What World Do You Live In?

Lots of people live in this world; the world of high speed internet, not knowing their neighbors, racing back and forth from home to kids' school to work to store to school to home again, never taking the time or the trouble to step outside it. They are frustrated and too tired and never know it. They emotionalize instead of think rationally and reasonably. Some are educated, most are not, but they all react and act and think the same way - gotta do this and that and the other as quickly as possible, gotta gotta gotta... Their friendships are surface acquaintances, their joys fleeting, their anger and frustration and general ennui always below the surface like a roiling lava flow struggling to burst forth if it can only find an outlet.

I stepped into two different worlds the past few weeks.

In one, I met real cowboys and girls. They are not the ones in John Wayne movies or Brokeback Mountain. They are all ages, all sizes, all shapes. They wear scuffed and worn-down riding boots; because, well, they actually ride. One fella actually wears spurs. All the time. They do not dress in "Western" clothes; they dress in jeans and layers of shirts - the short-sleeved, then the long-sleeved, then the coat or vest. All are smudged and dirty after a long day. They smell of leather and dust and different flavors of sweat, but it is workin' sweat, not old drunken or unwashed sweat. The smell that overrides it all is the smell of - poop. Good, rich, hay-infested cow poop. The sun bakes it during the day and the odors rise. The snow falls during the night and the smell diminishes but never goes away. Oddly, it is a clean smell; a smell of natural things and fresh air and sunshine baked into the hay that has been processed in cow and bull bowels.

They eat Rocky Mountain Oysters, cut into strips, breaded, and fried, the way you eat mozzarella sticks. They don't laugh if you order them; they encourage you to try them the way you might encourage your friend to try cheese sticks. The "Oysters" taste like steak fingers, only without the gristle and fat. Really.

The bars are always quiet; no booming music, just folks talking and drinking and sharing stories of the day. The music in the background is an inoffensive mix of rock and country and techno and yes, a little rap; but never loud, never invasive or permeating or foul. No drunks. No disagreements. No loud voices. No rudeness. "Pardon me, would you pass the _____ , please?" Young and old, there is respect for even a stranger's space. They will only sit down if invited. They will only ask questions if invited - but they will answer questions quickly and openly and honestly. Ask them about their horses, or their cows, or the weather, or the growing seasons, or anything at all. They do not hesitate.The streets are peaceful and the cars sit running with the doors unlocked. The police are not omnipresent - they do not have to be. No one tolerates lawlessness or even loud music - people will walk up to a car at the stoplight and tell the occupants, "That's a little loud, please turn it down." In a land where guns are prevalent, there is no aggression, no reaction of violence, only a simple - "Oh, I'm sorry" and - they turn it down.

The second world I entered was quite a different world. It is a world of tarpaper covered wooden and cement-block shacks, of chimney pipes jutting through broken walls, of trailers with walls missing where people still live. It is the reservation - one without a casino, without a goobernment subsidized or financed income, where the horses and cattle are well fed and fat and the children are rangy and skinny and active. Where all the dogs run free - and walk up to strangers, expecting to be petted. Not for them the endless games of Wii or Nintendo. They are working their family farm, and they are busy - cutting wood, feeding up, milking, herding the animals from pasture to pasture, even hunting. They are desperately poor and do not know it. They are quick to talk, quick to laugh. They can tell you about their history, are quick to introduce themselves, instantly friendly and open when met with a smile. Casey BlackBear sat and talked with us; her face etched with wind and sun, her long black hair softly whipping in what seems to be the endless wind, her lips smiling across jagged teeth, totally unselfconscious as she shared her area's history, and her family's history. She asked for nothing but our interest and attention. She gave me a bead and buffalo-bone necklace she had made, with a tiny blue turtle hanging from it, to give me a woman's strength and power.

Open hands, open hearts, open minds, eager to share their lives, rich and poor, all hardworking but all with an hour or two to make a new friend. Proud without being obnoxious and offensive. Polite without being false or phony. Quick to offer help and advice; yet not supercilious or rude. And no one locks their doors. Ever. Walk up, walk in, sit down.

Two worlds, both totally different, both the same; in a land constantly blown by wind, covered in snow, and kissed by sun - all in one afternoon. Does a hard and vital land make for a tough and vital people? Does all of the instant gratification around us here make us superficial and grasping, demanding and rude and loud and impotent? Does the soft and invasive and ever-present overwhelming growth of both plants and buildings make us feel less, and demand more instant gratification?