“Mrs. Chukma tapped him softly on the shoulder and whispered, ‘You need to look.’ Mr. Chukma was about to ask, What is it? but he didn’t get a chance. He heard a growl so loud the kids screamed and Mrs. Chukma screamed and finally Mr. Chukma himself screamed.
“Naloosha Chitto, the big hairy man of Choctaw country, stood right in front of the car.”
“Oh no.”
“That’s right, Turtle Kid, the Big Hairy Man, Naloosha Chitto. That’s what we Choctaws call him. He circled the car, waving a log so big no human could have carried it. But he swung it back and forth, from his shoulder to his palm, slapping it like it was a foot-long ruler, like you have in school.”
By now dozens of cousins had scooted around me, sprawled about on the ground and listening. Uncle Kenneth took a long, deep breath, and when he leaned forward again, the world changed. No longer were we in the backyard of Pasadena, Texas, the Goode backyard of my Choctaw grandmother. No, we were in the dark, deep woods of the Oklahoma Kiamichi Mountains, clinging to each other and praying that the Choctaw Bigfoot, the Naloosha Chitto, would please go away.
“Now, I’m not gonna tell you he smashed the hood of that car so hard he cracked the engine block and they couldn’t drive away. But that’s what happened. And when he finished with the hood, he flung the log at the windshield and glass went scattering everywhere.”
“Oh no!” shouted dozens of cousins.
“Now, I’m not gonna tell you Mr. Chukma and his family lost fingers and eyeballs and noses and ears, with all that glass flying about. ’Cause that’s not what happened. No, they had old Choctaw blankets wrapped around ’em, so they were safe.
“Well, not entirely safe. Mr. Chukma flung open his door and Mrs. Chukma dragged the three kids out of the car, and just in time.
“Naloosha Chitto jumped on the smashed hood and pounded the roof of the car with his log. The Chukmas fled to the woods and hid behind a big boulder. They wrapped one big blanket over themselves and shook and shivered under it.”
“Naloosha Chitto climbed from the car and looked for the Chukmas, didn’t he?” I asked. I was lying on the ground now, with my face buried in the green grass. I whispered so softly not a single blade of grass moved.
“Yes, he did,” said Uncle Kenneth. “He ran across the road and struck everything in his way. He knocked down a tree where a mountain lion slept, but even the mountain lion didn’t want to fight Naloosha Chitto, not at midnight, so he leapt to the ground and ran away. Then everything grew quiet. Real quiet. Strange and quiet, like you never know, living in the city.
“Nothing moved. No birds, not even crickets chirping. Nothing. Naloosha Chitto had scared every living thing in those woods, and he liked it. He knew that when the Chukmas moved, even a tiny little step, he’d hear ’em. So he sat down, pulled out a corncob, and ate a few bites.”
Uncle Kenneth turned to me and asked, “I bet you thought I forgot all about those Bohpoli?” I shook my head no, then lowered my chin to my chest and waited. Like the Chukmas, we all waited.
“Yes, those Bohpoli, the Choctaw little people, they always seem to show up when they’re least expected. And who’s gonna be looking for the funny Bohpoli when Naloosha Chitto is smashing cars and trees and everything in sight? But anyways, they floated above the tree he leaned against.”
“Floated?” I whisper-asked.
“Oh yes, Turtle Kid. They can appear and disappear and time-travel and do anything they want to, those Bohpoli. They floated above him and started making chirping noises, like little birdies. And, oh, did that make Naloosha Chitto mad! He threw his corncob at the birdies, but they kept on chirping.
“So he climbed the tree, dragging his log behind him. Halfway up the tree, thirty feet high—the chirping stopped. He grunted a few times and looked up and down and all around. The Bohpoli started chirping again, on the end of the limb.
“Now, Naloosha Chitto, I don’t care what they tell you, is not no idiot. No, he isn’t. He knew not to climb out on that limb, heavy as he was. But he did scoot a few feet away from the trunk. And he did stretch his log out to the end of the limb. Then he stood up, careful not to lose his balance and fall, and slowly lifted the log over his head, ready to smash those chirpy birdies.
“That’s when they did it, the Bohpoli. They started chirping louder than ever, from the other end of the limb, the trunk side. And Naloosha Chitto was soooo mad, he turned around and smashed the limb he was standing on!
“Now, I’m not gonna tell you he fell forty feet to the ground and knocked himself out, and the Chukmas heard it all and slept peacefully till morning, when they hitched a ride to town and lived happily ever after.”
“Because that’s not what happened, is it, Uncle Kenneth?” I asked.
“No, Turtle Kid. It’s never that simple, not when the Bohpoli are involved.”