Part Three
If you have read “The Cotton Belt,” and “Colored and White”
And liked it, you’ll enjoy:
“Alabama
Pitch Darkness
(From Ozark , Alabama
To old Josh, the loudness
of the gun shot started in his inners, and passed on through his chest,
shoulders, neck, head and hammered inside his eardrums—blew wind like echoes
from ear to ear, then it came back down to his shoulder bone, shocked his sense
to a near frenzy, frozen state, the smoke from the barrow, tasted like sulfur,
it had dissolved into his tongue, whirled into his lungs, he coughed twice to
let it out, clashing against the empty spaces in his heart, or so it appeared.
The shot had stunned him—!
Silas, old Josh’s boy couldn’t run, he
hadn’t expected that, it had just happened, he told himself: consequently he
too was staggered. He had shot the shotgun, at a rabbit, killed it, shredded
it; the shot was right next to his father’s ear, which just occurred to him
after the fact.
“Youall done hit a rabbit, git on down
dhere and clean it up boy!” Shouted Josh, unknowing just how loud he was talking,
shouting—now closing his eyes to regain his equilibrium: counting slowly as not
to lose his temper, “Wes out shooting quall not rabbit boy,” he exclaimed.
Silas laid the shotgun down in the tall
weeds on a log by a bush—his father still shaking, the echo domed inside his
brain and eardrums, as Silas placed the dead rabbit (what was left of it) into a sack to be burnt later on, according
to his father’s wishes.
It was a quiet meadow, little used for
hunting anything, and never for sport. A shortcut for the most part between the
three plantations: the Hightower’s, the Stanley’s and the Barchans, and across
the Old Ozark Road, was another plantation, once owned by the Abernathy family,
now moved onto North Carolina. Several miles away were Old Shantytown, a Civil
War town-let, and seventeen miles away was Ozark, township: Goose Creek
Josh Washington Jefferson near sixty,
lived in a shanty on the Hightower plantation, with his two sons the elder one
being Silas by two years, and the younger being Jordon; it was mid-afternoon
when Josh and Silas reached their shanty. He drew water from the outside well,
washed his face and hands. They both had more soot and soil than usual; Silas
went into barn and cleaned the shotgun carefully.
Why Old Josh wanted the rabbit burnt
could not have been said, at that time, or even guessed, I suppose, but
immediate afterwards he built a fire outside, he picked up what was left of the
hide of the rabbit, carried it to the faire, blood still dripping, and dropped
it in. He had firewood in the back of the shanty—used that.
Inside the shanty, Josh had put a log
into the hearth, built a fire, cooked the few quails he had shot, before Silas
had charred his brain, and cooked supper. Jordon was down in the city proper of
Ozark, where he worked part-time, for Mr. Hobby, who owned a store of goods, an
assortment of just about everything, everybody might need in town or on the
nearby plantations. He often slept there overnight, in the back room on a
wooden pallet, with a blanket, if not, the floor.
It was dark; Josh noticed the fire went
out, burnt out completely, outside where the rabbit had been thrown into; the
rabbit burnt to smithereens, all but dust and charcoal like debris. He stood in
the darkness. His mind was empty for the most part; save the moment of the
shotgun blast was still fresh. He just stood there, Silas asleep in the shanty.
From afar, he could hear the wolves howling, in the woods. A pack of wolves
running alongside its edge: perhaps cat-hunting, or coon-hunting, or
human-hunting, or just making sure no one was who they didn’t want on their
turf, was on their turf: who’s to say? ‘They be havin’ nothin’ else to do in
dheir lives, it be heredity so they do what day do best, hunting…” so he told
his sons more than once.
He actually knew the voices of he
wolves, by sound. He once told Silas: “…it be no different after sixty-years of
listening to wolves, I reckon you gits to know them like you gits to know a
horses voice.” Inseparable, old Josh
was: inseparable with his surroundings, nature, especially with the lean
savagery of his day.
“You kill to eat, not to mangle or
sport,” he talked to God, told God, as if he was not proud of what his son had
done. As if he needed vindication. It
had to do with a senseless death, and all things are cleanse by blood and fire.
So he believed.
He did not believe God moved in long,
irrevocable distances from man. To the contrary, he believed God could be at an
approachable distance to man at a moments notice—; so he stood there listening
to the wind, and it came at unmeasured intervals, as if God was whistling,
happy in the Alabama
Now in the silence, he could hear the
grunts of frogs in the meadow grasses, a few might have made their way he
figured from Goose Creek all the way down here, to the Hightower plantation,
leaving their slime and creepy mud-hole, for a treacherous journey, apparently
to seek out the cool Alabama darkness, --for some odd reason, wanting earth
more than water: if only he could catch a few in the morning, he’d have his
lunch made, he presupposed: no more than a fleeting thought. He recalled: the
many times during his youth, he was ankle-deep in mud, in Goose Creek
He dare not stand too long outside, he
pondered, lest the wolves get his scent, and he, himself, get the dim phosphorescent
glare of their eyes, that would never vanish, until his death.
He whipped his hands on his pants,
buttoned up his shirt some, walked back into the shanty, dragging his large
feet, like two big logs. His muscle’s knotted a bit from his long stressful
day. He was a large black man, full of bulk, moved slow, found his bed, tumbled
his body onto the two boards held up by two hollow stumps, a feathered pillow
at one end, a blanket at the other, rolled up. He slipped the blanket tight
around his body, feeling around to make sure there were no obstructions, where
upon he fell suddenly beneath all dreams, down into darkness as if dangling on
a rope, dead. His large nostrils wide and deep, sucking in the air to keep his
heart pumping; he was no longer aware of the crackling sounds of the old
shanty. He hung one hand over the edge,
his fingers touching the wooden floor.
Outside eyes glaring at the sky, the
moon, the shanty; the eyes sat there for a long while—yellowish; then leaned
against the window of the shanty, where beyond that, was old Josh sleeping, he
had never been so tired. If only he could have seen those eyes, but he went on
sleeping. Eyes that searched the whole of the square window, sniffed his scent,
smelt the blood of the rabbit that was left on the ground. Perhaps instinct
telling him, wait, he’ll be comfortable, and have to use the outhouse sooner or
later. Thus, the sly wolf waited and waited and waited: despondently, timorous,
profound, hopeful.
#989 (5-4-2013)
The Watermelon
Picker
Preb Peck
(Watermelon
Picker)
Old Josh walked right through
the living room without stopping. Emma, Mrs. Hightower’s daughter, only
daughter, says, “Pa’s in the dinning room, ef-in you are looking for him, Josh
Jefferson!” But old Josh was so mad he
didn’t stop, nor had he knocked on the door, like slaves were commanded to do,
and come in through the back kitchen door. Charles Hightower was talking to Mr.
Hobby about renting out Jordon, for the summer, complete, for his
twenty-percent discount at the Hobby Store down in Ozark.
“How much notice do you need before
planting and picking?” Mr. Hobby said to
Charles, and before he could answer, Josh came in.
“I’m quitting,” he said. “Will one hour
be good enough notice?”
Charles Hightower looked at Josh,
frog-eyed, amazed at his gumption, but then Josh had been with old man
Hightower since he was ten-years old, a slave per near all his life.
“Isn’t our plantation good enough for
you anymore?” said Charles Hightower (knowing
good and well, when Old Josh, some fifteen-years younger than Charles, when
something got is goat, well it had to come out at the tail end—the sooner the
better, like it or not. Mr. Hobby was always surprised with the patience,
Charles had with Josh).
“Charles,” said Mr. Hobby, “Youall goin’
to let a nigger talks to you like that.”
He had his hand on the long wooden
table, put back the long cigar back into
his mouth, puffing away; he had a large gold ring on his finger that sparkled
when he moved it, a red stone in the middle of it.
“You’ve been with us a long time Josh,
what’s on you’re mind and show some respect!” said Charles. Old Josh, didn’t
know how to apologize, he simply nodded his head up and down without moving his
neck on iota.
“Not long enough,” said Mr. Hobby,
looking hot-eyed at Josh as if he wanted to whip him good, “I means, long
enough to learn what a nigger’s door is in the back, where the kitchen is, not
the front.”
“Well, actually Mr. Hobby, Josh is been
pretty good, he’s kept his temper down going on three weeks now, and that’s
turning out to be a record,” they both laughed.
Usually Mr. Hobby would shake hands, but he’d not with Josh, although
his son Jordon was a good worker, and he didn’t want to arouse Charles, thus he
sat there without moving.
The trouble was, Old Josh for going on
fifty-years had hardly ever left the Hightower plantation, and he had never
learned how to be polite with white folk or black folks, and Charles knew that.
He knew how it was in the old days, with the town full of blacks, now it was
full of Union uniforms, and Confederate uniforms—black and whites walking on
the same side of the street, the Civil War had been going on for three years
now, and help was scarce, as was everything else. As far as plantation life
went, life was pretty dull in appearance, nothing to do but lay around and lie
your head at night on the grass when planting time or picking time was over,
play poker, pick ticks out of your navel or hair, plunge into bed, that was Old
Josh’s life anyhow, nowadays.
There was a fellow named Preb Peck (a watermelon picker by trade), from down deep in the thickets of North
Carolina, up visiting the Ghost, the old man that lived in the last Shanty
behind the carrel, which was behind Old Josh’s shanty, which was behind
Charles’ mansion; he was a second cousin, or something on that order to the
Ghost. He had been visiting the Ghost going on three weeks now, living in a
covered wagon, daily asking for this and that from Old Josh, or his son Silas,
and to be frank he wasn’t in any rush to move on. He even bothered the cook,
Granny Mae Walsh, made fun of those big floppy ears of her, and called her the
winner of the Blue Ribbon at the Shantytown fair for the biggest ears in Alabama
“I had done gotten tired to talk to him
to leave,” said Josh to Charles, “but he be insisting he stay, what’s the use?”
Charles had Granny Mae go fetch Preb
Peck.
“When are you going to be moving on Mr.
Peck?” asked Charles, Mr. Hobby amazed on how he was diplomatically handling
things, yet he knew the Civil War would be over someday, soon perhaps, and the
blacks would be getting their freedoms, perchance he was smart in this manner.
“I heard dat ole nigger talking ‘bout me
way down in my wagon, when I be sleeping, he ant but a rat” Preb told old Mr.
Hightower.
“You didn’t answer the question Preb,”
said Charles.
“But my cousin he been backing here on
this plantation in de ole fields doing your daddy’s work. De Ghost, he says he
was walkin’ long tendin’ to your-all business for some fifty-years, when he
come out of de swamps, crawling out with your daddy’s help, and work for ole
Shep Hightower tell you be born.”
“Well that beats me,” said Mr. Hobby, “a
nigger complaining, wanting someone else’s rights…” but said no more, lest the
percentage would be against him, and he lose Jordon for three months work. But
old Josh was insisting he be thrown off the plantation.
Preb Peck was a free black man with
papers, and in a way Josh envied him. He was one of those quiet-looking
birds—until you let him nest in your backyard, then he was a bothersome
rooster. Mr. Hightower got thinking of this matter. Knowing old Granny Mae was
single, and older than Josh by ten-years, and perhaps older than Peck by
fifteen, said: “Marry Granny Mae, and you can stay on the plantation the rest
of your life, you know she’s passionate for you, a good-looking woman, and
she’s a good catch, especially during these hard times.”
Well, Granny Mae was not any of that,
but she was passionate, and her shape wasn’t all that bad for an old duck, but
such expectation was way to high for Preb or perhaps for anyone on the
plantation, or even the four plantations in the area, he had thrown a long dark
snake into the pot, figuratively speaking, and Preb stood there like a plucked
ostrich.
“I’d rather be with the wolf out yonder
there than with Mae, sho’ ‘nough with de
wolf… I ain’ partic’lar ‘bout women but, Mae and those ears, hell, I be leaving
in the morning, ef-in you dont mind…”
And he walked out of the back door
talking to his self.
Now Josh looked at Mr. Hightower with
that wide, dumb, blank, innocent look.
“You satisfied, Josh?” questioned
Charles.
“I hope he dont git de-date wrong?”
answered Josh, and Charles just smile, as Josh walked out the front door the way
he came in, simply to annoy Mr. Hobby.
#990 (5-5-2013)
Legend of the Gold
P ick Ritt, Owner of the
Ozark National Bank, Ozark Alabama
For a hundred years or
more the road from Shantytown to Ozark had been marked by wheels and weeds and
roots and hoofs, that now the old groves could withstand rain and snow, wind
and hale and whatever weather God gave Alabama Shantytown Cemetery
Anyhow, that was all that was left of
them until God’s judgment day, when soul and body would be resurrected as the
Good Book reads, but there remained still the “Legend of the Gold,” which some
old Revolutionary band of soldiers in 1775, were said to have buried,
somewhere, someplace in the thickets. Hence, for near going on eighty-years:
generation after generation, of sons and grandsons and cousins and nephews,
aunts and uncles, were all looking, larking, searching like hound dogs through
the undergrowth, digging out and up and around old foundations, even some
digging up old graves, quietly digging up old graves in the middle of the
night, with only moon and stars for light, and more of than not, in the pitch
darkness, adjusting their eyes as need be—barefoot, time and again, trying to
find that gold, supposedly weighed more than Pick Ritt himself, the Banker in
Ozark, son to old Albert Ritt, long gone.
The only one that never took noticed, or
better put, paid any attention to the on going gossip of the legend was Albert
Ritt, and for the most part, his son, Pick.
The old Ghost, whom they say was
one-hundred and three years old, had told Josh, who told Mr. Hightower, and
perhaps Hightower told his old drinking friends down at Mr. Hobby’s store, or
perhaps it was in Mr. Yancy Yankcavick’s stables, who’s to say where the
hearsay came from, although we know it came from Josh to Hightower, “Da Ghost
one day done told me he say he saw
Albert Ritt in the thickets, digging here and there,” said Old Josh, “digging
alone. Spading the earth by da ole dilapidated ruins where da ole Norwegians
lived. He be digging with flagging fury, he done told me, and even gave da old
Ghost a gold piece, big as a silver dollar. He say: ‘You-all keep quiet in what
you-all see, lest I bury you out here, by and by, with da rest of the trash.’
But he didn’t see anything, he just hear da harsh whisper, of Albert ef-in you
knows what I mean. And he gives him a gold piece, and then came overnight da
Ozark Bank, and da town folks thinkin’ little among themselves of it, as ef-in
he borrowed the money from a rich relative down
Birmingham way.”
#991 (5-5-2013)
The Secret
Place
Josh reached home. He
was tired. He had been down at Goose
Creek
“Josh,” called Charles Hightower, “come
a little closer to the light,” he added standing on the back steps that lead
into the kitchen, Granny Mae Walsh behind him—pulling her hair over her long
ears as if pretending to be grooming herself.
“I can hear you from here, Mr.
Hightower,” he was by the carrel—Charles approached Josh, who had been working
those same fields going on fifty-years—take or give one or two, although the
last ten he hadn’t done all that much, his boy Silas, that really wasn’t a boy
anymore, was doing his father’s share, plus his.
Josh didn’t do, not that he couldn’t do,
he just didn’t care to do anymore plantation work, anymore than he had to;
anything more than fishing was too much work for him, and drinking Granny Mae’s
homemade corn whiskey, was his second best pastime.
“Didn’t I ask you to repair the fence
last week? Charles asked, “and fix the toilet seat in our outhouse a day or two
ago?”
“Yesum, you sure did, but Silas he be
gittin’ to it shortly,” commented Josh, “he been whar you told him to be,
messin’ round up in de hayloft, gittn’ whatever you done told him to git, or
do, he be shortly plantin’ too, soon, fo’ youall.”
But it wasn’t that, that annoyed
Hightower, it was Josh’s laziness that was unbecoming.
“Josh,” said Hightower, with a stern
voice, “You don’t pay no taxes, you don’t even repair fences, nor fertilize or
dig ditches anymore, how can you let Silas and Jordon do all the work for you?”
trying to shame him into working.
“You knows, Mr. Hightower,” Josh went on
to say with his impenetrable voice, “You aint the man you used to be either,
and I aint the Nigger which I used to be, but nigger or not—” and he stopped to
catch his breath, stumbling, motionless in the now half-dark, with a stupid
look on his face, he said: in a voice next to flat, emotionless, “Your boy be
frighten in the war against the Union,
like you fought in that 1812 War.”
“What?” said Hightower, his temper
rising.
“You got better sense to go fight a war
at your age, because you know good and well, what it do to you.”
Now Josh started backing a little, he
could imagine the violent grind of Hightower’s teeth. “Yes,” said Charles. Josh
waited until he was finished to move, “I reckon you don’t need me anymore than
I need you anymore,” he said, “Go on to bed Josh, I know Silas and Jordon will
be planting by next week, that’s good enough I guess, as long as the work gets
done.”
He knew Josh would be back tomorrow at
his secret fishing spot, like an old hunting dog, sniffing for his fish. He
also knew he’d be looking for his jug he hid under his shanty’s wooden steps,
in about ten-minutes. Maybe he’d even join him for a sip: so he pondered
walking towards the shanty, it helped take the edge and the chill of the war,
out of his bones.
#992 (-5-5-2013)
The Antebellum South (1840s & 1850s)
Charles Hightower’s Story Telling
(The 1812 War)
Charles T. Hightower in 1812
This one evening, as often
He did, old man Charles Hightower started telling his son and daughter, Emma, a
hardship story of his soldiering days, during the War of 1812. It just happen
to be Josh was in the kitchen with Granny Mae Walsh, chewing on some hard
biscuits, and drinking some moonshine,
overhearing the story, not that he hadn’t heard it a dozen times before,
but it was just getting to him this one dark evening, it went something like
this: those were rough days, unshaven days, with a group of men, eating coarse
food and drinking sour corn whiskey, sleeping on dirt floors, before long
fires, cold eyed, and cold boned, even our tongues were cold as icicles at
times. Our hair got matted with this and that, mud and straw we fed the horses
with, and insects, yes sir, we were a rough looking bunch, some with
beards.
Josh knew he was a Major in the Army in
those far-off days, and had told him time and again how his men were befuddled
with heavy drink, and the idiocy of it all, and this night when Ella, his wife
went on to bed, he added the a new step to the story, Emma and her brother
being of an understanding age: we had these cussing women, Charles said: that
would follow in a caravan beyond us, behind our campsites and camp but a
hop-skip-and-jump from our camp, night after night, prostitutes.
That was long ago of course, thought
Josh, forty-years ago or so. Josh’s eyes
cold looking, sitting on the kitchen stool alongside Granny Mae. Who’s to say
why the story bothered him more this evening than other evenings, it just did.
He got thinking about Amos, who was told
he’d be getting his freedom papers soon from Mr. Stanley, he was old as the
pyramids, so why not give it to him, thought Josh, and why doesn’t Charles
Hightower do the same, he was per near as old as Stanley. And now Amos lived in
a shack in shantytown, no longer on the plantation, with Toby, or Tod, or the
rest of the slaves. And here he was a slave from ten-years old on up to his
present. When Hightower went off to his war of 1812, he was just twelve years
old. Hence, he knew those stories by heart; actually he could tell them better
than Hightower, because Hightower had forgotten this and that.
Granny Mae opened the window; the sounds
of the night came in, in measured internals, drawing out Charles’ story some.
“Yes,” granny said, “what is it with you
Josh, what’ troublin’ you this evening?”
“Hush your mouth woman, I can’t hear
what Hightower’s saying, it don’t bother you because you got those elephant
ears, you can hear his devilish heart beating,” then he got up, stood up
straight, banged the window shut.
The house went silent. The kitchen door
opened, it was Mr. Hightower, he stood there in the arch of the doorway looking
at Josh, and Mae got nervous, stood up, stepped back away, back by the
backdoor, “Hello Mae, Josh, are we talking too loud for you folks?” there was a
bit of witticism to his voice.
“I can tell you some old slave stories
ef-in you-all wants to hear,” said Josh: with his heavy hoarse voice, wild-eyed,
drooling a little out of his mouth, from the corn whiskey.
“Yes sir, I can tell you ‘bout a single
room, twelve-feet square some slaves lived in for forty-five years, Niger
slaves that has three beds, a table, two chairs, and an oil stove. I can tells
you all ‘bout that fo’ sure, ef-in you-all wants to hear—hardship, and dat be
some story to tell your kids?”
“That’ll be enough, Josh,” said
Hightower, with the tolerance of per near, a sober judge, then slammed the door
shut behind him as he left.
#995 (-5-9-2013)
Amos: “I want to get drunk”
Amos Jackson waited by the long
fence that separated the Stanley and Hightower plantations—per near all
afternoon waiting for his long time friend, Josh to either go or come back from
fishing, out at Goose Creek. Amos was Josh’s boyhood friend, who now lived in
Shantytown and worked odd jobs when called upon, the war between the states
hadn’t yet started, but there was talk about it, and old man Stanley had given
him his freedom papers, knowing he have to give them to him sooner or later
anyhow.
He was leaning against the old wooden
fence, elbows on the higher tier, his head cocked rakishly, looking to and fro
far-off in the distance for Josh, seeing only crows, and a hot blazing sun
covered somewhat by the clouds.
When Josh did showed up, and was about
to cross threw the fence, he saw Amos, “Howdy,” he stopped to say, and before
he could say another word, Amos said: “I been waiting hours fo’ ya, I wants to
get drunk.”
“Say that again,” Josh asked.
“I wants to get drunk, cant you hear
straight?” said Amos.
“Eyes mean, in dollars and cents!” Josh
said.
“I know you got that jug under your
steps,” said Amos, “let’s go tap it, right good!”
“You mean if there is any left!” Josh
rebuked.
“I knows there be some left, why you not
invitin’ me fo’ a drink?” said Amos, “aint we friends?”
“Because had I given you my jug in the
past every time when you come beggin’ you wants to git jus’ one drink or two,
there’d be nothin’ fer me left to have
an evenin’ gulp or swig!”
For a moment that contended Amos. Or
rather, made him think harder, “I don’t recall ever beggin’ you-all fo’ a drink
Josh!”
“That be the problem Amos, such things
vanish from your recollection faster than I can swat a fly off the rump of old
Dan the horse.”
And so Josh just slipped on through the
fence with his sack of bullheads and went on to his shanty, without another
word said, nor turning about to see Amos’ feverish face.
#994 (-5-9-2013)
Old Josh’s Jug
(1840s, Sweet-pea)
Sweet-pea ((Rebecca Boston) (1840s))
“Is youall seen anything like a jug down here.” Said Josh to his wife,
Sweet-pea (Mrs. Rebecca Boston) pointing his finger to the whole on the
side of the stairway up to his shanty.
“What Jug?” Asked Sweet-pea.
“The one I put there last week.” Josh said, “I lost it somewhere down
there, I cant find it, cant reach it.”
Evening
was coming on, and he didn’t want to go to bed dry mouthed, “It must be
your fault, you must have kicked it
deeper into the back of the steps.” Josh told Sweet-pea.
“Yes, tis my fault, always my fault…how can I kick something under the
steps from the top of the steps.” Josh knew better but he needed to blame
somebody.
“Hush now,” said Josh, “goes on and look fer it!”
“Where’d you get money for da corn whiskey jug?” questioned Sweet-pea,
stretching her thin body into the opening under the steps.
“I find a dollar in da wooden floor down at Hobby’s store in Ozark,
while they aint looking, or maybe it was Yancy’s Stables, I done forgot.”
“And you done bought the jug from Granny Mae Walsh I supposein’.”
“You is suppose right, I supposein’.”
“It be plenty full, ef-in only you can find it. Is you found it yet
woman?”
“Come on down here and help me look fer it,” said Sweep-pea, annoyingly,
crawling under the roof of the staircase inch by ince, which was only a feet
high above her head, but as thin as she was it wasn’t a problem.
“I cant bend none, my knees got da rheumatism…” said Josh.
“Oh be quiet, don’t talk to ne, I is lookin’ fer it, all I see is rat
droppings, and it stinks.”
“What it matter to you, youall gits to feed Hightower’s pigs, aint no
worse than that.”
“I dont care, it be as bad and dark as hell down under here.”
“By the time I git down to help you wife, I be too tired to lift the jug
once you finds it.”
“I bet not, lazy husband” and they both laughed. Josh was a big man, broad and wide, over six
foot tall, perhaps two-hundred pounds, about the only thing of his body that
would fit under those low steps would have been his long arm.
“I bet you be right down on top of the jug, cork flying to North
Carolina, once I done find it and gives it to youall,” said Sweet-pea, “you
means you found one silver dollar?”
“Yessum, thats what I means, nigger’s money be as good as white folks, I
reckon.”
“What youall got against white foks Josh?”
“Aint got one darn thing against white folks, ef-in they let me go my
way, when they go their way, but that aint going to happen.”
“Got it Josh, way in da back area here, almost under da shanty, behind
de rat hole,” said Sweet-pea.
“Let’s drink it up,” said Josh, “git on out from under there, the rats
must have been smellin’ it and pushed it back some.”
#996 (May 9 & 10, 2013)
Old Shep’s Bowl of Soup
The bowl steamed
up to Shep’s face into his nostrils, and Charles’ hand pulled it away, Shep
rubbed his nose, it tickled him some.
“I don’t want anymore.” Shep said, nauseated from the heat.
“Of course,” Ella replied, looking at Charles, “he’s so sick.”
Granny Mae Walsh dipped a spoon in the soup,
paused and fed it to Shep like a baby, after it cooled some.
“I can bring it up stairs,” said Mae, “ef-in you-all dont mind bringing
your paw up to his room Mr. Hightower. With all that there rheumatism he’s got,
eyes got to feed him a bit, he aint got no way to feed himself without shakin’
that hot soup on his lap, les it cools down some.”
Emma was crying, she was just a baby, “What she crying fer?” asked Shep,
“don’t bring her upstairs, pester me to death Mae,” said Shep.
“We best hurry on up Mr. Hightower,” Mae questioned, “eyes got to git
supper fo’ all you folks down here soon as you brings your paw up stairs.”
“Cry baby,” said Shep, looking at Emma, and then his son Charles, Charles
lifting him from his chair, his shoulder under his pa’s armpit, and taking him
step by step up the staircase, Mae behind him with the hot bowl of soup,
cooling some.
“I declare,” said Mae, walking behind Shep, “aint no luck in you-all
goin’ any faster is there, my food be a cookin’ in the kitchen, faster than we
is walkin’, it all goin’ to be burnt.”
“Fat as you are Mae, funny you can even climb the steps,” said Shep,
giggling.
“Fat as I is, Mr. Shep Hightower, I be losing weight in da Lawd’s good
own time so dont you be worryin’ ‘bout me none.”
“Shhhhh!” said Charles, now on the last step of the staircase, “When
he’s done with the soup Mae, fetch pa a sarsaparilla.” Shep’s eyes widened when
he heard that.
They walked into Shep’s bedroom, sat old Shep down on the edge of the
bed, pulled a little wooden table over to him, and Mae put down the soup and
the spoon, expecting him to wait until it cooled, and she’d help him with the
first few spoonfuls, until it cooled.
“Old skuzzier,” mumbled Mae, as Charles left the room, facing away from
Shep so he’d not hear, and when she turned about, Shep said, “I’ll take that
Sarsaparilla now,” he had drank the soup down bowl to mouth, never minded the
spoon, it was still as dry as a parched
summer day.
#997 (5-10-2013)
