HANK

Hank, was a true Native American, a real Indian. In his early years the food he provided for his family was either hunted, caught, trapped or grown. He was a logger, skilled woodsman and crack shot. I used to think he knew where the fish lived and what they were thinking. He was a carpenter, a plumber and liked to work with his hands that were thick and rough. Hank walked the high steel and helped build the first I-95. Most of all, he was a magnificent and captivating story teller. Most of the stories he told were true which gave them special meaning. His gifts to me were priceless, though at the time I didn’t think so. In fact, it wasn’t until years later that I realized they were gifts at all.
Hank was born in 1900 and raised on an Indian reservation. He wasn’t well educated. The values and traditions he lived by were those of his ancestors. Being soft-spoken there wasn’t a lot of idle chatter about of him. He usually said exactly what he meant and in such a subtle but direct way there was no room confusion or misunderstanding. I know first hand, Hank was my dad. He taught me the ways of the land and all of the skills he could, they serve me well to this day. The lessons I didn’t realize I was learning are the most valuable. Patience, gentleness, respect, tolerance, honesty and forgiveness, these are the real tools he had lain at my feet. He had taught them to me by example. They work well. He’s been gone 31 years now but I think of him often as I enjoy the gifts he has given me.