Apache Dancer with Large Obsidian Blade

Harwood: Distant relative of Cochese. With large blade or sword.


My Time In Heaven. Ray Harwood Part 1
I see the past summers through a fish bowl dream-like fog. Swirling little dust devils swirling dry leaves and light tan dirt particles around and round. I had a great journey in life with many good friends. Like all of us I had triumphs and tragedies. Wonderful baseball games in the neighborhood street, football on Kenny’s lawn next door. We found a baby tortoise on the lawn and played British Bulldog with Robert and Ted. Burning tinny plastic soldiers with extremely fulfilling passed time, napalm drips from a flaming Hot Wheels tr

ack provided hours of quality entertainment.

Why Kenny and I got involved I “doing Nelsons” I will never know. Doing Nelsons involved sneaking through the darkness of Haines Street down to the second house from the eastern corner and pressing our faces in contorted figure onto there clean well lighted kitchen glass and snorting like pigs. “Run Kenny here they come!” and under Mr. Dean’s V.W. Bug. Then if it was a good fall night it was leaves of many colors through the mailbox into the living room entry way. One night Greg Nelson came over to my house
To sleep over and Kenny and I played Three Stooges on him all night- he was Curly and we were Moe, what the hell were we thinking, he was probably scarred physiologically for life!

There was that time we were throwing paper airplanes at cars passing in the night; Claude got the idea to light one on fire and through it. Next thing you know the night was alive with flaming paper air ships. Then the roar of a supped up GTO and into the grille went a blazing vision of fear, screeching brakes loud words I had never heard, it was a blur of side walk cracks and street light until I dove under Mr. Deans V.W. I don’t know where the others ended up, but Kenny ran into the house of our arch nemesis “Melody Do-Pot”. He ran right in like it was his own little sanctuary. I saw these large stomping boots, ankles down; back and forth through Mr. Dean’s drive way.

The morning walk to Lemay Street School was an adventure in itself. Our mascot was “Snozzola” . Aw Snozzola’ I have such fond memories of him. I have searched for decades for a facsimile thereof of Snozzola , but to no avail – he is lost to the ages. Snozola took turns sleeping over at the various neighbors’ homes and most of us had little Kleenex box beds set up for him. I was the lucky one, the actual owner of the holly “Snoz” . Snozzola . Mrs. Sinko had been giving out Robert’s old toys and I got Snozzla, I can remember Robert in our back yard playing with Ted with Snozzola. Snozzola was about the size and shape of a baseball, he was light olive green with gold eyes on raised antenna, He had pressing in swirls on his back to look like hair with a dog shaped tail. Snozzola’s feet were one large suction cup; he could stick to the wall while we were splashing about in the tub. Snoz would look on while we put little tablets in the back of those little self propelling scuba divers and watched them swim around. On the way to school Snoz would give us orders, “step on a crack you’ll brake your mama’s back or you got to kiss “Melody Do- Pot” . Snoz was always under attack, Jerry Zellidon , better known as “Pig Face” , alonf with fellow Haynes Street bully Jimmy Wilson, would set up an Ambush from an otherwise inert looking trashcan trying to gain Ownership of Snoz.
My fist exposure to flintknapping was on a deer hunt with pop. It was a cold September morning, the dark of night was
still well upon us, my ghetto feet were burning from the cold within
my boots, a flash of light and thunderous roar, and my fathers voice,
not a voice that was heard unless good cause was about. Good cause
was about, a large buck lie there in the Monache sand. There in the
damp sand I witnessed something that has transpired a million times
here, the sounding of men butchering game. The crushing sound and
smell of sage, the smell of fresh blood and the broken sound of
morning. " See son this is the way your granddad showed me", a shiny
stone flake graced the enormous palm. This was the start of my
flintknapping obsession. This probably to gain respect from my
father, a hunter and warrior, W.W.II Vet descendant from an Apache
war chief. I knapped flint ever since, joined the Army, went to
college, hunted, fished had sons of my own. I published hundreds of
articles, became a Karate champion (1982), and a bluegrass banjo
State runner up (1974). I never did gain his respect, but there, just
before his final journey he told me he was proud of me. If he had
said that earlier I would never have done all these empty
accomplishments: The World Flintknapping Society, Martial Arts
Tournament Society, Fig-Ficus Society, Flintknapping Digest (1984) ,
Arrowhead Types of California (1985), C.S.U.N Knap-in (1983),
California Flintknapping Rendezvous (1984-1989) . It was my drive for
acceptance from my father that made me do it, something , like most
men, I never got. But like Hendrix said "I still got my Guitar" , In
my case, my knapping kit. Here is a look at knapping from my world,
enjoy!