would catch up to where his body was. The foreign nature would slowly transform into the solid landscape of the familiar. Oh, that's right, I'm on vacation. We got in late to the hotel. Dad laid me down on the bed. The bathroom is on the right, oh yes, now I remember.
But this time was different. The unfamiliarity would not dissolve. The landscape would not come to be defined by a recognizable point of reference.
A panic now arose in the stomach.
He sat up, the blood running painfully to his swollen mind. A few muffled chuckles could be heard. He would stand up slowly, he told himself. There was a bathroom over to the side of the hallway that he was lying in. Not really a hallway, it was open, there was sunlight, but there were walls on either side of him and a mesh covering as a roof. But of all the foreign signs that he saw around him, it was that universal symbol for man and woman that caught his attention and he would go there first. He took a moment. Acting as natural as he possibly could, even as the eyes stared at him, he looked around him. Yes, I overslept. Yes, I meant to be here. I'm just going to get up and pretend that I know where I'm going. The bathroom, of course. He noticed now that he had been lying on a wooden bench, no back. A series of similar, uniform benches surrounded him, upon which others sat. Some as families, some alone. A few empty. The wall next to him was indeed a long wall which surrounded a small building, but the wall on the far side was a railing and on the other side of the railing was a lake. He was in a park, it seemed. A mesh sunscreen above him. It was actually pleasant. It was actually a nice day.
He picked up the small black bag that lay next to him. His bag? He didn't recognize it, but it was pressed up against his left thigh. For some reason, it felt like his. His chest burned now. With each movement, twist in his body, a fresh wave of pain radiated from his chest.
He stood up gingerly and with all his energy focused on remaining as stable as possible, walked slowly to the symbol for man.
The heavy door resisted and groaned as he leaned in to open it. It was dimly lit and the stale smell of urine immediately greeted him. A few empty stalls on the left, a trough-style metal urinal on the right. There seemed to be a narrow hallway immediately to his right to which he proceeded. A dark shadow was walking toward him through the hallway. He stopped a moment to let the shadow past, but the shadow stopped as well. They regarded each other for a moment. A dirty man in shambled clothes, greasy, unkempt hair and a half exposed chest. The revelation startled him and he took a half step back as did the man. The man who stared at him through the mirror.
Looking through the glass, he recognized his eyes if nothing else. A weather-beaten face looked to be about thirty. Creases in his forehead, ripples of sorrows and joys wore the alabaster skin of his youth. Dirt and layers of filth told of uncounted hours on uncharted paths. He raised his hands to his face and saw a maze of tattoos from his arms all the way to his hands. Blue and red ink spilling down his fingers. Closing his eyes, he exhaled slowly. He enjoyed for this brief moment a feeling of calm, an armistice from the battle tearing in his mind. He still felt lightheaded, and this comforted him. It could still be a dream. He closed his eyes even tighter but the darkness could not mask the stench of his surroundings. The wrestle between what he knew to be true and what he perceived through his senses could not be held at bay. He knew they would soon vie as he opened his eyes.
And so the lids of his eyes parted. He saw now the cause of the pain on his chest. Red and orange and yellow and white seemed to pour out of his unbuttoned blue shirt. A fresh tattoo from just below his neckline down to the bottom of his rib cage. A fiery bird, wings thrown full forward, neck and head and beak and talons all converging on a single point. A dazzling display of colors, white to yellow to orange to red to violet. Each feather a distinct shade, clearer and more brilliant as it approached the focal point, darker and obscured as it fanned out. It seemed as if the bird, like light itself, would impale it full force and being upon this point; break through or destroy itself in the attempt. It was clear and vivid and alive.
The discomfort, filth and confusion fled from him.
Peter Sherman awoke in a fog. Ripped from the dreams of a young man, disoriented by the patterns of school friends and parents as they dissolved and gave way to a new world. His body ached. He was lying on a hard surface that he did not remember or recognize. He was aware of people passing by him, walking by him, looking down. Some incredulous, some utterly indifferent. Foreign faces. Whispers in an unknown tongue. His body ached, the hard surface he lay on did not help either. His brothers, Teague and Allen were nowhere to be seen. His chest really hurt, sore and throbbing. He looked down to see small drops of blood on the front of his light blue buttoned up shirt. A shirt he had never worn before and did not recognize. He closed his eyes a moment, quite sure that when he opened them again, the landscape would become familiar to him again. He had done this before on vacations, awaking in some strange hotel. Just a few moments and the mind would catch up to where his body was. The foreign nature would slowly transform into the solid landscape of the familiar. Oh, that's right, I'm on vacation. We got in late to the hotel. Dad laid me down on the bed. The bathroom is on the right, oh yes, now I remember.
But this time was different. The unfamiliarity would not dissolve. The landscape would not come to be defined by a recognizable point of reference.
A panic now arose in the stomach.
He sat up, the blood running painfully to his swollen mind. A few muffled chuckles could be heard. He would stand up slowly, he told himself. There was a bathroom over to the side of the hallway that he was lying in. Not really a hallway, it was open, there was sunlight, but there were walls on either side of him and a mesh covering as a roof. But of all the foreign signs that he saw around him, it was that universal symbol for man and woman that caught his attention and he would go there first. He took a moment. Acting as natural as he possibly could, even as the eyes stared at him, he looked around him. Yes, I overslept. Yes, I meant to be here. I'm just going to get up and pretend that I know where I'm going. The bathroom, of course. He noticed now that he had been lying on a wooden bench, no back. A series of similar, uniform benches surrounded him, upon which others sat. Some as families, some alone. A few empty. The wall next to him was indeed a long wall which surrounded a small building, but the wall on the far side was a railing and on the other side of the railing was a lake. He was in a park, it seemed. A mesh sunscreen above him. It was actually pleasant. It was actually a nice day.
He picked up the small black bag that lay next to him. His bag? He didn't recognize it, but it was pressed up against his left thigh. For some reason, it felt like his. His chest burned now. With each movement, twist in his body, a fresh wave of pain radiated from his chest.
He stood up gingerly and with all his energy focused on remaining as stable as possible, walked slowly to the symbol for man.
The heavy door resisted and groaned as he leaned in to open it. It was dimly lit and the stale smell of urine immediately greeted him. A few empty stalls on the left, a trough-style metal urinal on the right. There seemed to be a narrow hallway immediately to his right to which he proceeded. A dark shadow was walking toward him through the hallway. He stopped a moment to let the shadow past, but the shadow stopped as well. They regarded each other for a moment. A dirty man in shambled clothes, greasy, unkempt hair and a half exposed chest. The revelation startled him and he took a half step back as did the man. The man who stared at him through the mirror.
Looking through the glass, he recognized his eyes if nothing else. A weather-beaten face looked to be about thirty. Creases in his forehead, ripples of sorrows and joys wore the alabaster skin of his youth. Dirt and layers of filth told of uncounted hours on uncharted paths. He raised his hands to his face and saw a maze of tattoos from his arms all the way to his hands. Blue and red ink spilling down his fingers. Closing his eyes, he exhaled slowly. He enjoyed for this brief moment a feeling of calm, an armistice from the battle tearing in his mind. He still felt lightheaded, and this comforted him. It could still be a dream. He closed his eyes even tighter but the darkness could not mask the stench of his surroundings. The wrestle between what he knew to be true and what he perceived through his senses could not be held at bay. He knew they would soon vie as he opened his eyes.
And so the lids of his eyes parted. He saw now the cause of the pain on his chest. Red and orange and yellow and white seemed to pour out of his unbuttoned blue shirt. A fresh tattoo from just below his neckline down to the bottom of his rib cage. A fiery bird, wings thrown full forward, neck and head and beak and talons all converging on a single point. A dazzling display of colors, white to yellow to orange to red to violet. Each feather a distinct shade, clearer and more brilliant as it approached the focal point, darker and obscured as it fanned out. It seemed as if the bird, like light itself, would impale it full force and being upon this point; break through or destroy itself in the attempt. It was clear and vivid and alive.
The discomfort, filth and confusion fled from him.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Nathan
Phyllis' older brother Nathan passed away last week, he was buried on the 8th. I feel it important to write down some of my impressions of the funeral that was held earlier that day. Like nearly all things associated with Nathan, it was not normal.
First, an introduction to Nathan for those who never met him. You would remember if you had. The best description that I could give would be to imagine a rotund, fairly imposing 40 year old man with the mind of an eight year old. You knew that you were welcome in the Loertscher home if he would come up behind you and yell BOO!! It didn't take long. He pretty much welcomed everyone. Because he had a fairly severe hearing impairment he often wore headphones with the volume turned up loud enough to hear whatever he was listening to from an adjacent room. He took walks everywhere. Never rode a bike or scooter or any other means of transport that was offered him. He just walked around and most people in the neighborhood, no, most people that lived in the town had probably seen him at one time or another. So this is Nathan, the man/child that couldn't read or write much better than a 2nd grader or drive a car and yet he played chess well enough to normally beat his siblings.
The funeral was very loosely structured. There would be several musical numbers and in between each, as one felt the urge, family was encouraged to share their feelings about Nathan. Each of Nathan's brothers and sisters spoke. I will summarize their remarks, in no particular order. Forgive me if my memory is faulty.
Landon: The oldest son of the Loertscher clan, Landon recollected Nathan's fondness for outer space. Nathan seemed to live in part of his life as though he were on a distant planet. In his life, he was continuously fascinated by the cosmos, indeed it largely expressed his dreams and desires. Imagine Nathan now, no longer encumbered by this Earth with its' limitations, exploring space. "Probably found that black hole he was always talking about," Noal interjected and the room bubbled with soft laughter. Only at this funeral would that seem a natural thing. Landon confessed to taking Nathan's telescope and hoped that Nathan would forgive him for that.
Dion: Next to the casket was a painting of Christ's appearance to Mary after his crucifixion. "He is not here," Dion began. Nathan's imperfect body lay before us now, an empty shell. His soul has long since departed and surely is present with us today. Dion reflected that in this life we see so imperfectly. The veil casts a haze over our vision, we see through a glass darkly, as it were. Perhaps it was Nathan, the adult child, who saw in this life a little clearer through that other side.
Mark: Because of his proximity to Nathan during the latter years as his health failed, Mark was often responsible for much of the physical care of Nathan. This was not a chore. He bathed him, just as he would one of his own children. He learned and was blessed with this opportunity to serve his brother. This was Nathan's gift to all of us. He taught us to love and to serve.
Rebecca: As the youngest, the baby of the family, Rebecca came to be close to her brother when she was in middle school and all the older siblings had left home. For so many years it was just her and Nathan, and when the time came to leave, she couldn't help feeling a little guilty for leaving Nathan behind. It was their time together and it wasn't long enough.
Phyllis: A remembrance of Nathan would be incomplete without remembering the stories about him. Phyllis shared a letter from her friend sharing some of these stories. I think using the letter for structure allowed Phyllis to share these stories without breaking down in tears. Nathan deserves to have his stories told. His headbands and imposing first impression, followed by the softening of the heart for those who looked past the impression. Each of us has a story that we remember about Nathan. Phyllis told her brother how much she loved him and would miss him. She placed a chess piece (the king) in the coffin. It is still there. It will always be there.
Noal: Nathan had a hard life. Ostracized, teased. I can only imagine what that would have been like for him growing up, knowing how cruel children can be. He really didn't have friends outside the family. Never kissed a girl. His was a lonely life. Noal, being closer in age to Nathan, had a close range vision of these disappointments and frustrations. He vowed he would not treat others in this way. He has taught his family, his children, to never do the same. Noal shared a lot of scriptures and his faith that the promises for his brother's eternal life were real and true. A hundred years from now, how much of these frustrations would Nathan feel? A thousand years from now? A million? All this pain would be just a flash, a blur, in the rolling eternities.
Darin: About midway through the service, as a soloist was preparing to sing, I see Darin slowly begin to stand, take a slow, half step forward and then exclaim (and I mean loud!), "BOO! HA! I GOTCHA!" The whole congregation erupted in laughter. This was Nathan in it's purity. The man/child who enjoyed bringing joy to people. Later, my son David remarked that it even sounded like Nathan. I thought the same. Like I said, it was not a normal funeral.
I must say that it was a perfect service and to have missed any of these perspectives would have made for an incomplete service and an incomplete remembrance of Nathan. I was impressed that the entire service was not coordinated or planned in this way. It just happened this way and there was really no other way that it should have been. No other speakers were needed. No religious authority to pronounce anything that hadn't already been said.
So he is gone now. In their home, there are no longer the echos of Boo, or the theme song to Sailor Moon, or Star Trek, Star Wars, The Black Hole, etc. from the television turned up to full volume. There is only silence. The absence is palpable.
For myself I can only say that Nathan taught me to really be humble about who you think you are and what you think defines you. Our Father's works are strange and His intent sometimes seems inscrutable. We have this precious gift of the present; our relationships with our families and those we come in contact with. The things that we usually think matter, really don't. Nathan taught me that.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Central Park
http://www.gmap-pedometer.com/?r=4217781
This is a favorite of mine. Any morning will find packs of runners around a scenic at times hilly run. This particular morning was about 40 degrees a few days after a major snow storm. The low level fog resulting from the melting snow and ice. Down a hill, into obscurity. Up a hill into the crisp, brilliant morning light. Down again, up again.
At times you cross paths with another runner, plugged into their own music, in their own bubble. 71,000 people per square mile plugged into their own lives, rubbing shoulders but completely detached from the others around them. A couple centuries ago most people lived lives confined to within a few miles of their homes and towns. Last names were usually unnecessary. A mass of people like this is just too much for the human brain to handle and by force you must retreat into your own space. Even if it is just in your head.
Nice place to visit. Wouldn't want to live here.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Mayflower
"Yea, I hated all my labour which I had taken under the sun: because I should leave it unto the man that shall be after me. And who knoweth whether he shall be a wise man or a fool?" Ecclesiastes 2: 18-19
This book is a must read for anyone who has wondered why popular history seems to kind of skip from the Mayflower landing and the pilgrims first Thanksgiving to the Declaration of Independence. A lost century and a half. Philbrick paints a vivid description of the Pilgrims who fled from England to Holland to the vast unknown of the New England. What is clear is that they were a hard, determined people who were quick to discover that they were utterly at the mercy of a way of life that they were unprepared for, and utterly at the mercy of the local Indians, who could with ease wipe them from existence. What emerges are two people; the humbled, weak, needy colonists and the disease decimated Pokanoket Indians who were dependent upon each other for survival. Chronicled are the relations between William Bradford, Govenor of Plymouth and Massasoit, sachem or leader of the Pokanokets. These people both learned to accommodate each others needs, even protecting each other from threatening tribes. We have the image of the Thanksgiving festival, which held so much promise for people to cooperate and aid the other.
But it was not to last. The next generation did not exist in the threatening world of their parents. The threatening forces were not from without (from other tribes, nature or disease), but from within. They were utterly incapable of accommodation. What used to be a codependent relationship became a bitter divorce. The pilgrims, now safe from destruction felt land locked. With a prodigious birthrate, all these new men looking for their own land were sure to encroach upon the Pokanokets land. The Pokanokets, used to enjoying the economic gains of a new powerful and rich ally soon found themselves with each passing year poorer and poorer. There would be less and less opportunities and wealth to share amongst restless, ambitious young men. Theirs was a life of continuing and increasing humiliations. What they did have were guns. Lots of guns that the colonists were all to happy to trade for new land titles. Competing resources call for the demand of good, accommodating leadership which was in short supply with the new generation. All meetings were exercises in pride and intransigence between Philip, son of Massasoit and Josiah Winslow, governor of Plymouth and son of the diplomat who had saved Massasoit's life.
And, as so often happens, the dogs of war are loosed and all is ravaged. Rather than being a localized disturbance between a smaller, insignificant group of colonists (Plymouth by now a backwater compared with Boston) and just one tribe of New England, became a war of England against Native American. There was nuance. No understanding of the concept of "friendly Indian" even though many small "praying towns" had been set up by Native Americans who began to adopt and incorporate the colonists lifestyle and religion. We have the emergence of Samuel Mosely, the prototype Indian fighter (no good Indian, but a dead one). Yet this would not end the war. The war would be won by the men, like Benjamin Church, who could distinguish the subtleties between true aggressors and brittle alliance partners and exploit them. It would be a team of Englishmen and Native Americans, working in cooperation, that would effectively end the insanity of the war. It would be this "hybrid man", this frontiersman who could adapt and incorporate two alien cultures that would serve for us, a nation, a better archetype.
The author does a phenomenal job of putting in relief two generations and the loss of dreams. He wonderfully juxtaposes the personalities of the participants and the symbols that we are left with. He leaves us with the image of two ships; the Mayflower bound for the unknown concept of liberty and righteous living and the Seaflower, sailing 56 years later, with the Indian slaves of King Philip's war, bound for bondage and death in the Caribbean.
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