December 24, 2020
Volume 50 - No. 51
by lyle e davis
It all took place at Bishop Clarkson Hospital, Omaha, Nebraska. At least most of it took place there.
There was a 15 year old lad in for observation and tests that would shortly result in an appendectomy. While being pushed, prodded, probed and thoroughly checked from stem to stern he observed a new, younger patient being moved into his room.
The new patient was an Indian boy, The Paper - 760.747.7119
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from the Winnebago tribe up near Sioux City. He was 12, had skin as brown as a hickory nut, jet black hair with bangs that just naturally fell over his forehead, the whitest teeth and widest smile you've ever seen. There was a sparkle in his eyes when he talked. There was also torment there when he was hurting. Which was often.
Like the 15 year old, they didn't really know what was wrong with the Indian boy named Joe. He would have intermittent bouts of excruciating pain. He would never
cry out. He would grimace, grab the sides of the bed rails, clump the pillow up in his hands and squeeze, but never a cry. After the pain went away he would talk and flash that wonderous smile of his.
They talked about all the things young lads talk about. Joe would talk about the reservation, about the rivers and creekbeds he would frequent when out running trap lines or fishing or hunting. He would talk about his new quarters in Omaha. Living conditions must have been pretty rough on the Winnebago
A Christmas Story See Page 2
reservation because he described his living quarters in Omaha as though they were a castle and its surrounding gardens. Yet the area where he lived was the slums of Omaha, skid row. There were many Indians living there, true. But they were generally derelicts, drunks, down and out beggars and thieves. Yet Joe thought this was heaven on earth.
Joe had no one to come visit him. His parents lived up on the reservation and his father had little, if any, work. They had no car so it would