For my 31st birthday, I took a trip to Little Big Horn.
Me who had never been on a horse.
I paid some amount of greenback to ride with a group of 7-10 people out to the place.
I had never seen photos, never watched a video or anything like that.
Somewhere on the drive to Little Big Horn, I saw Crazy Horse climbing out of a mountain.
No feather, no adornments.
I think I could just make out the shape of a stone behind his ear.
This mountain chiseled into the likeness of Crazy Horse almost made me drift into oncoming traffic.
A drawn-out honk.
I looked at the old woman sitting next to me. She had standing hair, thick and gray.
She was 85 and completely unmoved by our near collision.
I was giving her a ride to a national bowling tournament. Little Big Horn was on the way.
Her bowling ball was in a red bag on the back seat. Our clothes were in 1 suitcase in the trunk.
Her bowling ball was 8 lbs. It had Don Quixote painted on it, his arms spread.
She averaged 180 per game.
There were many evenings when she bowled even higher.
She knew the lanes inside-out.
“When your time comes,” I said, “I’ll build you a monument.”
“Out of a mountain?”
“No, Marion, I’m not a mountain carver.”
“And why not? I don’t want any little thing done in my likeness. If you’re going to do something, do it big.”
“Big or nothing?”
“Big or nothing.”
