The man is 42-years-old and gets the same kind of stares when he walks down the street that today's Hippies get - stark astonishment and disbelief.

   His skin is a rich sun-brown and his dark brown eyes look out from a strong featured face; the kind you don't forget.  His black hair brushes his shoulders.

   Pop is a professional Indian.

   Really, all kidding aside, my dad, an Elizabeth City native, is the owner and director of the Skicoak Living Museum of the American Indian in Virginia Beach, Virginia.

   Everyday, he puts on the native attire of the Algonquin Indian nation and shows, by demonstration, how the American Indian lived and worked in North America before and after the coming of the white man.

  Grade school children make up the greater part of his lecture audience and have yet to leave without begging to return.

   Doug Waldorf, as he is known to his hometown friends - Wally Douglas to the world of broadcasting - now is known as Wero Mamanatowick to many school age children in the Tidewater area.

   Tourists from as far away as England and France have visited the outdoor museum while vacationing in the United States.

   Having lived with the guy for 18 of 21 years, I've seen the culture of the American Indian become a part of not only his, but all of the family's lives.

   When friends came over, they would walk into a living room full of Indian-oriented decor.

   Pictures, bows and spears, feathered headpieces and painted deerskins, and - believe it or not - scalps, adorned the walls.

   One whole bookcase is filled with literature on the subject and the attic is full of skins, salted and waiting to be pickled and tanned.

   All this was before he really got interested.

   While in school, the authorities complained about the length of my hair; told me to bring my father to school so they could talk to him.

   He came, they talked (I never gave them any trouble about it anyway) but after they saw him, they never said another word to me.  They still refuse to believe it.

   Life now is almost dull after living and working with a professional Indian. We rode horses together, entertained folks with demonstrations of expert knifethrowing, sharpshooting, archery, and whip-cracking (the latter involving perfect aim and a steady hand or else yours truly would wind up with a very sore hand or lip, depending on where I held the target.)  We camped, hunted, and worked in the Boy Scouts, an experience which we both have never regretted -- it was in scouts that the first touch with Indian culture came. Now it is a way of life.

   Professional Indian-wise, that is.