A Farewell to the Friend Who Saved Me

With Henry McCabe. 2017.

Last week, I said goodbye to my closest childhood friend, Henry McCabe. It would be difficult to overstate how much he meant to me. We met on the Navajo Indian Reservation, the day after my father abandoned my mom in Gallup, New Mexico, leaving her homeless. The Crow kids had changed schools four times in six years, often in the middle of the year, and this time was no different.

Dad moved us to a part of Fort Defiance where outsiders weren’t welcome. The local kids looked at us like we’d come from another planet. One of them threw a rock at me when I tried to introduce myself. Packs of wild, half-starved dogs roamed the area, and more than once, they tore through my jeans, leaving scabs that took weeks to heal.

We lived in what could barely be called a house—more a shack, really—with asbestos hanging from the ceiling and cracks in the wall you could stick your finger through.

The walk to school was brutal. Kids jumped my brother and me, knocked us down, and punched us. When I finally found my homeroom, the Navajo students turned their eyes away as if I didn’t belong. I didn’t blame them—I wasn’t sure I did either.

Then Henry McCabe walked over, held out his hand, and asked my name. When I said “Crow,” he smiled and said, “You are Gaagi”—the Navajo word for “crow.” He introduced me to his friends in class and sat with me at lunch.

One afternoon soon after, four kids shoved me to the ground, hitting and kicking me. Henry walked over. “Leave Gaagi alone,” he said. They stopped immediately and walked away.

It wasn’t long before my classmates started calling me Gaagi too. That’s when I knew I belonged. That one word changed everything.

Henry had a wicked sense of humor. We shared a love for pranks and inside jokes, and more often than not, he was my unindicted coconspirator.

Jim Fredenberg.

It was because of him that I formed lifelong friendships—with Jim Fredenberg of the Menominee Nation and with Richard Kontz and his family.

The McCabe family welcomed me as one of their own. Henry’s parents invited me on weekend outings and let me stay over at their house. His brother Eldon and sister Carol treated me like a long-lost sibling.

Henry went on to achieve great success. He became a respected coal-mining executive for Chevron, a civic leader on the Navajo Nation, and a tribal counselor on uranium mining claims. He was also a cowboy, a rodeo performer, a devoted husband, father, uncle, and a loving grandfather. His life was full—rich with accomplishment, service, and family. I just wish it had lasted many more decades.

Though fate took us on different paths, we stayed in touch, and I visited him on the reservation whenever I could. Every time we saw each other, it felt like we’d never been apart. For the first five minutes, we’d laugh and reminisce about the adventures and joy of our childhood.

I hope he knew just how much he meant to me. I believe he did.

Rest in peace, my Navajo brother. Gaagi will never forget you.