Shot By An Indian ... Or Something Like That
“I was riding my horse in the wide open plains. I couldn’t see the Indian, but he must have been behind the large boulders off to the west. He must have just been waiting for hours just for the chance to hit me. And I guess he found it, when he pulled back his bow and shot the arrow. But I did see the arrow flying towards me, but just too late as it came and hit me right in the chest, right next to my heart”
-My great great grandfather, Ted Arrington, would tell my grandfather this story when he was young. But that was not really what happened.
After World War One, a terrible flu epidemic plagued the United States. It killed more people than the war itself. During this time, the life expectancy in the U.S. dropped by twelve years. The flu started with a three-day fever, but soon got more severe. Doctors could not figure out what many Americans had. As time passed, and more lives were taken, they figured out what it was and what was happening. They came to the conclusion that the disease caused victim's lungs to fill up with fluid where they suffocated to death.
My great great grandfather, a cowboy at the time, was unfortunate and got the disease. Luckily for him, they had come up with a cure by the time he got it. During that time, there were no drugs to put you to sleep before an operation, so Ted Arrington laid awake while they cut into him and drained his lungs of the fluid. My grandfather remembers him saying, “I laid awake and saw my own heart beat, to the rhythm of the Star-Spangled Banner.”
After the operation, Ted was left with a huge, ugly scar on his chest. He couldn’t just say that it was from an operation. Instead, he used his job as an advantage and said he got shot by an Indian. In Kansas City, Kansas there were many Indians that had been kicked-out of their homes by Americans expanding west. Some of these problems were still pending after WWI. And whenever my grandfather and his brother asked, my great-great grandfather, would always tell a story, each time a little more exaggerated about how the Indian had come out of nowhere and shot the arrow.
“After I had realized what happened, I grabbed my gun and I shot the Indian, with one hand and one bullet. Meanwhile my other hand was pulling out the arrow and putting pressure on the wound. As soon as I had made sure I had shot the Indian, I jumped on my trusty horse and rode faster than Pecos Bill. When I got home I poured a bottle of whisky on the wound and wrapped it up with an old shirt. Then, I put my cowboy hat back one and got back on the horse to finish the day. ”
My grandfather grew up wanting to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps and become a cowboy on the great open plain. But times changed and the need for cowboys stopped. My grandfather Frank moved out to San Diego. But to this day, he still remembers his father being shot by an Indian.. or something like that.
My great great grandfather, a cowboy at the time, was unfortunate and got the disease. Luckily for him, they had come up with a cure by the time he got it. During that time, there were no drugs to put you to sleep before an operation, so Ted Arrington laid awake while they cut into him and drained his lungs of the fluid. My grandfather remembers him saying, “I laid awake and saw my own heart beat, to the rhythm of the Star-Spangled Banner.”
After the operation, Ted was left with a huge, ugly scar on his chest. He couldn’t just say that it was from an operation. Instead, he used his job as an advantage and said he got shot by an Indian. In Kansas City, Kansas there were many Indians that had been kicked-out of their homes by Americans expanding west. Some of these problems were still pending after WWI. And whenever my grandfather and his brother asked, my great-great grandfather, would always tell a story, each time a little more exaggerated about how the Indian had come out of nowhere and shot the arrow.
“After I had realized what happened, I grabbed my gun and I shot the Indian, with one hand and one bullet. Meanwhile my other hand was pulling out the arrow and putting pressure on the wound. As soon as I had made sure I had shot the Indian, I jumped on my trusty horse and rode faster than Pecos Bill. When I got home I poured a bottle of whisky on the wound and wrapped it up with an old shirt. Then, I put my cowboy hat back one and got back on the horse to finish the day. ”
My grandfather grew up wanting to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps and become a cowboy on the great open plain. But times changed and the need for cowboys stopped. My grandfather Frank moved out to San Diego. But to this day, he still remembers his father being shot by an Indian.. or something like that.