Broken Feather Stories

In a far and distant land called Colorado, there walked a man named Broken Feather.  Broken Feather was a great cavalry scout.  Probably the greatest cavalry scout who ever lived.  He had a dog named Peto and a cat named Hairy and a duck named Bill and a bear named Bear, and he had two good friends named Ol' Sweet Tooth and Ol' Sour Dough.  Oh, and let's not forget about Straight Arrow, but he was usually lost.  He had two gorgeous daughters named Princess Yellow Hair and Princess Morning Star, and a beautiful wife named Running Deer.  There were also his dragon friends who lived up in the mountains, George Burns and his wife Imelda (who had 3,000 feet) and their son Scorch.  There were the mushroom people and the magic pony... and that pretty much covers it.  So anyway...

This is how story time started in my house growing up.  As kids, the best way to get my sister and I to cooperate at bedtime was with the promise of a Broken Feather Story.  We would rush off to our bedroom and await the sound of my dad's heavy steps on the staircase.  Sometimes, he would start the intro on his way up, and after years of recitation, he could say it in about 20 seconds (or, at times, we got the abridged intro, "In a far and distant land called Colorado, etc. etc. etc.")

Through the art of storytelling, my dad took us on countless adventures.  Once, Princess Morning Star ran away and joined the circus because she didn't want to eat what her mother had made for dinner, but after two weeks of shoveling elephant droppings, she was disillusioned with her new career and wanted to go home.  When the owner of the traveling show would not let her leave, it came down to the magic pony to fly in and save her, with the help of Scorch and his fiery brand of persuasion.  Another time, Straight Arrow got so lost, he wasn't seen for a month, and when they finally found him, he was in the woods behind Broken Feather's house (which was blocked by a few trees and a bush), living in a lean-to and surviving on berries.  After that, he didn't go much of anywhere without a map.

My dad always told us that he met Broken Feather in the army, and of course, we believed him, because he said it so matter-of-factly and parents always and only tell the truth, and since dragons were real if he said they were, they must just live in the Rocky Mountains, where we hadn't been, so that explained why we'd never seen one.  Also, his comically dated pop culture references soared straight over our heads.  Even as we got older, I remember laying in bed, discussing the possibility that they were komodo dragons, and that the stories hadn't been pure fiction so much as embellishment.

The truth is that, to this day, if you told me there was record of an actual man named Broken Feather who lived in Colorado and was in the same infantry as my dad, I would probably fall straight back into believing every word of his tales (including the dragons.  I'm an easy sell).  I long to know what Broken Feather is up to now, and whether his girls, now adults, are still in Colorado, or if Princess Morning Star achieved her dreams of stardom and whether Princess Yellow Hair became the marine biologist she longed to be.  (Or perhaps they're both still working toward finding themselves and their dreams. Princess Morning Star doing theatre when she can through a small production company comprised mostly of her closest friends, while perhaps Princess Yellow Hair is...oh, I don't know, living on a sailboat somewhere warm and sunny, playing her guitar and making it by.)  Whose to say?

The power of storytelling is incredible.  I attribute so much of my creativity and imagination to my dad.  Someday, when I have kids of my own, I will tell them about Broken Feather, and how he was a man they'd have been blessed to know.  And in telling his stories to them, hopefully they'll feel like they do know him, just as I did.  I may not know what he's up to now, but his stories live forever in my memory and in my heart.

Broken Feather was a great cavalry scout.  He was also a great father.  Probably the greatest father who ever lived.