Continued--

Basically invented by Andrew Jackson's administration, the policy of Indian Removal was carried forward because of Jackson's belief in Western expansion. Abusive white settlers quickly moved into the vacuum, buying up the lands thus confiscated. There were little to no protections offered Natives from murders and assaults—in effect, Indians were pretty much excised from the law altogether; they were seen as non-citizens, partial-citizens, or not at all. Finally, many were sent on their final march. This black-hole in the schema of white law would fit today's description of genocide.

From what little research I’ve done, it seems that most Cherokees south of the Carolinas were unable to escape the inevitable forced march; many died on that trek into Oklahoma territory. In contrasting Native Americans with whites, Natives got the bad end of US policy, and many rode that manifest destiny train into oblivion. The view of many (but not all) whites in those days was less than gentle.

But let's be fair—after all, I'm a whitey. And you know how we whiteys are: we don't like to take the blame—least-ways, not too directly.

Or if we do, we really like to smear it around—especially if some of it smears off on some unsuspecting schmuck—you know, someone who's perhaps in the wrong political party? Yes? (Wink wink, NYTimes:)

I suppose any Native Americans reading this could care less which whitey points which finger; he's probably not liking this discussion anyway.

The view then as now: most people were, and are sympathetic to the plight of Natives. Most whites knew quite well that our Gov'mint held the iron rod, wouldn't hesitate to whack.

And you know how it ended—many out-gunned Cherokees were compelled to the slaughterhouse; feed for the ravenous beasts we call greed. And stupidity. And arrogance—

The above principle is philosophy tenet #5.

Our forefathers inherited at least some Imperialistic tendencies—the fruits of which are that we today (ironically, all of us) won out.

So the aggressiveness in our founding fathers backfired sideways: in two opposing directions—against the European masters, and, against the indigenous peoples. The result of course is this, the new land of the free and home of the brave, albeit a somewhat  chimeric America, in the minds of some.

At least to the Originals. The original Natives are left with two odd legacys: one; their land was swiped from them and two; they've been made rich by the white-man's guilt; the vice of gambling—some Natives have been knocked down—only to be picked back up.

In those long-ago days life could be a harsh proposition. That meant little choice for most but to go along with the rising tide of the new country. And eat—or be eaten. I hate it that nice guys come in last, but damn it, that's the way it's always been. And it's still the same, children. 

Our '2nd tier' founders' (most notably Jackson), had quite the willingness to use firearms and reverse psychology against sticks and stones and shamanism. No leniency, no mercy. Old Hickory & Co. knew how to outflank.

And as the founders went about creating this new democratic republic, then things such as electing the first black president became possible.  

Since this writing, President Obama rules the roost; that rubs my point in quite nicely, don't you think?

To stir up the muddy waters again: did I mention that Andrew Jackson, aka Indian killer Jackson, was a liberal, a people's democrat? The forerunner of today's democrats? Yes? He was the first one who kept South Carolina from seceding— Old honest Abe couldn't. Isn't that delicious?

Tally ho! Let us continue with the good news/bad news. Then back again. 

A lot of former Indian lands are now in the hands of the state—the new imperialism birthed a former territory and made it into a lean, mean, money making machine! (Taxes:)

--Perhaps more discussion on our current depression, at a later time...-- 

You know how the game is played! The government turns your money into their money! Wait a minute—that's no fun. Realistically though, somebody's got to buy those army boots and feed the ego of those penguins in Washington—it can't all be squeezed out of your little turnip, can it? Who's gonna pay 'dem bills, right?

Jackson 's policy of 'destroy the Indians to save the country' won out in the end, yet everyone knows that the Natives here are Native Americans; they're our Native Americans—the real Natives are real Americans. But what of their culture? It's not around as much as it used to be for certain.

But some remnants of it can be seen by us whiteys as celebrations at certain times of the year. Though, if Jackson had not thrown a rampage—who knows...

Jackson must have known the cruel truth: Natives were used by other governments once. Used against the Westward spread of English/Scotch/German settlers, and he knew they would either kill again on their own, or be coerced into killing by foreign powers.

Not all Natives would do this. But some. Back then, the smart money was on who would be first to turn everything they stood on into white man's land.

So the short answer is that yes, some Indian culture was saved, though what's left can't truly be measured according to yesterday—only a Native is qualified to answer those types of questions. 

Let's look at another angle—undoubtedly some Indians lost their cool and blundered into acts of murder in their dealings with whites—but we all know who had the upper hand as far as blame goes. And I suppose any Native American listening in on this right about now, are probably not liking this discussion.

But things are (and were) what they are: for one thing, the old European kings were greedy gold-grubbing tyrants; it's a safe bet to say they were worse than our very own tyrant, Andrew Jackson—and they lost the real-estate game...

And so, past and beyond all the murders and lies of all the conflicts from all sides, I have the freedom to say these things. And you can't do a  thing about it.

Freedom cuts both ways, duude...

Thank you and have a nice day. 

I do occasionally think about the reduced standing of the Original Peoples and how they as a whole were reduced by genocidal numbers. And I notice every decade or so, a decision of the supreme court in one case or another: the court cases Indians bring against whitey take decades to win because whitey is a naturally dishonest animal.

All we are say-ing! Is give peace a chance! Boom boom [-:) 

Actually, everyone is flawed; it's just that Native Americans don't have a developed lying gene. Too bad.

With my freedom of speech I can sugar-coat. Or put everything down in all its ugliness. (All we are saaa-iing -boom-boom-, is give-peace-a-chance...! (Wink wink, Washington Post :). 

Where was I? Ah, yes, the diversitys! The mag-know-yah blossums on those waam and sultreeee-ee summuh eeeve-nins', back when Bret Butluh used to come 'a cawling...

Wait a minute. I'm Bret Butler...

Fiddle dee-dee! Ah'll nevuh listen to those bad media people agaiaiaiaiaiaiyn!  

Remember the old song, It’s Only A Paper Moon? Written in 1933 by Harold Arlen, the song whimsically describes the ‘blue’ feeling encountered when a soul-mate either leaves, or fails to draw near—physically or emotionally. The song gives voice to a wish that the object of your affection reciprocate—  

Say, its only a paper moon
Sailing over a cardboard sea
But it wouldn't be make-believe
If you believed in me…  

I looked on a world reflected back on itself, bewitched and set askew by the thin slices of a yellow cool moon rolling up and around. Time to pull up the collar, and walk against the bitter winds of late night skepticism, hold the lip steady against those pale cold evenings. 

The singer of this song, let’s call him/her, LoverA, has attained a feeling of unreality because LoverB (the object of the song) does not return LoverA’s attentions. 

It could be that LoverB has jilted LoverA, or simply changed his/her mind; either way, a pink slip has been given out. For that matter, LoverB may never have had the same feelings to begin with, eh? Now, LoverA is suffering a mental disconnect from reality, brought on by feelings of loss.

This decoupling of expectations is what we wish to explore. A lot like watching a railcar couple and then disconnect—not a smooth thing—a jolt, to be sure. The feelings are real though, and the mental outlook mirrors those feelings of loss—

Bad lovey-dovey.

In the song, the allusion is to a make-believe world. Feelings are dropped on the hard floor of reality—broken and lost. In this way, the sensation of rejection and decouplement is produced by the emotions.

This disjointedness will find its way into the thinking process and presto! Perceived loss. The blues is a description of something on the minus side of the emotional number line—the blue end of the feeling spectrum.
 
To sum up this state of affairs: (Here's how it works!) The blue end of the emotional spectrum is reflected over to the one's thinking side: normal awareness is altered into a deficit in one’s outlook.

Since we know that our mental perceptions of the world are in phase with our personal feelings, then such an altered state can be visualized as having the rug pulled out from under our thinking.

In this way, the thought process is turned askew by the emotions—a phase shift if you will. Stormy emotions have shaken the mindset, you reel and shudder on the deck of the good ship Expections... 

The pathology of aperiodic or continuous chemical imbalance? Nah. Only the blues. 

Some time back, I went down to the local critic’s office to register for a critics license and the office happened to be empty—the receptionist was undoubtedly  doing her nails in the back of the store. I waited a few minutes then reached over to ring the bell. As I looked up I saw the sign hanging on the wall over the counter— 

‘No Salesmen or Dogs Allowed ~ Absolutely No Wannabe Critics Needed.’  

I was shocked. Devastated. The floor came up at me—the room swam about. I felt unsteady as a silent scream rose up in my throat—I’m not worthy!

With great effort, I calmed myself and shuffled out the door to get some air. As if in a dream, I walked the long walk home, my car keys keeping company with that rhythmic jingle. The sound mocked me and rang in my ears—“you're rejected, you're rejected you're rejected..." 

The whole world was mocking me... 

After an interminable time I found my way home and stood in front of my door. I noticed it was open. I was not alone.  

If you ever get the blues, you get visitors. From The Movers. 

The ubiquitous mover-guys—they don’t holler or yell, and they don't laugh at you at first. No, not at first. They just point and snicker and talk about you and at first they turn around when you look at them and that's how I found out I had the blues—the mover guys had come to do a job. On me.  

It goes like this—they come in, they pick things up, they leave. With your things. This is the process and it really takes it out of you, brother. 

In hindsight it's necessary, but the pain of its happening obscures the purgative aspects of having unecessary things taken out. While it is happening, there are clouds covering your moon. 

So I got home to see all this stuff going on and I stood there with my mouth open and I sputtered and I gawked and I cried. No, no really. That would be a little over the top, don't you think? Of course the removal process went on and I felt like I was having the hide skinned off me!

Didn't like that. I held clenched fists up and I threatened. I pleaded. I bargained. No deal. When they walk in, they’re  going to do a job on you.
 
So I’m standing there appalled, just standing there in the middle of my own living room watching those mover guys  strolling back and forth past me like I'm yesterdays news and they get bold and one of 'em is occasionally scratching his ass and snickering under his breath and the one in charge, he says, "—yeah—that too."

And he nods at his compatriot who's acutally got the nerve to jack his thumb back at me and he smirks and he says, “Yeah, I guess we'll leave him his health—we don't want him to kick over yet. The grim reaper'll take care of 'im soon enough. But the computer, and the smiley mug—you want me to get them too?"

"That's right—that's the one. Don't forget to pick it up before ya leave. Oh, and by the way, we need to get his peace of mind too. What was that? Ok—don't worry about folding it nice and neat. Just sling it over your shoulder and toss it in the back of the truck. Got it?”
 
In the appointed time, the two carried off the articles. The coffee mugs, the dime novels, the lampshades, old shoes; there was a quarter behind the couch along with various pieces of my belief system... 

My babies! The cherished flotsam and jetsam of a consumed and unrealized life—yes, all of it carted away like an old sack of potatoes. 

I fumed and stood there, gaping at the interlopers, watching as their pace quickened. Then one of them said, "Better hurry if we're going to get Miss Coolidge by 5:00. I don't want to miss that ball game tonight." 

"We've got plenty of time. The game don't start til 7:00."  

Nothing I could do as I pondered the memory of things as  they should 'a been—snatched away! Then there were all the things that I thought could 'a been…dashed to pieces! And the outrage didn't end there. My cherished Lexmark *All In One Printer was tossed out into the front yard, followed by an old photo of a blue ’69 Buick Skylark. It had the electahydramatic transmission, you know... 

Was there an end to the exodus of my sanity? Worlds crumbling!  After an interminable time, the beloved tokens were vanquished into the nether regions, into the bin of dissolution!

As the two of them wound it up, they took a break and started to laugh. First a casual snicker, then rollicking raucous laughter! They knew I was powerless to stop them! 

The Movers. Whadooya gonna do? After a slack-jawed moment of silence, I yelled, “Hey! Stop that!” 

They weren’t moved. Those takers! Hmm. That's bad. So bad. 

My psyche was stripped down to the nub and they left me standing there in the middle of my little world holding my chest and trying to hold on to what remained of my essence with all my might.

I relaxed clenched fists from my eyes and looked around. Only the bare essentials remained. 

They callously turned and eyed me with a mocking sneer, chortling at my emptiness, and a s a parting shot, the second guy looks back at me with that lazy grin and he says, “Thanks pal. Don't forget to call if you need us.” 

They dumped their cigar ashes in front of me and sashayed right out the door, scratching their asses, quite amused at my crestfallen face. Bitter tears marked that day.
 
Yes…I remember it well.
 
That evening was a cold one. I pulled myself up into the fetal position, trying to  sleep on a hard floor with no blanket. In the dark and alone, sniffling and wrapped only in despair. I felt like a circus clown had me by the throat.

Yeah, a circus clown holding me. Me, a rube thrust in the center ring of bad circumstance, the spotlight of despair shining in my face. Yeah, standing there like some rube a cheap suit with a ridiculous grin on my face… 

The Movers are professionals, you know. At one time or another they're going to take everything from everybody. Yes there must be few vacuum bubbles in everyone's life... 

The movers walk in wearing those wrinkled white uniforms—they swagger in like they own the place! They spoil everything, tearing away the precious things of a life, leaving one naked, cold—the psycho-security-blanket covering one's insecurities—snatched away! 

And what about the magic carpet of unrealistic expectations that carries this rider happily through all the years of innocence?—it's rolled up like a drunk on a Saturday night—all the dreams, every hope—picked up like a head of lettuce,  tossed in the back of an old '52 pickup...you’ll never be the same again! 

Memories. Ah yes, those things painfully ripped out by the roots, those things are faded now, faded into the distance of the past. They cry softly into the dim recesses, down yesterday's roads. Ah, the recollections of long ago... 

With clenched fist I lift my head in defiance. I cry, “I’ll get you—you Movers!” 

You c an't blame them really. They do a required job. Indeed, in the larger cosmic sense what they do is considered a service—strangely, it's at the behest of your own subconscious. You are the one compelling you to open those doors... 

Get the evidence? Movers don’t leave calling cards—never have. How could they? The movers are constructs of the mind, yes they are… 

No one to blame but myself. Too bad. Get used to it kid. Dry up! Get on with it. 

After this shock, I spend sleepless nights striving for the good times; the bright sunny days, an edifice of magnificent form—splendorous,  wondrous to behold. Things which were once rich with the promise of glory—now a vapor. 

Ah, the fatness of existence—days filled with the smoke of contentment. Where did it all go? The lights have long since dimmed; the rent-collector is at the door. Oh, that far-away time, those far-flung slopes and hillocks of illusion. 

What happened? What happened indeed. What happened to the happy dissolusion, the starry-eyed illuminations, the lightness and clarity of purpose? My substance is now circumscribed by a band of strong blue light. 

I press my knuckles tightly into my eyes and know what I must… 

The long climb up the painful slopes of recovery begins, as surely it should. With anguish I face the darkness of uncertainty. I look out of the window, I stare at the inscrutable, iridescent blue moon, made more forbidden, more forlorn in the darkness of a deep purple night. It's set against deepening belatedness, its light mocks me—the palest shade of cerulean blue, it pulls me near, drawing my essence into the halls of its siren song, it beckons...

My being melds with my surroundings as the thing moves toward me; it enchants, entices, urges me to meld myself unto it. I reach... 

Holding out my arms, I pull its essence toward me, and it looms large in my consciousness; I reach to embrace the warmth, to embrace the coolness of its yellow light.

But no, the relief is fleeting. I am left holding empty despair. It seems to turn a brighter blue and laughs.

But for a moment...I did see a glimmer...

I squeeze my eyes tightly shut against the unendurable blueness— 

May I stem the tide, might I venture hope? Begin again? In a daze, I wander down the aisles of paperback shelves and one catches my eye—it is Thirteen Moons, by Charles Frazier. I buy it. I read it. Time for a book report. 

We stand in the center of an uncertain house, and become determined to face the world again. As it is. The stars are out, the sky is open! We have a moon to face. 

I pull myself up and begin a reassessment. After all, loss is only the perception of loss, not real anyway—a tiny spark of light, a yellow light, appears in the periphery of my awareness. 

The old maxim: nothing is created; nothing is destroyed—things have  been flip-flopped! Yes things are pretty much the same as they've always been—only shifted a little… 

I may be on the threshold of a new phase. 

I gird my loins and steel myself for the coming journey. Head high, I stride with confident purpose. No looking back. The way is clear; I will shoot that moon, and with it, all those presumptions concerning what is needy, and what is not, what might be, and what might not be. 

And… 

The realization washes over me—I stifle a howl of excitement! (This is hardly civilized.) The primordial scream rises from primitive depths, driven by the artifacts of midnight stories heard round midnight campfires of a hundred years ago... 

Whoo-hoo! 

There. 

But I will not give in to the ignoble impulse, I shall not shake that booty! Such a genuflection would be inappropriate at this juncture...
 
Back in my dwelling I stand against the chasm of cold loneliness, wipe away the tears. The days turn slowly at first, but the nights are still blue, cold. At times I look up through the windows of my thoughts into the silence of night and peer upward upon that moon. Is it full? Is it a wedgie? It is, after all, my moon.
 
Miniature, fleeting; the dime-sized slice begins to turn its shades of yellow against a sky of dark pure blue. It glows at first, small and lonely in the largess of cold night. Sometimes it is generous, more often though, it seems to have learned something new; to give of itself in the thin and pale slices of well-intentioned friendship. 

Tonight, the silver-turning slice is cool; it edges toward a bright wedge of yellowness, certainly not a golden light by any means; it nonetheless gives a warmth of full intentions. It seems to wink, now waving an arm, inviting me into its bashful confidence. It draws, beckoning.

And yet, still inexperienced—it is a moon not fully grown—needful of more time, it must now wait in quiet hope. With patience I reach towards brightness of purpose. 

We shall stand in the center of an uncertain house, yes, determined to face that world again. As it is. Stars are out, the sky is open! We have a moon to face.

But the small yellow disk flees as dawn approaches, its face a wedge of palest yellow now, fading into the faint blue sky, gray has marked its core and it turns slowly back into the dawn sky, receeding into a smaller pinpoint of what it had been only a short time ago—more nights shall have to pass. 

As it waves goodbye, it invites me to return with it; I agree, smiling as a breeze from the early and damp dawn cools my face; the promise to stand here again is reassuring.

Alluring, pleasant and cool to the touch. Cool in the grasp of my thoughts, the small voice, shallow and pale whispers promices of youth. Between it and between me there is only the silent hope of a gentle and far away cloudless sky. 

Where were we? Oh yes. 

In Thirteen Moons, Charles Frazier spins a superb tale of truth within fiction. To me, a class by itself because of Frazier's powers of description. It flows from the pen in unique ways, fashioned in the form of small compact paragraphs. 

There are a couple of authors who can do historical fiction well—John Jakes comes to mind, and The Bastard series is a good one. 

Moons covers the Jacksonian period, up to the turn of the 19th/20th century centering around the plight of Native Americans who managed to escape the forced march known as the ‘trail of tears.’ The main story is set in an area of eastern North Carolina; the people are known as the Eastern Band of Cherokee. During Jackson's removal policy these people were aided in their struggle by the real William Holland Thomas, portrayed in Moons as Will Cooper. 

I’m not qualified to make the larger comparisons between the novel and the actual historical facts—but obviously Frazier did a great deal of research and he manages to keep the parallels between fiction and fact reasonable and realistic. With Thirteen Moons, you are taken there. 

Moons is infused with a genuineness within the 19th century, and Frazier does this simply by focusing on the small things, mainly inanimate objects, then pulling the focus out to people's characteristics, going from fuzzy to sharp, then panning into broader events. Some names and places were changed while maintaining the broad strokes of historical accuracy. 

In Moons, Will Cooper is transformed into flesh and blood, entertaining the story-mind; useful to us as a means of contemplating our past and present. 

Frazier has more skill in walking a reader through vistas of imagery, than any other I can remember. His style is physical and specific. Some authors use large paragraphs of excessive words to paint a scene; Frazier can do the same in half the space, getting across sharper images. 

Thirteen Moons brings the reader into the Euro-centric 19th century, and this is where the historical fiction of Moons shines—Frazier is able to carry it off to within sight and sound of those wooded outposts, and into the land of Cooper's adopted Cherokee. This was a time of an ever-increasing presence of the white man (hey, I'm a white man).

The Cherokee are the only real family Cooper ever knew. An old Cherokee chief by the name of Bear raises Cooper into manhood. The viewpoint is of injustice brought about by the Indian removal campaigns, a large part of ‘manifest destiny.’ 

Let's play hardball and look at the other side: without aggressive, even ruthless methods of stealing and resettling land, would there even be a United States today? No. 

At the time, America stood on its own because it had no choice: this is the existence and soul of today’s United States. America stood up against everyone—Europeans,  Natives, often even ourselves, not to mention other alliances such as Germany/Mexico later on (this was solved by Roosevelt at the turn of the century by an Imperialism of our own. Now, for better or worse, the United States happens to be the world’s policeman and like it or not, the moral compass is held by us because the US is able (for the time being). 

But there is a Karmic payback: police are never popular among a crowd that has lost the ball game. Pax Americana is a pain in the ass and we’re stuck with it—unfortunately, we're a slave to simple economic motives. Isn't there a nice way for a democratic republic to do manifest destiny? 

Native Americans are living on land 'given' to them. We “Americans” circumscribe them. And they must be laughing out of their beaded sleeves at how things have turned out—the United States can never win, no matter how pure the motives, no matter how brave the soldiers, no matter how mean, or nice, any of us may be. We, the people are the child of destiny's manifest child.  

Onward ho! Look! Off the starboard bow—it's Andrew Jackson!
Andrew Jackson: force of nature. Frazier’s portrait of Jackson jives with a bully character who effectively eliminated a great many Natives. It is clear that the author uses the protagonist of Moons to express a clear disliking for Mr. twenty-dollar bill; Cooper is that tool, both literal and political; he is the expression(ism) of anti-Jacksonian(ism).

President Andrew Jackson was indeed a wild man; just compare him to the generally over-weight, wealthy, white Colonial guys who opened the store: he was raised up in the wilds of Injun lands amidst every raw act of violent butchery.

In Moons I would like to have seen more of what shaped this Jackson into the man he became, because to me, this is the mystery that describes the longest standing 'experiment' of our democracy.

But it was obviously not Frazier’s intent to indulge on the why’ s of Jackson’s inner psyche, rather, Frazier concentrates on the what’s and the how’s of the struggle—a simple outward description of Jackson's behavior is all we get. Nonetheless, the short sketches of Jackson are skillfully and humorously drawn: with Frazier's description you feel like you’re there—Jackson is tightly-wound and dangerous: Frazier portrays the ill-tempered President well. I can see him now…

He sits in the center of his office, allowing his prognosticators and quack-doctors to inject him with ego-shots; he sits still and irascibly scowls, but nods occasionally if some point passes his approval; he utters ill-tempered commentary on anything he takes a disliking to. He sits, the center of attention while this room full of sycophants hover round and stroke him; verbally, they genuflect themselves before the great man, stroking his vanity. Jackson was, in many ways, a man of his times. Andrew Jackson’s cellar must have been a scary place.

  
The concrete of our youth was still moist behind the ears when Jackson came in and put his hands into the mold of our foundation: we are the result of that nation so shaped.

We wonder anew—was such an aggressive Indian removal policy really necessary for the survival of the young republic? There were indeed people in those days who strongly disagreed with Jackson, (not least of whom were the members of the Supreme Court). But in the days before anger management classes, Jackson must have been a force too powerful to be reckoned with; he lived out a life sometimes besotted with violence; his flash-tempered synaptic fits have shaped US policy to this day.

 
The duals of today are hypnotic rhetoric; gone (mostly) are the days of gun and knife fights. Death is still real today, only slower: lying corporate giants and politicians and bankers still soak up the  juice by turning your money into their money.   

The deeper whys of 19th century policy-motives weren't uttered on the pages of Moon, but the scenes and scenery, and all sensory chunks—these were; and tasty indeed. One rides along chewing and munching on an assortment of eye and ear candy, treats which spring out of a bygone era; some nature-made, some man-made: all barely out of our grasp only because they existed a hundred and fifty years ago. 

The Cherokee nations (both), are located in both eastern North Carolina and Oklahoma. United States governmental policy on keeping its word concerning treaties, was (and still is), a bucket you wouldn't want to put your hopes in. 

Thirteen Moons reveals Frazier ability to weave fiction and non-fiction together. Simple as that. Interesting details such as: in less than a hundred years after whites settled, many people were mixed blood race, and this percentage was counted scrupulously by US government tax assessors like an accountant counts pennies. Some Natives, perhaps mostly the ‘partial-blooded’ people, ran large plantations, and even kept African Americans as slaves—but most did not. This realism is well demarcated in Moons, it draws well-balanced lines of truth and realism within the confines of fiction—Frazier gives an expansive view of contrasts in adolescent America. 

Cooper has one intellectual nemesis and it is Old Hickory himself. The long arm of Andrew Jackson's policy was a bedeviling thing for the Indian, especially the Cherokee. And Cooper's emotional antagonist, the part-Indian woman Clare, was quite enough to keep him busy. She is a woman who amputates her love from him; completing the triumvirate upon which 13 Moons sails. The haunting of Cooper from Jackson, then Claire—this is a hellish love-hate triad that slowly revolves through the vast expanses of early America. 

Thus the forces animate Cooper—Jackson chases him while at the same time Cooper gives chase to the only woman he will ever love and can't posess—Cooper understands this and live with it. Pursue and be pursued; this is the hell's triad where Cooper finds himself.

Will Cooper is raised and given his moral compass by his adopted Cherokee Father, Bear, who tells him that there are times to mark off events and reasons; these times are marked throughout the year, and back into mysterious years in the past by thirteen phases of the moon. The first person narration of Cooper roams the wilds of a young continent, and the story unfolds about him and historical events harden into today’s reality. Mr. Frazier’s abbreviated epic runs across a supra space of forests and landscapes at a time when most 19th century aboriginals were only vaguely uneasy about the danger to their existence and lifestyle. Like many in the 19th century, Cooper puts his observations down in a journal. 
 
Bear is basically the father Cooper never had—this is one of the plot-bolts that holds Cooper and the Cherokee in symbiosis. The result: a casually simmering cauldron of US policy, its adversity, and Cooper's reaction in maneuvering to keep the lid on. Will Cooper, like the real William Holland Thomas, single handedly out-wits the whites at their own board-game:he buys up land that the whites have stolen from the Cherokee. 

Frazier seems to have a unique ability in painting three dimensional images of solid objects, and bringing them right up under your nose; people long dead saw these things, now you experience them. You appreciate this fast little epic.

The scenes and scenery in 13 Moons are delivered through rain and snow, down flat roads and into mountain passes; into someone's wood and musty smelling home, and across candle-lit grease-covered floors.
 
Frazer knows how to work it: a sharpness of description which is difficult to synthesize. A striking set of impressions reveal themselves as young Cooper moves through the story; they come to life and expand, showing us what comes next. Then the finger of perception moves you to the next short scene; it winds down quickly and builds up again.

 
The reader is hypnotically drawn into a narrowing field of meaning and description, this funnels to a fine point; it could be the smell of leather in rain, perhaps the crunch of last fall's wind-blown leaves; the images hover gently, they move slowly into sharpened contrast.

Then the  reader's  comprehension evaporates as the mind's eye moves up the next hill. We hover up and over and then back down another valley and start again. The rising and diminishing landscapes form themselves and while a buckskin clad Cooper rides atop and through with his plodding horse.
 
Cooper suffers an irrevocable love-loss, and carries this obsession into old age. We understand loss—it is something you and I and many others have gone through—but its effects are problematic when attempting to document the movement of historical figures within an historical time line. Frazier pulls this tool out of his literary kit with skill; he animates Cooper into awareness, broadening, or narrowing the focus as necessary. Cooper’s mission is interspersed with experiences which are poignant and sharp. The mission? To save a remnant of the Cherokee peoples from a trail of tears. 

Yes, the depth of love's loss is skillfully entwined in Cooper's descriptive layers, but I'm picky—I'd like to see more of the deeds as it pertains to President Jackson—the scamp! Loves loss aside, we return to Frazier's skill as a story teller: that of a white man who journeys from Cherokee-raised youth, to sorrow in old age. 

Cooper’s loss haunts him even up into his old age—this deficit in the heart is an heavy aching sea of remorse. Sorrow is a dynamic which has undoubtedly played a part in the life of great historical figures and these moonstruck moments are like peanuts—it's hard to put em down. Then again, why would you want to? But what do I know—usurper that I am! I’m not even published.
In those days, what was the percentage of whites who were hateful to the Indians, and of whites who were sympathetic, even apathetic to Natives? I don’t know; it may be the same as it is today.

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