We were somewhere in Arizona when my dad decided to pull into the teepee motel. That night, my brother and I were brave little Indians roughing the plains in our air conditioned teepee. We stayed up late eating pecan logs, drinking grape soda and watched the movie She Wore A Yellow Ribbon on the motel TV. That was the first time I remember rooting for the Indians. After all, we now had the common bond of the teepee.