Small In Sight

Laura hurried back from the restroom at the New York – Massachusetts border, hoping Mommy would buy her something at the wood-frame souvenir shop.  She hoped to parlay a moment of shopping into avoiding contact with these dull adults – her distant and rarely visited Worcester relatives.  Almost to the shop door, she slid to a stop, apprehensively staring at a man posing by the doorway.  The crowd snapped picture after picture.  Laura stood back and examined him with the cautious eye of a child who has been teased and tricked far too often.

He stood now with straight posture and stared off into the tree line, allowing Laura to creep closer.  His skin was acorn brown and heavily lined.  His solemn expression was tinged with tiredness.  His loosely braided black hair was held by clips on either side of his face.  The hair continued down to the chest of his fringed leather clothing.  But Laura could not take her eyes off the feathers.  Hundreds of white feathers in immense headdress covered most of his hair.  Laura frowned.

Mommy pulled out her battered old boxy Brownie and pushed Laura forward.   Without success she then ordered each family member to stand beside this apparition from storybooks.  “He’s a real Mohawk!”  Mom crowed with excitement.  Laura swayed her short legs and held her hands protectively behind her back.  She was not about to approach another strange man, even if he was two hundred pounds lighter than Uncle Maurie.  One by one the rest of relatives pushed by her and posed with the genuine human artifact and then rushed over to grab the best picnic tables for a last lunch together.   It was unspoken that several uncles were required as counterweights for Uncle Maurie’s table.  In exasperation, Laura’s Mom gave her a dollar to stand next to the Indian, struggling, for a photo that captured her expression as unenthusiastic.  

Finally Mommy turned and rejoined the clan rapidly unpacking lunch.   Laurie still remained watching the Indian, trying to remember a book from elementary school.  When there was a break in the crowds, she edged closer and said “Your feathers – they aren’t….”

He looked around then down and finally saw the expression of the young child before him.  He bent down to her ear, “It s what the shop owners make me wear.  It’s not authentic.  At home we wear the Kastowa or porcupine quills.”  He added, ruefully, “I am old and . . . this pays the bills.”  Laura nodded, forgot him and ran into the souvenir shop to spend her dollar on a small rubber tomahawk decorated with colorful feathers and colorful plastic boondoggle strings.  As she came out, she thought and handed the Indian her change – a whole dime.   “Did your family see the fire tower?”  he pointed.  “That is where the forest rangers go to watch for fires.  It also has a wonderful view of the land.” 

Laura squinted her eyes up the structure beyond a small field.  For the first time on this boring visit to see her distant relatives, she was curious.  She imagined Smokey the Bear at the top of the tower, or how she would see him putting out fires in the distance.  And the Berkshires that Mom always saw as so pretty would be nice at the top of those alluring tower steps.  “I can climb that”, she said to herself. 

The family at the tables chit-chatted politely, trying to eat their sandwiches and keep Uncle Maurie from flipping them over the table.  Everyone ignored subtle slights and past misunderstandings.  Cousins who were Laura’s age played among themselves and drank something called tonic.   Laura grabbed a quarter of an egg sandwich, making sure there were no disgusting green olives in it.  No one noticed as she headed toward the ranger tower. 

It took no time to cross the field.  There was no chain or bar duck under, so she hopped up the first level, and ran up the second.  From the first platform level and she looked down at her family, almost finishing the meal.  Soon they would pack up and make obligatory promises to do it again sometime, soon.   Several colorful leaves blew past Laura, reminding her that Mommy took her on a tightly controlled trip to Vermont last autumn.   It is better to sit and have them blow past you than drive all over and get sick to your stomach from the lurching curves in the roads, she thought. 

By the third flight of stairs, her resolve was weakening.   Her small chest gasped and heaved forcing her to sit down for a moment.  Catching her breathe, she took the last flight one slow step at a time.  It was so quiet.  So nice.   No squabbling family she didn’t know.  She heard a boy chickadee crying for his girlfriend “Phoe—be”.   The fence on the top platform prevented her from seeing Smokey the Bear in the beautiful maple and oak trees in the distance.   She realized that if lifted herself up and balanced on the top of the railing, her view would not be blocked.  She pulled herself up and over, balancing on her belly.  As she glanced down, she forgot about leaves and bears. 

No one appeared to miss her although the expressions on these tiny figures were too tiny to make out – even Uncle Maurie seemed to be just a soft grey circle.  She waved and said “Mommy!”  There was no change in the figures below.  She took a moment and inhaled a deeper breath of air. 

“Mommy,” she shouted. “I’m way up here!”  The figures now dart like ants communicating a new cache of food.  Suddenly, one head turned up, then another, and another.  Soon all the ants looked up at her.  There was silence, and then one screamed: “Laura!”

At last, she smiled.  They saw her.