I had never been around any other race of people before other than Mexicans in Colorado. To me, blacks didn't count since I was from the south and grew up around them; they never seemed different other than the foods they liked and they lived in others areas than me. So when I moved here, I told my husband "boy, there sure are a lot of Mexicans, I wouldn't think they would like it up here where it gets so cold". That was when I realized just how naive I really was; they were Blackfeet, Sioux and Assiniboine Indians and there was an Indian Reservation just other side of the mountains; not to mention several other tribes throughout the state! My husband has taught me a lot about the Indians and how they think and live as he had lived among many when working in the oil fields. They were simply something I only knew about through history books. I never took the time to understand them or appreciate them beyond that.
Today, there are thirteen different tribes throughout the state; eleven are original that go back prior to Montana becoming a state. Alcohol abuse is a serious issue on many of these reservations and sadly, is most often times the focus of any main stream media. Rare are stories told of the good people there. Clearly there is still segregation of sorts when one speaks of the Indian aka the Native American; depending on where you live and who you talk to. While the nation did away with segregation of blacks throughout the fifties and sixties, there was a new beginning for them as they attempted to integrate into the so called "norms of society". Native Americans, on the other hand, were simply put out on the plains over a hundred years ago and given reservations they could call home; clearly there is a certain amount of segregation that continues to exist today; wanted or unwanted, it is still clearly divided. Don't get me wrong, according to many white men; they have been well taken care of ever since with government funding, programs, housing and schools. That is a controversial topic and not the direction of my post here today. But I feel it is important to share with you a story that might otherwise never be told of one of their people that has touched my heart in a roundabout way. It is important that they are not forgotten and others know there are beautiful and good people among them just as in our own communities.
Lenny Boxer was a young Indian man from Fort Kipp, Montana who came to know my husband back in the oil boom days of the late seventies and early eighties. My husband Scott is a blond haired, blue eyed Norwegian farm boy, just so you know. Scott had worked his way up from the lowest man on the job, the "worm" to working derricks, the man at the tip top of the oil rig that pulled pipe out of the ground and the right hand man of the driller. Lenny had seen Scott a few times on another rig and would always ask Scott to come and work for him. Embarrassed, Scott would laugh and explain how he couldn't leave his driller like that. So one day, Lenny showed up and yelled to Scott that he had talked his driller in to trading for Scott. That was the beginning of a wonderful relationship between these two men that would last forever.
Scott ended up being the only white man on his crew and when the shift was over and the guys headed to town for a cold one, he stuck out like a sore thumb against all theses dark skinned men. Lenny would turn and say, "no worries Scott, they won't mess with you when you're with me" and he was right. The Indians had a great respect for Lenny. He was a stout man and could hold his own when it came to a rowdy bunch of young Indians. He would sit and cry as he spoke of his time in the military over a beer or two and Scott would laugh in disbelief at his stories; thinking "yeah right". But in his heart, he liked Lenny so well, he wanted to believe him.
Lenny was a family man and family meant everything to him. He even raised his oldest daughter on the rigs teaching her every step of the way. Soon his next youngest daughter joined his crew and each work side by side holding their own just as the other men on the crew. They were his babies. Scott soon joined his extended family in a way as Lenny became his surrogate father away from home; always looking out for him, making sure he had a place to stay, etc. Whatever Scott needed, he could rely on Lenny to always be there ready to help. His kind spirit and eminent stature among his own people carried over in his work. Together they traveled throughout eastern Montana and North Dakota setting up, drilling and tearing down rig after rig.
The oil boom crashed in the early eighties and Scott's oil field days came to an end. He moved to the western part of the Montana to pursue a new life and Lenny stayed behind with his girls drilling on smaller rigs throughout the plains. Over the years, Lenny would pop in to town and call Scott. Their reunion, if only for short periods, kept them close at heart. I had the opportunity to meet Lenny as we traveled to eastern Montana and found an oil rig off in the distance. Being so close to Lenny's hometown, Scott just knew Lenny would be working on it. As we arrived, all one could see were three smiling faces as we approached the platform. There stood Lenny and his two daughters working away. While they couldn't stop to visit, their smiles spoke volumes as Scott introduced me. Their visit was cut short as we had to leave the platform for safety reasons, so they quickly tried to set a time and a place to see one another later that evening and smiled and waved good bye. We never did meet up with them due to one thing or another, but we were both content by the looks on their faces that their love for Scott was so genuine; so deep.
A couple years passed only to bring the news of Lenny's death through a phone call via an old friend from the oil days. Lenny had learned that he had cancer and within three months was gone from this world forever. It happened so fast and the family moved on. By the time Scott had learned about it, two years had passed. All of our visits to eastern Montana, driving past his old place on the highway, thinking he was working somewhere; Lenny laid buried in the field beside his home at Ft.Kipp beneath an American flag flying over him.
I recently thought of Lenny as he has become an regular part of Scott's storytelling over the years. I began researching the internet to see if I could find a photo of him to share with my husband. They never took photos of one another. My search brought me to his obituary that spoke of his military career as a Untied States Marine and medals he had received. I looked up each medal to learn their meanings and I shared them with my husband. As his heart swelled with pride, he suddenly realized that the man he had once know was a hero; a brave and noble Indian. He was everything that Scott so desperately had wanted to believe. Lenny had once shown Scott scars that he said he had received in battle and Scott, being a young kid, would laugh at him over a beer joking that he probably got stabbed by one of his own people. As it turns out, Lenny was a decorated Vietnam War veteran. He received two purple hearts, a Navy Commendation Medal, Presidential Commendation Ribbon with a Bronze Star and a Vietnam Service Medal with a Silver Star. He was a tribal board member for the Fort Peck Indian Reservation for several years.
Lenny has always been a common name in our home as we have raised our children over the years. It's as if they know him in some way. They know that he was dear to their father's heart. His old war stories have more meaning today than ever now and his spirit will live on through our grandchildren one day. While I never really knew him, I am forever grateful that I had the opportunity to meet someone who could touch another person's life so beautifully; someone from another culture than our own who took a kid under his wing and taught him many lessons about life over their time together; about cultural differences; about true friendship. I hope one day to find a picture of Lenny to share with you as I create a new page of inspiring faces on my blog.
I hope that if someone comes across your life that touches your heart or inspires you, that you recognize them; that you pay tribute to them. Let the world know who they are or who they were. Share your stories.
