The old man (Bunky) Character Analysis

The old man had taught him the value of work early and he was content to labour, finding his satisfaction in farm work and his joy in horses and the untrammelled open of the high country. He'd left school as soon as he was legal. He had no mind for books and out here where he spent the bulk of his free time there was no need for elevated ideas or theories or talk and if he was taciturn he was content in it, hearing symphonies in wind across a ridge and arias in the screech of hawks and eagles, the huff of grizzlies and the pierce of a wolf call against the unblinking eye of the moon. He was Indian.

Truth was, he wanted nothing else because that life was all he'd known and there was a comfort in the idea of farming. He knew the rhythms of it, could feel the arrival of the next thing long before it arrived, and he knew the feel of time around those eighty acres like he knew hunger, thirst, and the feel of coming weather on his skin. Memory for the kid kicked in with the smell of the barn and the old man teaching him to milk and plow and seed and pluck a chicken. His father had drifted in and out of that life randomly[.]

It was the old man who had taught him to set snares, lay a nightline for fish, and read game sign. The old man had given him the land from the time he could remember and showed him how to approach it, honour it, he said, and the kid had sensed the import of those teachings and learned to listen and mimic well. When he was nine he'd gone out alone for the first time. Four days. He'd come back with smoked fish and a small deer and the old man had clapped him on the back and showed him how to dress venison and tan the hide. When he thought of the word father he could only ever imagine the old man.

“Least ways, you got this place and we get out to where it's real as much as can, don't we?"

"Yeah," the kid said. "That's what saves my bacon."

[…]

They'd take horses and cross the field and plod up the ridge and by the time they were down the other side the land became what the old man called "real." To the kid, real meant quiet, open, and free before he learned to call it predictable and knowable. To him, it meant losing schools and rules and distractions and being able to focus and learn and see. To say he loved it was a word beyond him then but he came to know the feeling.

When the slash was made the old man drew a smear of blood with two fingers and turned the kid's face to him with the other hand. He made a pair of lines with the blood on each of his cheeks and another on his chin and a wavy line across his forehead. His face was calm and serious. "Them's your marks," he said.

The kid nodded solemnly. "Because I'm Indian," he said.

"Cuz I'm not," the old man said. "I can't teach you nothing about bein' who you are, Frank. All's I can do is show you to be a good person. A good man. You learn to be a good man, you'll be a good Injun too. Least ways, that's how I figure it works.

"Come here when it got too noisy in my head," he said. "'When the old man got too old for the ride he let me make the trip alone and I got to prefer that. Never was afraid. Never seemed to be a place for fear. When ya come to know a thing ya come to know its feel. I know this place by feel nowadays."

"You're a good man," his father croaked suddenly. "The old man done good turnin' ya loose out here. He know how good ya are out here?"

"He knows."

“I knew what he meant, Frank. I got made better too. But not better enough on accounta when she needed me most I wasn’t there an’ she died cuz of that. I looked at the two of you on that rocker an’ all’s I could do was walk away. All’s I could do was walk away because I guess I come to know right there that some holes get filled when people die. Dirt fills ’em. But other holes, well, ya walk around with them holes in ya forever and there weren’t nothin’ in the world to say about that. Nothin’.”

Watching him now, the kid saw how much of the steadfast old man was a part of him and he slipped into the tack room and retrieved his tool belt and put it on. When the old man’s back was turned he walked over and hefted the next board in his hands and stood there, holding it at the ready. When the old man turned there was only a momentary hesitation, a surprised flick of the eyes and the hint of a grin at the corners of his mouth. Then he took one end of the board and they walked it into place together and nailed it.

“Sometimes when things get taken away from you it feels like there’s a hole at your centre where you can feel the wind blow through, that’s sure […] Me, I always went to where the wind blows.” The old man put a hand on the kid’s shoulder and turned him to face him square on. “Don’t know as I ever got an answer but it always felt better bein’ out there.”

The kid nodded. They looked at each other. The horse neighed softly in the barn and the old man pulled the kid to him and clasped his arms around him and rocked side to side. The kid could smell the oil and grease and tobacco on him and it was every smell he recalled growing up with and he closed his eyes and pulled it all into him.

The old man had taught him the value of work early and he was content to labour, finding his satisfaction in farm work and his joy in horses and the untrammelled open of the high country. He'd left school as soon as he was legal. He had no mind for books and out here where he spent the bulk of his free time there was no need for elevated ideas or theories or talk and if he was taciturn he was content in it, hearing symphonies in wind across a ridge and arias in the screech of hawks and eagles, the huff of grizzlies and the pierce of a wolf call against the unblinking eye of the moon. He was Indian.

Truth was, he wanted nothing else because that life was all he'd known and there was a comfort in the idea of farming. He knew the rhythms of it, could feel the arrival of the next thing long before it arrived, and he knew the feel of time around those eighty acres like he knew hunger, thirst, and the feel of coming weather on his skin. Memory for the kid kicked in with the smell of the barn and the old man teaching him to milk and plow and seed and pluck a chicken. His father had drifted in and out of that life randomly[.]

It was the old man who had taught him to set snares, lay a nightline for fish, and read game sign. The old man had given him the land from the time he could remember and showed him how to approach it, honour it, he said, and the kid had sensed the import of those teachings and learned to listen and mimic well. When he was nine he'd gone out alone for the first time. Four days. He'd come back with smoked fish and a small deer and the old man had clapped him on the back and showed him how to dress venison and tan the hide. When he thought of the word father he could only ever imagine the old man.

“Least ways, you got this place and we get out to where it's real as much as can, don't we?"

"Yeah," the kid said. "That's what saves my bacon."

[…]

They'd take horses and cross the field and plod up the ridge and by the time they were down the other side the land became what the old man called "real." To the kid, real meant quiet, open, and free before he learned to call it predictable and knowable. To him, it meant losing schools and rules and distractions and being able to focus and learn and see. To say he loved it was a word beyond him then but he came to know the feeling.

When the slash was made the old man drew a smear of blood with two fingers and turned the kid's face to him with the other hand. He made a pair of lines with the blood on each of his cheeks and another on his chin and a wavy line across his forehead. His face was calm and serious. "Them's your marks," he said.

The kid nodded solemnly. "Because I'm Indian," he said.

"Cuz I'm not," the old man said. "I can't teach you nothing about bein' who you are, Frank. All's I can do is show you to be a good person. A good man. You learn to be a good man, you'll be a good Injun too. Least ways, that's how I figure it works.

"Come here when it got too noisy in my head," he said. "'When the old man got too old for the ride he let me make the trip alone and I got to prefer that. Never was afraid. Never seemed to be a place for fear. When ya come to know a thing ya come to know its feel. I know this place by feel nowadays."

"You're a good man," his father croaked suddenly. "The old man done good turnin' ya loose out here. He know how good ya are out here?"

"He knows."

“I knew what he meant, Frank. I got made better too. But not better enough on accounta when she needed me most I wasn’t there an’ she died cuz of that. I looked at the two of you on that rocker an’ all’s I could do was walk away. All’s I could do was walk away because I guess I come to know right there that some holes get filled when people die. Dirt fills ’em. But other holes, well, ya walk around with them holes in ya forever and there weren’t nothin’ in the world to say about that. Nothin’.”

Watching him now, the kid saw how much of the steadfast old man was a part of him and he slipped into the tack room and retrieved his tool belt and put it on. When the old man’s back was turned he walked over and hefted the next board in his hands and stood there, holding it at the ready. When the old man turned there was only a momentary hesitation, a surprised flick of the eyes and the hint of a grin at the corners of his mouth. Then he took one end of the board and they walked it into place together and nailed it.

“Sometimes when things get taken away from you it feels like there’s a hole at your centre where you can feel the wind blow through, that’s sure […] Me, I always went to where the wind blows.” The old man put a hand on the kid’s shoulder and turned him to face him square on. “Don’t know as I ever got an answer but it always felt better bein’ out there.”

The kid nodded. They looked at each other. The horse neighed softly in the barn and the old man pulled the kid to him and clasped his arms around him and rocked side to side. The kid could smell the oil and grease and tobacco on him and it was every smell he recalled growing up with and he closed his eyes and pulled it all into him.