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When I was twenty I worked at a hotel in Carmel, California, and was fortunate to have a free room in what was referred to as "The Annex”--a dilapidated two story roominghouse across the street from the hotel, which was about four blocks from one of the most beautiful beaches in the world. The Annex was comprised of about ten rooms of various sizes and configuration, but all of which had a toilet and either a shower or a bath tub. I really dug my funky room on the ground floor.  It was all I needed. My back door opened into a private yard overgrown and unkempt, and it was a joy to me.

One morning before work, I went into the backyard as I was in the habit of doing,  just to enjoy the morning and smell the ocean mixed with the various long-neglected trees and shrubs that filled my private space. To my surprise, in the most remote corner, I found a cigar store Indian! I recognized it as the one from the Monterey wharf, and I assumed that the neighbor’s teenage sons had stolen it and tossed it over the fence. I called the police, and a patrolman showed up in a few minutes and the two of us managed to lift it and carry it to the patrol car and put it in the trunk. I was never questioned about it afterwards, nor do I know whether the police, who at that time was very lenient with respect to teenage crime, brought the thieves to justice.

The most memorable part of the experience, and for some reason it seemed like a dramatic way to impress it upon me, was the inscription on the brass plaque on the front of the statue. It read: “Don’t criticize you neighbor until you have walked a mile in his moccasins.”

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