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Even as young child, it was no secret to my brothers and I that many Indians used to roam that same part of Southeastern Ohio.
And before I get too engrossed in this story, please don’t email me and tell me that I shouldn’t be calling them “Indians,” and that they are really “indigenous peoples” or “Native Americans.”
When I was a young child, my dear father and my late mother wandered away from the precious will of the Lord, moving us away from the shining state of West Virginia onto another cattle farm in the dark and God-forsaken land of Ohio.
No, boys and girls. I called them American Indians as a child. I will continue calling them Indians. I will grow old calling them Indians. I will eventually die, still calling them Indians. American Indians may not be from India, but they are no more Native Americans than I am!
I was born here as well. I am native to both the United States and West Virginia.
I am a Native American.
Therefore, you can just take your politically-correct, pile of rubbish and cart it on back to the whiny, pack of bedwetters who obsess on such things, seeking to prop up their delicate sense of self-esteem from only saying those things which would be approved by today’s tribe of phony Indians, such as Sen. Elizabeth Warren.
Now, where was I?
Arrowheads and Dunderheads
That’s right, I was talking about Indians, real Indians.
The creeks and hollows on my Dad’s farm were places we often played and explored as boys. We played cowboys and Indians there. We drank from them when we were thirsty.
As I grew older, I killed my first whitetail buck there, washing the
blood from my hands and knife in those same streams.
No doubt those ancient Indians, hundreds of them hunted deer and
other game along those same hollows. They drank deeply from those
same streams and also washed away the blood from their hands and
knives, following a deer kill. Like us, they took wives and raised
children, living out their days along those same streams, hills, and
But in all of our time playing and exploring those same streams, I
never once found an arrowhead.
Jump ahead another 40-50 years and I can tell you that my youngest son and my younger brother have just recently began hunting arrowheads along those same streams.
At this time, they have probably gathered no less than 100 of them.
And it pains me to think that we, as children, waded, swam, and wandered those streams for years and never discovered a single arrowhead.
I think it is quite likely that they were there the whole time, but we not
only failed to see them, we also failed to look for them.
Thinking about it, I reached the following conclusion:
Dunderheads don’t find arrowheads.
In the years since we were children, it’s also likely that heavy rains and
flooding washed a bunch of those arrowheads downstream, away from our farm, thereby costing us the rare and precious chance to ever acquire them or to admire their simple beauty and intricate craftsmanship.
But now we diligently look for those arrowheads that still remain.
As I’ve grown older, I’ve become pretty good at watching for dangers to myself and my family. At nighttime or during the day, I am careful to evaluate the scene around me before I pull my car up to an ATM machine. I try to be aware of those individuals around me and seek to protect us, whenever my wife and family are dining together in a restaurant.
However, my wife—bless her pea-pickin’ heart—occasionally complains that I overlook a lot of other things at home and sometimes fail to hear her when she speaks.
I have since come to the conclusion that she thinks the dunderhead is still missing the arrowheads.
Arrowheads of life, like those along the stream, are generally all around us. But all too often, we go about our daily lives, being a dunderhead, failing to notice them or picking them up.
As I grow older, I am doing my best not to routinely be a dunderhead.
Each one of us needs to become much better at recognizing and gathering these precious artifacts of everyday life.
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