Chapter 11

Hairy

Remember the first time you saw yourself in a mirror? Probably not. How about the first time you were cognizant?

Who da fuck is that?

I’d been saying that ... or thinking it ... since I could think.

Reflections in a plate glass window? Who da fuck is that? Walking past a big mirror? Who da fuck is that? Oh sure I knew ... I was still surprised. The reflection wasn’t anybody I wanted to know. That guy was the total opposite of how I pictured myself.

But ... the first time I saw new myself reflected in a still pond? I meant it.

Who da fuck is that?

I mean ... I knew I was big now ... but I wasn’t prepared for six foot eight. Aren’t Indians short? The Apaches ... ah ... I get it ... the Apache were historically short but in Ohio, amateur excavations of Indian burial mounds tell of many skeletons being exhumed that measured 6.5-8 feet in length. Truth be told, professional anthropologists doubt the accounts ... because there were no trained excavators or certified professionals on site to keep the records in control. But then, all excavations unaccompanied by published professionals have always been suspect ... at least in the minds of those who propound the “accepted” (mainstream) theories.

Casting back, I realized my wives were inordinately tall ... even though their shoulders fit nicely under me arm pits. Were we outsiders? Probably not ... the majority of the men were tall ... not as tall as I but much taller than I, as a white man, had been led to believe. Just another Hmmm.

So ... after 1823 but before 1840. I saw muskets discarded for lack of percussion caps and heard of men’s wives castigating their husbands for trading away valuable furs for modern trinkets; percussion guns mostly. Not that the entire gun was discarded; No. The barrel made a very good hide scraper ... the soft iron was still harder than a scapula and scapulas wore out quickly.

The American Army stopped at the village, they were looking for white children captured by “heathen Indians.” We had a few but they always wished to stay, preferring our “heathen freedom” to the semi-slavery of the farm.

I spoke to the patrol that approached the lodges.

The officer was immensely shocked to be addressed in perfect northern American english.

I was surprised to be speaking to a deeply accented Alabama dialect. He was indistinct and belligerent. Very unwilling to allow our few white men to stay but was eventually convinced. We had NO white women.

A few years later I was to meet him in single combat and defeated him handily. As the shock set in, he said, “Who are you?”

“My name’s David, I’m from the next century. I died in a traveling accident and woke up here. Maybe you’ll be lucky and live in another time.”