That’s what Ernie used to call himself all the time…  “Trust me,” he’d proclaim, taking a good swig off of his Bud Lite that was tightly nestled in a plastic coffee mug so he could hold it himself. “I’m your faithful Indian guide!”

He would usually announce this when we were driving around somewhere, lost beyond all recognition from his cattywampus directions. Luckily we were kindred spirits of sorts and both of us saw it as more of an opportunity for an adventure. We got lost in a lot of places together–in Billings on our way to one of his gallery openings, out in the woods many a time, and sometimes even on our way to the store. I guess we got lost pretty much any time we would get into the car and drive further than five miles. And every time Ernie would lead the way, cheerfully announcing, “Trust me, I’m your faithful Indian guide!”

I sure miss him sometimes.

Ernie really was my faithful Indian guide in a lot of ways–he taught me how to ride a horse, taught me how to punch a man clean in the jaw so hard it would knock him off balance, and as promised, he taught me how to be a good mother.

Last night I was putting our little guy down after one of the funnest days we’ve had in a long time. As most of you mamas know, bedtime is not always a quick and easy process when you’re dealing with an exhuberant toddler.  That was often the case with getting Ernie ready for bed too.  Being quadrapalegic, he of course needed help with the whole bedtime process:  tending to wounds and sores, basic hygeine, and getting into bed.  Generally it would take between two to four hours, depending on how things were going that night.

Always a man of good humor, he would joke about how he was training me to be a good mother.  And you know what?  He was right.

My faithful Indian guide may not have had the most accurate sense of direction, but he certainly was right about a lot of things that are far more important.  He taught me to laugh in the face of time and honor each process as it unfolds.  He taught me that patience and respect are far more important that riches and fame.  And this crazy old cowboy, Ernest Polite Pepion, taught me how to how to treat a tiny little boy that he’d never met with compassion, kindness, and humor even when I’m too tired to be compassionate or kind and think there’s no more humor to be found.

I’d put Ernie far above Tonto on the list of faithful Indian guides.  That’s for sure.

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