I introduced a new, and quite politically incorrect, character:
The only available parking was in the private spot behind the building, so Dad sandwiched the Cobalt in next to Grandpa's old Ford pickup. “Before you ask again,” he said as we made our way around a parked police car, “You are not adopted.”
“I know, I sent for a blood test.”
Grandpa sat in his normal place, a rocking chair at the entrance to the small shop, surrounded by everything that anyone ever imagined might be connected to the Native American culture. Most of it never was in reality, of course; don't even get me started on the Pocahontas doll and her impossible bustline.
He was talking to a small group of tourists, ignoring the two police officers interviewing another group near the edge of the roadway. “My family was driven by the white man out of North Carolina,” he said in his low, gravely voice, focusing his attention on two small boys who stood shyly beside his parents. “They were sent on the Trail of Tears, by foot, guarded by soldiers and allowed to have nothing but what they could carry on their backs.”
The wide eyed boys nodded. How could they not be fascinated? There sat a Native American, complete with buckskin clothing, moccasins, and a full feather headdress, his deeply tanned skin leathered by time and age. Of course, anyone else could dress the same way, just by ordering off his website.
Rolling his eyes, Dad veered away and went off to talk to the cops. I stuck around because, to tell the truth, I never get tired of the act.
“But a small group of brave families escaped. They crossed the mighty Ohio River and came north, until they found a small community of Mennonite Quakers who were living in peaceful coexistence with nature here, along the banks of Pine Creek.”
I felt my eyebrows rise. Pine Creek? Mennonite Quakers? That was new. But then, the story did tend to change over time, and I'd been too busy to catch up lately.
“The settlers were so taken with the band, and felt so conscience-stricken about the travails they'd gone through, that they not only welcomed the newcomers – they actually renamed their community in their honor. So we've been Indian Ridge ever since, and no meddling lawyer of political correctness is going to change that!”
“Yay!” the boys shouted.
Behind us, voices were rising. Had Grandpa encountered another amateur historian who had actually researched the Cherokee? Or worse, a professional historian? CNN could arrive any moment; thanks to me, they were probably already in town.
This is just the rough draft, of course; nanowrimo doesn't allow for a great deal of revision on the fly. Meanwhile, I can assure you there's more to Grandpa Quinn than meets the eye ...