October 9th in the Year of Our Lord 2024
I’m just gonna come out and say it: the hottest women I have ever seen lived in Wyoming. So did the ugliest ones. But, y’all, I’d see women so beautiful I nearly dropped off applications at the gas stations. There’s no larger point to be made, but I felt like it needed to be said.
Driving through Wyoming this morning, I took a few detours while crossing the Great Plains on dirt roads. On these dirt roads, I passed several people setting up tables or aiming their rifles down the field at an assortment of fruits. The American gun culture is alive and well in this great state, and seeing friendly people smile and wave with one hand while holding a gun in the other swelled my heart with joy. That joy was quickly shattered when I received the most nonsensical speeding ticket of my life. I was driving through a small town where the speed limit was 35, and as I was leaving town, the speed limit changed to 45. So, I sped up to meet the new limit. As I passed the 45-mile-per-hour sign, a black SUV pulled off the side of the road and flashed its lights. Cursing to myself, I pulled off the road, gathered all the information, and rolled down my window. What I saw in the mirror sent shivers down my spine: a short blonde female cop approaching. I made the sign of the cross and recited the Jesus Prayer, “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.” She approached and asked,
“Do you know why I pulled you over today?”
“No.”
“Well, you were speeding.”
“It’s 35 in town, and I saw that it was changing to 45, so I sped up.”
“Yeah, you sped up too quickly and were going 43 in the 35.”
“It’s less than 2 blocks between the signs, and you’re gonna give me a ticket for ‘speeding up too quickly?’”
“Yes, I am,” she said with a smile, as if she was happy to give me the ticket. Knowing it was a female cop and not wanting to risk getting shot, I silenced myself and let her ask her questions. As she walked away to write up the ticket, I steamed, “Sped up too fast? How fast should I speed up?” I decided right then I wasn’t paying this ticket. I’ll give y’all an update on whatever happens later.
After driving away from the psycho female cop (is she psycho because she’s a cop or a woman? I’ll let you decide), I continued on my way to the site of the Battle of Little Bighorn. I knew very little about the battle—only the names of Custer and Crazy Horse—so I downloaded a long podcast series on the topic to know what had led to the battle and hopefully appreciate the site more. I won’t write out my thoughts on the battle because I don’t quite know how I feel about it. The issue of the Indian has always been a tough one for me. On one hand, history moves forward. Stronger civilizations take out weaker ones. And the natives were quite savage with their scalping and barbaric sun dances. I think the tragedy of the natives isn’t in their defeat and conquest; it’s that we will never know what native culture could have evolved into if given enough time or if they would ever evolve from tribal life into an actual civilization.
What adds to the tragedy, to me, is what modern natives have turned to. The idea and praise people give to Indian “religion” isn’t even what the Indians believed; it’s a mishmash of several tribes, customs, and new-age nonsense. I don’t shed a tear for the conquest of America, but I do feel a sadness regarding what might have been if America remained undiscovered for a couple of hundred years. Would one tribe advance above the rest and force the others to pay tribute and adapt to their lifestyle like the Aztecs did in Mexico? We will never know. I am not saddened by what happened; I am sad over what might have been.
As I drove into the parking lot of the battle site, I noticed a field of gravestones, which was an unsettling sight when observed alongside the sounds of children and families laughing while on vacation. The dichotomy of death and family vacations made the sight of the graves even more tragic. Many of the men who died at the Battle of Little Bighorn had no idea they were entering the field where they would be murdered. A lot of them saw it all as a big game, thinking they couldn’t be beaten by savages. As I climbed the hill, I made the sign of the cross and began praying for the souls of all who died there. It’s become a habit of mine to make the sign of the cross and recite the Hail Mary whenever I pass a graveyard. I don’t tell you this to say, “Oh, look at me! I pray; aren’t I pious?” I am a very sinful man who, only through the grace of God and the protection of my incredibly hard-working guardian angel, can resist the temptations to give in to every earthly pleasure that presents itself to me. I bring this up because the souls of the dead need our prayers. Think of the many Protestants going through purgatory who have no family to pray for them. The least you can do is pray the Hail Mary when passing a graveyard.
As I reached the top of the hill, I began to imagine the battle. This was my first time visiting any famous battle site, and it was an interesting experience. On one side of the road, there were shrines and graves dedicated to the American dead, and on the other side were new and, frankly, much nicer shrines to the Indians. Walking both sides and trying to imagine what the battle was like was, well, to repeat the word, interesting. I have yet to fully process my thoughts on the visit, and so I will refrain from comments until I have come to some conclusion.
Driving away, I headed off to South Dakota. Tomorrow, I’m seeing Mount Rushmore.