Father Sky, Mother Earth: The Eagle, The Wolf
Ah, the Great Spirit is a whispered word , an ink blot, a cherub laughing in his crib.Ted Braun would bleed red ink over my freshmen Humanities class papers, jostling me, kicking me in the ass about his proper english language bent--rules and regulations. Gingerly, I'd pick up my slaughtered text he'd just handed me extricating the bleeding mess from off my ruptured desk top. B over F jumped at me as Dr Braun lampooned me for misuse of the word 'Lambent.'Did I care? We both wondered that. My wild streak fed off those moments of creative interaction with this strikingly stimulating man who even got me to follow him to chapel.I grew. I have never conformed, fit in any template. Then again The Great Spirit intervened.I was Hotspur, tending to my garden on Doe Bay road Orcas Is and approaching jauntily now is my older now newly rediscovered Friend Ted. "I've been thinking Ted," I commenced another of many firey interchanges. "That intelligence is essentially making connections. Seeing connections." He laughed that weird chortle of his and commenced speaking like the NY cab driver he was."So interesting, Doctor. That is precsiecly my theme of a symposium I'm giving this weekend. I've a surprise for you , Phil"And what a saluberous surprise it was! Life never tasted better than those moments with Ted.