The Mission Trip to the Cheyenne River Lakota Indian Reservation

By Quentin Smeltzer

My church takes mission trips.  That is, a bunch of us who pay dues to the church (aka the members), pay some more money to go someplace rustic to help people and not proselytize to them; not even one itsy little bit.  I guess the idea is that if we go there and we are helpful and pleasant enough, some of the people we help might be sufficiently confused to look us up on the internet some day to figure out what that was all about. 

Which is the way I like it.  As I’ve written before, our church is basically a collection of whomever shows up and we believe whatever it is that we happen to believe.  We are Congregationalists, which as far as I can tell means we are earnest loiterers with mostly good intentions. 

This year’s mission trip was to the Cheyenne River Sioux Indian reservation in La Plant, South Dakota.  Actually, “Sioux” is a word the Indians don’t much care for.  They are Lakota, which means the people who help each other.  Sioux is a French word that means snake in the grass or something along those lines.  It may be the least of the insults the Lakota endure. 

History runs deep on the reservation.  In the 1800’s white settlers and gold prospectors were advancing on Indian lands.  The gold prospectors were mostly white too, but that's besides the point.  The Indians resisted.  Battles were fought.  Treaties were formed and then broken.  White settlement continued.  The Lakota and other tribes would raid the settlements.  The raids would generate counter-attacks by the US Army.  Atrocities were committed on both sides.

After many battles, including the Battle of Little Bighorn, the US Army was strengthened to the tune of 2,500 men by an act of Congress.  The Lakota, the Arapaho and the Cheyenne were finally defeated in 1877 and the Indians were confined by treaty to reservations.  In the following years the Lakota were coerced into signing away more of their lands.  Treaty promises to feed and clothe the Lakota were ignored.  Low-level conflicts continued and in 1890, fearing rebellion, the Army rounded up and killed at least 150 mostly unarmed Lakota men, women and children with Hotchkiss machine guns in the Massacre at Wounded Knee.    

Despite this history, despite being forced into a dysfunctional welfare state, despite being a culture of hunters and warriors stripped of the ability to live their own identity, the Lakota are warm and welcoming, with a wonderful sense of humor.  Their spirituality revolves around their connection to the land, the sky and all of creation.  They celebrate bravery and honor: the bravery of their men and their women.  Even the bravery of their horses is honored in song and story and dance. 

On my previous mission trip to Orland, Maine I mostly tooled around in a pickup truck with my buddy, Bruce, shopping for electrical parts which I helped him install in the homes of the poor.  In the evenings we had showers and good meals.  One day we went hiking in Acadia National Park and then we had lobster for dinner.  Not a bad gig.  The reservation, on the other hand, was different… very, very different. 

First of all, there was no running water in the community center where we encamped.  And we slept on the floor.  There were no showers.  There were no bathrooms, just outhouses, three of which blew over when a microburst of wind raged across the open prairie without warning. 

The mosquitoes and other biting insects were voracious.  Bug spray had no effect.  And the ugliest dogs you’ve ever seen in your life milled about the camp more like matted homeless people than pets. 

We worked seven days straight, which was not smart.  Some people like to push themselves to extremes and then push themselves some more—you know, so it really hurts—and then there are the other six point seven billion of us who were not our leaders on this particular mission trip.  So that was some bad luck right there.  Especially for me, as I happen to be one of the six point seven billion who don’t consider heat exhaustion "fun."

In ninety degree heat under a relentless sun, we upgraded houses in the mornings.  Then we ran a day camp for the local children in the afternoon when the real heat kicked in. 

Before our first day-camp we were told that what the children need most is attention:  a hug, a piggyback ride, a game of catch.  Many of these kids live with grandparents; the parents are gone, taken by drugs, alcohol or poverty.  So we gave hugs and piggyback rides and played catch.  Some of the boys feigned initial toughness.  But that quickly melted away once they realized we spoke to them with no agenda.  Which was easy, because we don’t have one. 

Other boys seemed starved for attention—they would cling to my back and legs, wrap their arms tightly around me and refuse to let me go.  The girls were more likely to hang back, but they wanted piggyback rides too. 

At one point I untangled myself from the boys long enough to give one of the girls a piggyback ride.  She was maybe six or seven years old with beautiful, black hair and black eyes.  She climbed aboard but she didn’t cling to me like some of the boys had.  Instead, she told me to run.  When I did, she stood on my hands, stiffened her body and threw her arms skyward.  Then she did something that made the hair prickle up on the back of my neck:  she let out a warrior’s cry:   Wah hay!  Wah hay! 

Maybe it was the heat exhaustion, maybe I has hallucinating, but suddenly I was not some old guy giving a child a piggyback ride:  suddenly I was her adrenaline-amped horse charging across the high plains, carrying my precious young warrior headlong into battle.  It gave me chills.  It made me want to keep running with her forever.  It made me actually want to go into battle, which is worrying. 

So what did we learn here?  What did I learn?  One:  before you go on a mission trip, check the schedule and pencil in a day off when no one is looking.  And two: don’t worry.  Even if you are led by happy, committed masochists, experiences you could never have imagined might just make it all worthwhile. 

The Worst Place in the World

The Worst Place in the World

SmeltzerNation, 2/15/2011

First, I want to apologize for taking down yet another post.  While it was all good-natured sport making fun of my English colleagues, it turns out that they have this thing in England called “the internet” which allows people there to read what I write as easily as people here in my own little corner of my own little town.  Whoops! 

But don’t worry; I’ll put that bit back into my next book.  It will be safe there.  Because absolutely no one reads my books. 

Anyway, after making fun of the English I made a shocking and ironic discovery much closer to home.  It turns out that I live in possibly the only state in the entire United States of America that does not allow the most fun thing to do in the entire world:  quad bike riding.  In fact—and here is the deep irony—I was in England of all places when I discovered that quadding is the most fun thing a married man my age is allowed to do in the entire world.  Only to then come home and discover that this most fun and exciting of all things to do is not allowed in, yes... Connecticut.

Now, I want to make sure that you know what quad bikes are:  they are those four-wheeled, outdoors, ride-in-the-mud thingies with big tires.  They are different from off-road motorcycles in several significant ways.  First, when you ride a dirt bike into a mud hole, the front tire stops and you are flung over the handlebars like a rag doll.  The quad bike wallows through the mud and pulls you out the other side, producing an enormous grin on your face. 

When you go into a corner in the woods on a dirt bike, and you hit a rock or a root, the front tire goes one way and you go the other, flung over the handlebars like a rag doll.  When you go into a corner on a quad bike and you hit a rock or a root, the quad bike goes over the root or the rock and you keep going, producing an enormous grin on your face. 

Since I have reached the age when I prefer grinning to being flung over the handlebars like a rag doll, I greatly prefer the quad bike.  Only, they are not allowed.  Not in Connecticut.

According to the Connecticut Department of Environmental Protection:

“Effective January 1, 2006, except where specifically allowed, riding an ATV on state or municipal property may result in charges of criminal trespass. (Public Act 05-234)

At the current time, Connecticut does not have any public areas open to quads.  Additionally, there are no State managed areas open to dirt bikes although the Army Corps of Engineers facility at Thomaston Dam is available for two wheeled trail bike riding.”

So, dirt bikes aren’t allowed at Thomaston but trail bikes are?  Hmm…  So what about quads?  Are they allowed at Thomaston or not?  According to the US Army Corp of Engineers:

Thomaston Dam has designated trails for two wheeled trailbikes, open May 1st through October 14th CONDITIONS PERMITTING. Three and four wheel vehicles are not permitted.

So they are not allowed in Connecticut, period, not even if CONDITIONS PERMIT.   Which leads me to wonder, why would I, or anyone else for that matter, live in Connecticut?  Our roads are jammed, our state is in debt, our taxes are rising and our schools are struggling.  We pay the highest amount per gallon of gasoline in the entire country.  And we aren't allowed to go quadding. 

I have heard it said that Connecticut has the most highly educated populace of any state in the union but really, if we knew anything, we would know that quadding is fun.  A lot of fun.  More fun, say, than spending two and half hours driving the thirty miles from Stamford to Fairfield on Interstate 95.  More fun than plugging our 3.7 billion dollar budget gap.  More fun than driving our SUVs into gigantic potholes, which would be fun if we were driving, say, quads.  And much more fun than being throw over the handlebars like a rag doll, which, however, is allowed at Thomaston Dam. 

Thanks, Connecticut.

Retreating Thoughts

Retreating Thoughts

By Quentin Smeltzer, www.SmeltzerNation.com, 1/8/11

Every year our church holds a men’s retreat where the men of the church don’t retreat so much as they venture forth to a simple lodge in the woods near a lake for two and a half days of camaraderie, prayer, discussion, a hike and an indoor golf tournament.  The accommodations are rustic.  The food is hearty but simple.  The thoughts shared are sometimes profound, sometimes prosaic.  I always laugh and I sometimes cry.  Let me amend that:  I always cry and usually at the oddest, most unexpected moments. 

They say men cry more at movies then do women, and we cry more at movies if we see them on airplanes.  I can also attest that we cry more in a cabin in the woods.  The words that pop out of our mouths and into our heads in new places with new people are new and unexpected as well.  Or maybe we’re just cry babies. 

This year I found myself well up when we were discussing transitions and I realized, maybe for the first time in my fifty four years, that I may well lose my father to old age in the not too distant future.  He is eighty one. 

My dad and I have reconciled after some turbulent times.  I love him and I know he loves me.  But there are so many regrets, so many things said and unsaid, so many things done and undone. 

Just ten years ago in my mid forties I believed I had no regrets and now my life is packed full of them.  How did this happen?

I have made many changes in my life and most of them have been for the better.  I gave up drugs and serious drink but somehow I recently decided to take up smoking.  Let me amend that as well.  If I said I took up smoking your children and mine might read that and start smoking.  And I would not want that.  If I said I took up smoking, my insurance company might raise my rates or deny my claim.  It’s a funny world we live in.  America may be the freest country in the world but we are far from free.  I am not free to tell you I have taken up smoking even one cigarette a day.

Thinking about a passage we read from bible on this retreat I finally realized how to see God.  God is us; people, and all creation.  So I understand that part now.   What I still don’t understand is why we live and die.  “Why do we die?” I asked Nick, who works for Pitney Bowes. 

“It’s all about the cycle of life,” he said.  “It’s a transition.”

“Ah,” I said, but I still don’t get it. 

If I did take up smoking it would not be because I want to die.  I want to live forever and in fact, I hope to get younger with each passing day.  Smoking may not improve my chances of attaining these two goals but, let’s face it: they are kind of a stretch anyway.

If I did recently take up smoking, say, just one cigarette a day, I might have smoked my one cigarette standing on the balcony outside my lodge room just now, listening to the snow melt from the trees in the dark of night.  I might have had this thought, that if I wasn't smoking I would just be standing there.  But because I was smoking—if I was smoking—I was doing something.  Something half stupid.  Something half mystical.  Something that isn't allowed at this lodge or almost anywhere in the world anymore, but something nevertheless. 

The Country that Stole Christmas

The Country that Stole Christmas

By Quentin Smeltzer

First I want to apologize for my previous post which appeared and then mysteriously disappeared in the blink of an eye.  It appeared because I wanted to share some of my more controversial thoughts on the battle of the sexes in marriage.  It disappeared because my wife told me to take it down.  So it was a pretty short war as it turned out.

Today I write from England where I’ve been on a business trip since December 6.  Actually my business trip ended last Saturday the 18th.  Today is Wed the 22^nd.  For the past four days I’ve been trying to get home. 

You may have heard about the terrible snow storm that blanketed England last weekend.  What you may not realize is that we received only about four inches of snow and the snow stopped mid-Saturday.  That didn't prevent Heathrow airport from cancelling my 5 PM flight home, which showed, by the way, that it was ON TIME until thirty minutes before boarding, when it changed to CANCELLED.

The minute my flight was cancelled, Delta Airlines sprang into action.  First, they provided no information whatsoever.  Second, I saw a bunch of passengers heading down a corridor so I followed them.  I waited in a very long line until I finally reached a Delta representative who handed me a copied "letter of apology" and then shooed me out of the terminal into the night.

But Delta didn't stop there.  The airline raced to rebook me on an Air France flight to Paris scheduled to leave just four days later, today.  From Paris I would fly to JFK.  At this moment, if you look on Delta’s website, they still show my flight to Paris as ON TIME.  However, if you look on the Air France site you will see that my flight to Paris is CANCELLED.  

When I called Delta to point this out, I waited on hold for ten minutes at about $5 per minute before I was rebooked on an American Airlines flight for tomorrow, Thursday the 23^rd.  Only, just now, my travel agent double checked and says I am not booked on the AA flight at all.  Nice work Delta!

Delta is clearer when it comes to compensating me for my trouble.  They say they have no interest in paying my $150 per night in hotel, plus meals, taxis, etc., because they cancelled my flight due to “weather.”  The fact there hasn’t been any “weather” here since last Saturday morning doesn’t seem to register. 

It is very hard to understand why Heathrow still hasn’t cleared the snow.  Evidently, they use a highly specialized technique for snow removal here which they refer to as “melting.”  Unfortunately, it turns out that “melting” doesn’t work if the temperature doesn’t rise above freezing—who knew?  And who might expect cold temperatures in December?  So they’ve switched to a new technique of snow removal they have very high hopes for.  In fact, they call this new approach “staring and hoping.”

The delays here at Heathrow have caused similar delays and massive crowds in airport terminals throughout Europe.  In Germany at one airport they’ve hired clowns to entertain stranded passengers.  If I see a clown when I return to Heathrow tomorrow I will kill him.

I don’t know if I’ll get home tomorrow or not.  I may not get home until the Spring thaw.  All I can say is that it was easier to fly to Colombia than it has been to fly to England.  In fact, I’m pretty sure that they’d do a better job of clearing the runways if it did snow in Colombia.  A band of Arhuacos waving coca leaves could not possibly do worse.

Roommates

Roommates

By Quentin Smeltzer,  www.SmeltzerNation.com  11/29/2010

Now that I am a famous author, known at least to half a dozen fans, I have to be very careful about what I say and do.

For example, when my twelve year old son asked if he could sell my book, (you know the one, Self Help, Your Complete Book of Bad Advice for Every Situation in Life), at school to his friends, well, I could either have said, “Of course not, that would be completely inappropriate,” or I could have said, “I’ll give you fifty percent commission.”

It turns out I may have chosen poorly.  Certainly, my wife was not happy to get a phone call from the vice principal informing her that selling his father’s book in school is completely inappropriate behavior and the book has been confiscated.  My son is not allowed to have it and I have to go to school to pick it up.  I only hope they didn’t throw away the order sheet he started to compile…

I guess I’m not surprised—the world seldom keeps up with genius.  Soon, I imagine, all children will take their parents’ wares to school and hawk them from cardboard stands at recess, but for now, I guess my son and I are busted.   He was deeply disappointed, having already decided how he would spend his commission. 

In my defense, it’s not like I sent him to school to sell drugs.  He was selling a book for gosh sakes!  And a very funny one, at that.  True, the book contains adult language and themes and he was selling it to eight year olds, but they’re going to find out about sex and drugs and how to screw up their lives soon enough.  They might as well hear it from me. 

 “You’re going to go to his school,” said my wife, “and apologize and tell them this was all your fault!”

“Well, in fairness,” I said, “the original idea was his…”

“Which you encouraged!”

“True, but only to teach important values like entrepreneurship.”

“Why do I have to keep getting these calls?” she screamed at me.

I shrugged.  “You can give them my number,” I offered.

“Why is there so much drama?” she wailed, running out of the house and slamming the door.

I watched the door and counted backwards from ten.  At “two” the door flung open again.  That’s when she dropped the bombshell on me:  “I will live in this house,” she vowed, shaking her finger in rage, “I will help you raise our child, but that’s it!  We are no longer man and wife!”

Then she disappeared once more.  The door slammed and I heard the poor, little, four-cylinder engine in our SUV howl in protest as she floored it out of the driveway and roared off down our wooded lane.  This is my wife’s reaction to most of the problems we confront:  flee.  Run away.  I believe it is no accident that when it came time to buy a new vehicle she chose a Ford Escape.

Later, when next I saw her, I said, “Hey Roomie, how’s it going?  We’re roommates now, right?”

“That’s right,” she said.  “Roommates.  Nothing more.” 

“This is fantastic!” I said.  “This means I no longer have to listen to you talk about how much you disapprove of me and every, single, inappropriate thing I do!  This means you have half of the responsibility for keeping the place clean and paying the bills!  And when you start talking to me when I’m watching a television show, now I can ask you to be quiet!  This is incredible, fantastic!  Hey, if I get you drunk, I still might get lucky with you!  Why didn’t we do this years ago?”

It’s been several days now since our new relationship began and things could not be better.  When she starts to list my faults I cut her off; “Not your place, roommie,” I remind her.  When she leaves something out now I say, “Uh, roommie, you want to pick that up?”  And when I’m watching television and she starts singing show tunes in the kitchen adjoining I call out, “Hey, roommie, you wanna hold it down?  I’m a watching a show here.”

As for getting lucky, well, a gentleman never tells.  Let’s just say this new roommate arrangement is fantastic! 

Like all good things this new development will soon end and we will go back to being "man" and wife.  Unless of course we can create a new institution to make this permanent:  

“Do you take this woman to be your roommate, to share all work and responsibilities evenly, to raise kids and have sex with on occasion if you’re both in the mood, but really not to listen to her assessment of your character flaws and weaknesses because as your roommate that’s really not cool?”

“Oh boy, do I!  I do indeed!”

Self Help for Women

Self Help for Women
By Quentin Smeltzer, www.SmeltzerNation.com, 11/6/2010

A friend of mine recently wrote to suggest that I write the female version of Self Help, or “Self Help for Women.”  She wrote something about men being emotionless creatures incapable of listening.  Something like that...  I wasn’t really paying attention. 

Clearly, men and women want different things.  Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?  Women want everything in the world.  Men want women, at least temporarily. 

On that last point, it is strange to see how many men who have a woman want some other woman, or more women, or women who will act like they imagined women might act when these men were fourteen and dreamt of having women. 

That the actual woman they might grow up to marry and have children with might behave remarkably like their own mother did is a thought that never crosses the fourteen-year-old, male mind.  If it did, all human procreation would immediately cease. 

I think most women, on the other hand, would appreciate husbands who act more like they remember their fathers acting:  silent, inert except to fix something, and always with money for the movies.  Instead, many women grow up appalled to find they’ve married a man who behaves like he's fourteen. 

My new friend noted that men are pack animals who must learn to suppress their emotions in order to hunt without hesitation.  She added, “Any male who cannot suppress his emotions after adolescence usually finds himself becoming a computer analyst or oil rig worker [so] his life will require no human contact at all.”  She forgot to mention writer.  This also explains why I entered the computer field. 

My friend notes that women value social connections, men value instant gratification, i.e., sex.  But really, what’s the difference?  First, I believe that if I have sex with you, I have made a social connection.  And if I can’t have sex with you, then really, what’s the point?  But, I kid.  I value social connections.  Without them how would I make any money, and without money, how would I ever get laid?  You see how it all comes together.

Another great point she makes is that a woman makes “connections over the course of her lifetime between emotions and various concrete objects.  For example, flowers!  This is a very simple way for the male to still show her that he has feelings for her, whether this is true or not.  Whether the male is capable of recognizing his feelings and being romantic really doesn’t matter so long as he understands that she has made this connection.” 

Which is fascinating!  It also explains why my wife constantly wants me to buy her useless crap.  And really, I would, except, why would I do that again?

One thing I am reasonable sure of is that women don’t need a “Self Help for Women.”  Women have the upper hand already.  Let’s face it, bitching, crying and withholding sex will always trump silence and breaking things.  We men just don’t stand a chance.

In fact I believe there is nothing a woman can’t get through a careful application of the three magic levers:  complaint, emotional outburst and physical affection.  What do men have?  Cold logic and the aforementioned ability to punch a hole through a wall.  We used to have money but they don’t hire men in this country any more.  Evidently the drywall repair costs were too high. 

The Names of God

The Names of God

By Quentin Smeltzer, www.SmeltzerNation.com, Oct-21-2010

Somehow of late, I find myself attending an adult confirmation class at my church.  You might think the reasons for signing up for a class that will examine God, religion and our place in the world might come from some deep philosophical bent or some mystical nexus of serendipity and fate, but actually it’s much simpler than that:  my wife told me I had to. 

I don’t even think she needs me to become more religious, per se.  I think she just wants me out of the house.  Any excuse will do.

My church is the Congregational Church, which, as far as I can tell, is a collection of pretty much anyone who wants to show up on Sunday morning for an hour of music and talk and then drink coffee and loiter about for twenty minutes or so afterwards.  Our group is made of Catholics, Jews and Protestants, as well as a healthy contingent of agnostics.  There are absolutely no standards to join our church which, of course, makes it the perfect church for me. 

Personally I am leaning towards the Bill Maher variety of atheism, except atheists, so far as I can tell, seldom get together for free coffee and cake.  The other reason I don’t go whole hog into the atheism camp is that every time I seriously screw up in life I find myself praying to God to get me out of it.  I rarely catch myself praying to Bill Maher. 

As I write in my book (shameless plug alert!) Self Help, Your Complete Book of Bad Advice for Situation in Life, there is a big difference between God and Religion.  If you read any of the holy books—the Bible, the Koran, the Bhagavad Gita, Battlefield Earth—you will soon notice that religions try to control you; God doesn’t care what you do.  You can rape, murder, pillage, enslave; God is perfectly okay with all of it!  Religions, on the other hand, want to tell you when, where and how you can pray, eat, dress, sit, stand, kneel and make babies.  Other than that, they’re cool.

In a recent Adult Confirmation class we were handed a sheet to discuss which contained maybe seventy or eighty different names for God.  Apparently, this was the abridged version. 

One of the names that spoke to me was “LORD of Armies.”  I can’t imagine anything would make me religious faster than marching into battle.  I played paintball at a birthday party a few months ago and I couldn't keep a bunch of ten year olds from shooting my ass up, so I can’t imagine facing the real thing.

Another name was “LORD our Banner” which made me think of God as a local supermarket chain.  “Hiding Place” was an interesting name for God.  If Hiding Place appeals to you, you may just have some parental issues worth discussing with a professional. 

Other words for God included “Daddy,” “Father,” “Mother,” and “Husband,” which made me wonder why “Skip,” “Buddy” and “Chipper” weren’t in there. 

“I AM” was a popular name with the class as was the more loquacious, “I AM WHAT I AM.”  I looked on the sheet but could not find “I AM WHAT I AM AND THAT’S ALL THAT I AM, I’M POPEYE THE SAILOR MAN”, but it may have been there somewhere. 

One that bothered me was the must-not-even-be-spelled-out version:  “G_d.”  I understand that not saying the name of God out loud comes from understanding that God is too vast a concept to be named, but if we can’t say the name and we can’t spell it, well c’mon; this is just too damn difficult!  It’s like trying to write about the artist formerly known as Prince.

In the end, I suppose it doesn’t matter what you call god or how you think of he, she or it.  And if the entire subject has left you completely confused I have suggestion for you: join the Congregationalists.  We don’t have clue either.