Custer Must Die

Somewhere in the general melee we lost our imaginary horses, their ghostly neighing adds pathos to this momentous moment. It was decided, we boys, and one sister of a boy we hardly knew, that Custer must die, the Indians win, there could be no sudden victories plucked from certain disaster. We have no Indians, one bow with a rubber-tipped arrow does not make a gathering of the tribes. We have no Custer, three fair haired kids, no long flowing hair no mustaches. Undaunted we march on to meet an anonymous death, lip-bugles tooting, makeshift flags flying. At the site of our coming glory, it was disheartening to discover, bull dozers, tractors, and iron-toothed diggers tearing up the hallowed ground. Jim (my best pal), loudly proclaimed: " it," to no one in particular, then sloped away, hands in pockets. We had heard of this common oath of course, but none of us were old enough to pull that salty phrase out of nowhere with such aplomb. Now in my elder days, I like to envision, Custer and Chief Sitting Bull, smoking a little weed agreeably together, jointly deciding to call the whole thing off.