SquawkRadio

Wow.  This is so cool.  Squawk Radio.  Since this is probably as close as I’ll ever come to my dream guest spot on Trading Spaces, would you chicks mind if I tack up a few things on the henhouse walls while we yuk it up?  You can return the favor anytime by blogging with my gang at http://www.ridingwiththetopdown.blogspot.com.  Bring us some fuzzy dice or a Christina Dodd bobblehead doll to decorate the pink Caddie. 

Now, you guys could use a splash of purple right about here.

Beautiful.  No plow horse, that.  True Colors turns out to be a race horse, much to his owner’s amazement. 

But I’m getting ahead of myself.  I’m nervous, you know.  These are such cool digs, such cool chicks, and the thing is...I’m not cool.  Never have been.  I’m too damn serious.  The Squawk ladies know this about me, but they invited me to guest blog anyway, so I won’t try too hard to be, you know...cool.  Like the time the cool girls in 8th grade gym class (think Rizzo in Grease, and, yeah, I would have been Sandy if I could carry a tune) got me to kiss one of them.  It was her birthday. “How about a birthday kiss?” She pointed to her cheek, so I gave her a peck.  Heck.  I was a Southern transplant in Massachusetts, where the cool girls do not do birthday kisses.  It took a while to live that one down.

Fast forward to the rest of my life.  My husband is Lakota Sioux.  I’m a white woman sojourning in Indian Country.  Growing up as an Air Force brat, aforementioned Southern girl in New England, full scholarship kid at Mount Holyoke College, I’ve pretty much always been an outsider.  I’m here to tell you, outsiders are treated very well in Indian Country.  The Eagles love me.  And why not?  I’m the perfect straight man for Indian humor.  (Clyde tells me there’s no such thing as Scandinavian humor.  Is this true?) To make a long story exhaustive, I like to write about white women sojourning in Indian Country.

But I really favor hero-driven stories.  So Sioux me.  I especially love a wounded warrior—the man with the battered heart, the tortured soul.  But they have to be human.  Pretty much.  Jesse Brown Wolf in The Night Remembers bordered on beast.  So it is with Nick Red Shield in Ride a Painted Pony.  He’s badly scarred, inside and out. Story starts out, he’s on his way to pay the last installment and pick up the stud of his dreams when he collides with a woman who’s just been thrown into her worst nightmare.  A confirmed loner, Nick is now stuck with a rider who won’t tell him who she is or what she’s running from.  (This scene makes a neat trailer at www.kathleeneagle.com .)

Now, I’m no wounded warrior, but I identify with Nick in so many ways.  He’s serious.  Can’t be funny unless he’s not trying.  Basically shy, but prefers to think of himself as tough.  (He’s man-tough.  I’m woman-tough.  You know the difference.) And definitely not cool.  Deeply wounded, Nick suffers in silence.  I ... do not.  My favorite Christmas story is O. Henry’s “The Gift of the Magi.” The willingness to sacrifice your dearest treasure is the true spirit of Christmas.  And that’s Nick Red Shield.  It’s what makes him better than me, better than cool, and I really love this guy. 

What is it about these wounded men?  Do we all fantasize about rushing to the battlefield with our little nurse’s kits?  (Yep. Had the cape, too.) Heal him and then bring him to heel.  Who are your favorite wounded heroes? 
Just for inspiration, let me tack up a couple of photos that go nicely with my brand of fiction.  Here’s Viggo Mortensen in Hidalgo.  Love the movie.  Love the painted pony.  Love Viggo.  Look how tortured he looked in this scene.  Remember the source of his pain?  His mixed-blood character had unknowingly delivered the orders that led to the massacre at Wounded Knee.  The early scenes were filmed in South Dakota, Viggo did his own riding, and he bought one of the Hidalgos.  Love Viggo.

Recently saw Adam Beach in Iwo Jima.  Wonderful film.  I’ve actually been to Iwo Jima. Not many civilians can say that, but I was 10 years old, emergency landing on the way to Japan, story for another day.  But I remember it well, and the movie really touched me.  Adam Beach is wonderful, plays a terribly wounded hero.  I chose this photo for its obvious appeal, but it’s from WindTalkers.  The only scene that compares in Iwo Jima is the swimming scene at the end.  So sexy and pure and poignant.  That would be the picture worth a thousand words on the appeal of the wounded warrior.  But you have to see the movie because that picture must be seen in context.

Okay, finally, this is for Connie.  She won’t admit it—would be like kissing my cheek in public—but she loves my vintage Barbies.  Here are some of the girls dressed for the holidays and riding a painted pony.  When my granddaughter helped get them dressed for the photo, she said, “You’re going to give me all your Barbies someday, right, Nana?  Just before you go to Heaven?”

Sorry, Connie.  They’re spoken for.

(Connie says: I’ll guess I’ll learn to live with my disappointment, Kathy. BUT some lucky members of SQUAWK RADIO won’t be disappointed! Check the blog throughout the day to see which you have won an ARC!)