One morning a few years ago, I was in a military surplus store in my neighborhood doing a little of what I call  “I wish” shopping. I know most of you understand what “I wish” shopping is, “I wish I had one of those and one of those and one of those….”.  A few minutes after I was deep in my wish list an older gentleman entered the store. It was difficult not to look in his direction without appearing to stare at him because he looked very interesting. I had seen him in the neighborhood walking up and down the streets and shopping in some of the local stores and he always caught my eye because of his different appearance. I knew that local people who knew him called him “Chief”.

His appearance was that of an old weathered Native American. He was small in stature, slender of build, dark sun worn skin with deep wrinkles that could have been carved into it with a knife. His hair was long, past his shoulders and grayish white. If you were to catch a glimpse of his eyes, you would see the fire that a long hard life had welded into them. His dress was less than the fashion statement and his clothes showed wear but he walked with pride and held his head high.

The store was somewhat small and it was almost impossible to not hear any conversation going on inside, so I was the victim of overhearing a conversation he held with the storeowner. The storeowner’s name was Robin. My father-in-law told me this from dealings with her in a previous store she owned that burned down. The Chief seemed to be interested in a pair of boots. These were the tan, suede military kind that what was then new on the market from Desert Storm. He tried them on and I noticed that they appeared too large for his foot. When asked why he chose an oversized pair of boots he said he had broken little toe years ago that had never healed properly and stuck out to the side of his foot. He said he never had the money to get it fixed so he had to wear oversized boots. The military boots with the wide toes seemed to be the most comfortable for him.

He asked the Robin how much she would take for the boots. The price on the boots as I remember was $35.00. She told him she would take $20.00 for the boots. I thought that was very generous of her at the time because the cost was considerably more in other stores for a new pair of military boots. As the old Chief looked in his pocket, pulling out a wad of balled up dollar bills, he counted. With a very sad look he voiced with a thick broken English remark of only having $12.00. It left me with the feeling that he not just wanted the boots but actually needed them as his head dropped sadly. How disappointing it must have felt to really need something, and lacking just a few dollars, having it out of your reach.

As I stated earlier, I was eavesdropping on the conversation, and immediately asked Robin if she would sell me the boots for the same price. She responded slowly realizing that I had overheard her offer to him, but said she would. I guess she thought I was going to buy them for myself. I reached in my pocket, pulling out my wallet. It was the day after payday so it was a little more full than on most occasions. I pulled out $25.00, it was twenty something with taxes, and paid for the boots for the old gentleman. He asked why I would do this for a stranger and I said the Lord had blessed me with sufficient funds to live and be comfortable and I shouldn’t be greedy with my money. I told him with a smile it was a gift and that I would be insulted if he didn’t except it and I expected nothing in return.

What he did next surprised me. He told me a little of his life and explained to me that he was a Chief of a Native American tribe. Reaching up, he placed his hands on my shoulders and it seemed as if he went into a trance as he started chanting almost singing a song in a language I didn’t recognize. When he was done he said that it was a blessing stating that my actions of generosity had made us spiritual brothers. He spoke for a while of how in the “old days” people were friendlier and today it was hard to find kindness in people. He talked of how people are too busy to help each other or to listen to each other. He said it was my generous heart that made us brothers. I thanked him and left the store going on about my “busy” daily errands. This was the last time I saw the old Chief.

Several months later I was in another store and met another older Native American gentleman. His appearance was somewhat more refined than the old Chief’s appearance. After we talked for a while I inquired if he knew the old Chief. He said he did and that they use to speak together in their native tongue a lot. It seemed like sad statement, leading me to believe it was a dying language. I remember him saying something about the younger generation didn’t care to learn the old ways and languages. This is when I found out that the Old Chief had passed away a few months earlier. It brought a tear to my eye.

Every day we pass people on the street and in stores as we go on about our busy, daily lives. How many of us stop to look at those people we pass? How many can we shed a little light on through a random act of generosity or kindness? How many less fortunate then ourselves can we reach out to and lift up, if only for a brief moment in our long lives? I think back and wonder who was lifted up the old Chief or myself? How many times does one go through life and become a brother to a perfect stranger because they took the time to listen to a need and offer a hand up.

I am NOT a Native American but my curiosity has grown in their crafts and artwork. Is this because of a blessing once given me by a friendly stranger for an act of kindness? I now create Native American art and craft items. As I continue to create these Native American art and craft items, I continue to think of all the knowledge and experience that was lost by the death of the old Chief. It’s very sad when a whole culture is lost because of lost interest. I praise those that keep it alive.