Tsalagi

So, I'm walking down the road somewhere in Templogue on the outskirts of Dublin city proper when I see an older gentleman having difficulty with his car. He simply didn't have the strength to remove the lugs from the wheel. When he stood up and stretched his back, he caught sight of me and was a bit startled. I easily towered over the man by at least a foot.

"Shall I?" I nodded towards the poor little Peugeot, which had seen better days.

"Oh, well, oh yes, please, that would be lovely." He managed it as though it was nearly one word.

"OK. Uh, would you mind if I used that tire iron you've got in your hand there? I'm not sure I can do without." I smiled.

"Oh well OK yes, emm sorry. Cheers." He handed over the iron.

I tried to make it look difficult. But the task was surprisingly easy on such a small car. I had his puncture sorted within a couple minutes. I cleaned my hands on a rag he had handy, and when I returned it to him he took my hand and looked me in the face. I could see he was quite a bit older than I had first thought. Perhaps in his 80's? Or had the years been hard on this little guy? I almost felt as though I was halfway holding him up.

"Emm, you're an American right? Are you First Nations?" He still had my hand in both of his. If not for his age and inquisitiveness, I would have felt rather uncomfortable.

"Sir? Um, I'm an American Indian, yes. Cherokee. Well, part Cherokee." It was the first time I had heard the term 'First Nations'. I had rather long hair in a pony tail at this time, and could see where his curiosity was founded.

"I've never met me a Cherokee. Em, not any first nations, ever. You're kind are very rare here, so they are. Bless you all."

"That's very kind. Thank you. I hope you have better luck in the future with your Peugeot." I nodded and was about to turn to resume my commute when he finally got over whatever Cherokee spell I put on him and blurted, "Do you drink?". I was afraid he might ask me to pub since I was in a bit of a hurry, and there was no way I could be rude enough to turn down such a invitation. But, I most certainly do drink. "Of course, I'm an Indian, aren't I?" He motioned for me to wait, and quickly disappeared in to his home, almost spritely for his age. Upon his return he produced a small bottle and said, "I've a naggin of Bourbon just collecting dust. I'm sure you could make much better use of it." Well, now I knew what a 'naggin' of Bourbon was(a small bottle - maybe 5 ounces). He put it in my coat pocket, which I assumed was a sign we wouldn't be toasting each other on the sidewalk. We shook hands once again, and I returned to my route.