Mr. Write's Page

Third in a series of stories from my road trip last month to the Great Plains, Rocky Mountains, and Desert Southwest.

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Clem’s Son

Deep in the Black Hills of South Dakota, on my way north from Mt. Rushmore, I passed through Hot Springs, a vacation town known for its impressive sandstone architecture.

Rounding a curve in the downtown area, I thought I saw a feathered war bonnet displayed in front of a store.

I did a fast double-take. It was, indeed, a feathered war bonnet.

As soon as I could pull over, I parked and walked back. A business that displayed an Indian war bonnet out front was bound to be interesting.

The name of the place was Many Waters Gallery. The lone occupant was the proprietor, a wiry, bald-headed, 50-ish guy hunched over his workbench, carefully wrapping a rawhide strip around a piece of polished wood.

He looked up and welcomed me to the shop, then went back to his work. I began a circuit of the room to check out the merchandise.

On the walls were numerous pieces of colorful Native American art — dreamcatchers, paintings, beaded tomahawks, feathered rattles, and such. On the counters was an array of jewelry, heavy on the turquoise, coral, and silver.

A note below one of the tomahawks read, “Authentic ceremonial Cherokee tomahawk.”

“This is a surprise,” I said, “Cherokee art in South Dakota. Is there a band of the Cherokee here that I didn’t know about?”

“No,” the proprietor replied, “But I’m here.”

His name is John. He is part Cherokee. Ten years ago, he visited Hot Springs on vacation, and after a divorce, he moved there and opened the gallery. Two years later, his daughter got divorced and joined him. The art on the walls is his, the jewelry is hers.

“I love this town,” he said. “The people are friendly and really care about each other. If I go away for a week, my grass is mowed when I come back. Folks back east were nice, but not like this.

“One thing the people here won’t tolerate is profanity. They get indignant if someone curses.

“I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.”

I asked where he had lived back east.

“Most people never heard of it,” he said. “It’s in Georgia. A place called New Echota.”

“Ah, yes,” I said. “The old Cherokee capital, where the Trail of Tears began.”

He looked surprised.

“I’m from Georgia,” I told him. “Near Athens.”

“Athens? Did you go to the University of Georgia?”

“Sure did.”

“Well, I went to Clemson,” he said, “And I always have a question for my friends who went to Georgia and South Carolina: what do Herschel Walker and George Rogers have in common?”

“I don’t know — what?”

“They both won the Heisman Trophy, and neither scored a single touchdown against Clemson.”

“Very interesting,” I said. “Imagine learning that in South Dakota, from someone I never expected to find here: Clem’s son.

“Friend, that’s not nice,” he said. “For that, you need to make a purchase.”

He was right, of course. I chose a small silver necklace, suitable for a granddaughter.