Grover spit expertly between his teeth. “You know, Nerburn,” he said, “you’re like those treaty negotiators we used to have to deal with. Always in a hurry. Sometimes there are preliminaries.” “There are preliminaries and there are evasions,” I said. “Look out there.” I swept my hand across the blazing, parched horizon. “We’ve got to get moving if we want to get up there before it’s a hundred and ten degrees.” “Just relax. He’s just doing it the Lakota way, by laying out the history. That’s how we remember our history, by telling our story,” “But does every story have to start with Columbus?” “Everything starts with Columbus. At least everything to do with white people.” “But what’s with the French fries?” “He likes to get rid of the salt.” “No, the piles. First he insists on getting exactly twenty-eight, then he divides them into piles. It doesn’t make any sense.” A small smile crept across Grover’s face. “How many piles?” he asked. “Four.” He spit one more time onto the ground. It made a small puff of explosion in the dust. “Mmm. Twenty-eight French fries. Four piles of seven.” He made a great charade of counting on his fingers. “Let’s see. Four seasons. Four directions. Four stages of life. “Seven council fires. Seven sacred rituals. The moon lives for twenty-eight days. Yeah, I guess that doesn’t make any sense.” “That’s crazy,” I said. “What is it? Some kind of Lakota French fry rosary?
Grover spit expertly between his teeth. “You know, Nerburn,” he said, “you’re like those treaty negotiators we used to have to deal with. Always in a hurry. Sometimes there are preliminaries.” “There are preliminaries and there are evasions,” I said. “Look out there.” I swept my hand across the blazing, parched horizon. “We’ve got to get moving if we want to get up there before it’s a hundred and ten degrees.” “Just relax. He’s just doing it the Lakota way, by laying out the history. That’s how we remember our history, by telling our story,” “But does every story have to start with Columbus?” “Everything starts with Columbus. At least everything to do with white people.” “But what’s with the French fries?” “He likes to get rid of the salt.” “No, the piles. First he insists on getting exactly twenty-eight, then he divides them into piles. It doesn’t make any sense.” A small smile crept across Grover’s face. “How many piles?” he asked. “Four.” He spit one more time onto the ground. It made a small puff of explosion in the dust. “Mmm. Twenty-eight French fries. Four piles of seven.” He made a great charade of counting on his fingers. “Let’s see. Four seasons. Four directions. Four stages of life. “Seven council fires. Seven sacred rituals. The moon lives for twenty-eight days. Yeah, I guess that doesn’t make any sense.” “That’s crazy,” I said. “What is it? Some kind of Lakota French fry rosary?
