My Grampa Carlson was a rural mailcarrier in Burt County, Nebraska. His route included part of a reservation shared by the Omaha and Winnebago tribes. Macy, Nebraska is a town on the reservation. I had fun when Grampa took me to the Macy PowWow.
The dancing and music was supposed to be the draw. For me, however, I played with other little boys I met under the bleachers. They were not old enough to be part of the show, I guess, but they were friendly Indians and invited me to play in the woods, away from the event. There we had our own powwow, called making friends.
I was envious of their situation because I came from a much more under-privileged background. The particular privilege of which I was deprived was that my mother did not allow me to throw knives. Can you believe that? As a cowboy nearing kindergarten age, I deeply resented my mother’s unreasonable interference with my chosen lifestyle, which obviously required practicing skills with weapons. So, in the woods, I was delighted that my new friends shared their knives with me and we took turns throwing them into trees.
What happens in the woods, stays in the woods. What Mom did not know did not hurt her.