Uncle Nick

UNCLE  NICK

(Bryan's tale)

"lived alone, suffered alone,

and died alone"

(from the tombstone)






This is not my story.  It has been told many times before, often to fascinated young scouts around a fading campfires.  Perhaps it gets better with the telling.  A friend of mine, long time hunting and fishing companion, confidant and general authority on almost everything, has a long history of outdoor life and community service, including being a scoutmaster for many years.  Two of his younger summers were spent hiking the entire length of the Appalachian Trail (AT) from it's beginning in Maine to the other end in Georgia, some 2200 miles, give or take, alone.  This is one of his many stories.  (This story is based on actual events, however, the historical accuracy is not guaranteed.)

SO TELL!

Warm Summer's evening, sitting on the deck, sipping Jack Daniels, watching the aspenglow fade from the row of homes across the canal; darkness slowly settling over the Ocean City skyline as the just full summer moon creeps up out of the Atlantic. Events of the day fully rehashed; a comfortable quiet settled in.  He wondered if I had ever heard his story of  Uncle Nick.  I had forgotten the details and would be delighted to hear it again.  On the trail, wasn't it? where? what part?  It was indeed, second summer, midway through the '70's somewhere in east Tennessee, he allowed; long time, may have forgotten some.  I reminded him of his oft quoted Mark Twain saying that one should never let facts get in the way of a good story.  So here it is, mostly as told to me with perhaps a few literary liberties taken along the way.




He rattled the remaining ice cubes, dropped in a few more, poured in a couple of fingers of bourbon and a splash of soda, took a deep breath, cleared his throat.  "It all started with the

STORM,

 he began, "It was getting late; a sultry June afternoon.  That section of the AT runs along the eastern side of  a long Appalachian ridge, about halfway up the mountain so the view to the west was quite limited.  The trail was not well marked and was not heavily travelled; the blazes were scarce and dim.  Hot, steamy and dusty; no breeze.  Further down, the trail climbs to the top and runs along the ridge; better chance of a breeze there.  Hiking alone as usual; the trail was not steep.  Hot southern sun bearing down, humidity in the high seventies, temperature around eighty, not a whisper of a breeze; been this way since breakfast and with no sign of letup.  "Guess I was a seasoned hiker by this time, well into the second half of the trail, this was not new.  Hot days make one miserable for the first half hour of hiking, but once the clothing is soaked, evaporation cools your body and life is tolerable.  Northbound hikers warned of the heat and humidity, advised as to how to deal with it, and told of the suddenness and ferocity of the hot summer thunderstorms and the deluges they can produce.  Hail always a possibility.




"No sign of a storm today", he continued as the narrative drifted into the present tense, "but one never knows. Shelters are scarce, spent last night in a leanto with a couple of north bound rookies; they said there was no shelter for a long way south, but fairly open woods and some scattered campsites would suffice if need be.  The guidebook showed  the next shelter about twenty one miles distant, just about my limit.  Best day so far was twenty three, earlier in the spring with cooler weather.  Not to worry, if I don't make it, I'll just camp along the trail, besides the afternoon was beginning to cool, a slight breeze coming over the mountain from the West; sundown is already quite late as the days lengthen; the full moon is due.


"Hiking on into the early evening is not an impossibility.  Haven't seen a soul all day.


Sundown does come earlier than the almanac's prediction due to the mountain's hiding about an hour of sun, placing me in welcome shade. I kept a steady pace, sipping water and enjoying the dusk. Don't know exactly where I am but based on my usual pace and the time of day I was about  fifteen miles south of breakfast; if I stop for a quick meal and continue on, I could make it to the shelter in about three, three and half hours.  On a flat rock just off the trail I broke out my stuff to eat and rest a bit.  As I was cleaning up and readjusting the pack when I heard a distant rumble off to the west; couldn't be thunder, not a cloud in the sky.


"I thought the darkness seemed to be settling in a bit early, but maybe not.  Heard the rumble again, this time some closer.  Blasting? Maybe.  Then again. To my right, up over the mountain, I could see the white tip of a rising storm cloud and then heard the rumble again as the darkness thickened.  Thunderstorm all right, just over the mountain, and me still a couple of hours from shelter. 

Then, with a speed I could hardly believe, the white tipped cloud boiled up above the mountain revealing its ugly black underbelly.  I see lighting flashes now and hear the thunder clearly.  Counting the seconds from the flash to the boom, the business part of the cloud appeared to be no more than a mile distant.  If it's moving at any usual speed it would be doing forty or better as it tops the hill. It was here. Wind had changed now and there is a strong fresh breeze from the southeast, fifteen or twenty miles per hour; the updraft of the storm gathering.  The temperature is dropping by the minute,  Here it comes, I thought, searching frantically for some protection.  With the flashes and the booms now almost simultaneous, I found a large old oak about fifty yards uphill from the trail and hunkered down on its leeward side in spite of warnings of such locations, was just pulling my poncho over my head when the first hailstones hit.  Big ones!  Small ones like marbles, others the size of golf balls pelleting the timber and my flimsy poncho.  Severed leaves and small branches from the sheltering oak are now littering the surrounding area amid the hailstones that now cover the ground.  I had hiked this trail for all of last summer, but this was beyond anything I had seen before; terror and panic lurked.




"The hail stopped abruptly; the darkness thickened.  Standing up and shaking the melting hailstones off the poncho, I did a quick survey.  Best to stay put awhile; walking on a million frozen marbles would be not only difficult but also quite dangerous in the dark.  Checking the pack revealed a couple of granola bars and half a canteen of water.  So much for dinner.  Found the flashlight and remembered that it was on it's last set of batteries and growing dim at last usage.  Well, wait for the stones to melt some, find the trail and then look for some shelter. Not gonna make it to any shelter tonight; the cloud cover has ruled out any help from the moon.


"Just beginning to start back to the trail through the almost melted hailstones when the rain began.  First a smattering of huge drops then a downpour.  It was as intense as the hail; so intense as to shut out sight of anything more than a few feet away.  Made my way downhill toward the trail I left it earlier.  My "booney" hat and poncho had little effect save to keep my clothing somewhat dry; perhaps less dry would have been a better term. My flashlight was useless so I was guided mostly by the increasingly frequent lighting flashes.
"Where is the trail?  Should have hit it by now.  I stopped. The rain is coming down in torrents. The flashlight is done for.  A lighting flash revealed nothing familiar in the surroundings. Then it was dark again. Really dark. And the rain continued.  Am I

LOST?

"Certainly little confused.  Then between lightning flashes I saw a light lower down the mountain.  According to my memory of the map, there were no villages or even residences anywhere along this portion of the trail.  Can't really review the map in this downpour; one needs some sort of a landmark to make any good use of the compass.  Couldn't have been a light; must have been my imagination.  Another flash of lightning; more darkness.  The rain has lessened some, but still heavy. There it is again!  It is a light, maybe a hundred yards away, moving to the left and swinging slightly side to side.  Not having any idea where the trail is, I walk toward it.  I had reached where it had been; it was closer, but still a good ways away.  And still moving!  I followed, guided only by the mysterious light and the intermittent flashes of lighting.  Closer now, still moving; the side to side swinging more pronounced.  The next flash of lightning revealed a gnarled snag of an old pine tree directly in line with the light.  I hurried as best I could in the dark, stumbling over fallen brush and being scratched and beaten by the underbrush. I reached the old pine but the light was not there, it had moved away again.  Another flash, now a tiny path is visible and the light is closer and, though is seen only through some brush,  it still moves.  I follow the path, and the next flash reveals the beginnings of an opening.  When the darkness comes again the light is gone!  What now?  I wait. Another flash shows a shed of some sort on the opposite side of the clearing.  No light now.  Now the lighting splits the air and I can see the brilliant streak descend and connect with a tall oak across the way.  Near that oak and off to the left, in the side of a steep hillside, almost a cliff, is a doorway.  In the next flash, the crash of the thunder thankfully a little farther away, I can see the crude planking of a door, weathered by time, but still solid and tightly closed.  No lock.

SHELTER?

"We'll see.  Making my way through the waist high weeds and small bushes of the clearing, I use the last flicker of my flashlight to see that, although there is no latch, there is a small hole in the door at about chest height, from which hangs a leather thong, maybe a foot long. I recognize the simple but effective door latch such as I remembered seeing years before in my grandfather's cabin in the Garrett County mountains.  The string is attached to a bar on the inside of the door which is secured in the center, yet movable and rests in a notch of some sort on the door frame thus securing the door from entry.  Pulling on the string lifts the bar and allows the door to open.  Locking the door is done by simply pulling the string inside.  This string is obviously a piece of rawhide, but still quite solid and flexible.  I feel the weight of the inside latch bar as I pull the thong and the door swings quietly inward.  It has the feel of well oiled hinges.  Stepping inside out of the downpour, I am greeted by total darkness; another lightening flash gives a glimpse of the inside as I dig in my pack for a stub of a candle and a lighter.
"The flickering candle reveals a rather large room, actually a cave of sorts dug into the side of the mountain, the doorway and first few feet are of rough sawn lumber notched into stone walls of a cliff.  The room, or cave, seems to be a combination smokehouse and root cellar.  Rough benches are carved in the side walls and a rough work table, maybe three by eight feet stands to the rear of the room, which narrows to what appears to be the opening of a circular tunnel or cave extending into the innards of the hill and blocked off by a series of boards inset into the stone.




"A couple of withered and shrunken apples are still on the table, looking like the remains of last winter's stores. A garden hoe and a pitchfork lean against the wall near the door and what appeared to be a Civil War era musket stood in the opposite corner.  A fire pit in the rear and the blackened ceiling with a couple of meat hooks give evidence of the cave having used as a smokehouse as well as a root cellar.  No cobwebs of any significance, and almost no dust on the table. I empty my pockets and, as hang my wet clothing on the pegs, notice an old oilcloth slicker on one of the pegs near the door.  Did those small wet spots below it come from my poncho?  Must have.  There is strong odor of coal oil (kerosene) and hot metal, the source of which appears to a shiny new kerosene lantern like the one grandfather used on the farm to do his before daylight chores, hanging on a peg just to the right of the door. It still feels warm.




"Too tired from hiking and the stress of the recent storm to pursue my findings further; grateful for dry shelter, I want only to sleep.  I'll think about things tomorrow.  I roll out my pad on the stone floor, fluff my sleeping bag, crawl into its welcoming warmth.  The candle sputters on for a few more minutes then slowly dies amid its puddle of melted wax.  The thunder is farther away and the rain has settled down into a pleasantly slow drizzle.  I was unconscious until

MORNING

in dreamless sleep.



"Or was it really?

"A brilliant shaft of sunlight jarred me to consciousness.  It came through a crack in the door and was defined by the minute particles of dust and illuminated the interior of what appeared to be an abandoned root cellar and cave entrance.  A quick survey revealed the remains of a broken table at the rear of the room partially blocking the narrowing entrance to the mouth of a much smaller cave.  The entrance door hung weakly by one rusted hinge, a small stiff portion of the string of its crude latch mechanism hung from the latch bar; cobwebs covered the rusted remains of some farm tools; a rusty gun barrel leaned against the door framing.  I scrambled out of the sleeping bag and hurried outside to answer the calls of nature then returned to regroup.  I had slept soundly all right, and for quite a long time. But was it really a dream?

"The sun was now at least an hour above the distant mountain to the East, and the grass and weeds of the small clearing was, along with the surrounding tree leaves, beginning to lose the remains of last evening's  thunderstorm.  I shook out my sleeping bag and tossed it over a nearby rock to air, set my pack on the rock and went back into the root cellar.  Amazingly, it did not appear to have been used at all in many years.  Cobwebs covered almost everything, the two small windows, one on either side, were so covered with dust and dirt as to make seeing through them impossible. A rusted and cobweb covered lantern hung by the door, its glass globe shattered, along with the tattered remnants of an ancient rotted slicker. The door was barely held together by a few remaining nails and the one remaining hinge complained mightily against any movement."




"I could only shake my  head in wonder as I  inventoried what supplies remained.  Finding a package of instant oatmeal, a pack of instant coffee and a granola bar, I set up my little stove, found it to still have some fuel, and used the last water remaining in my canteen to make a cup of coffee.  Got to find some water soon and resupply somehow before sundown.  Best to get moving, but which way? 


Came downhill during the storm so the trail must be up nearer the top somewhere.  The AP often runs along or near the top of these ridges; had done so late yesterday.  So we go up. I rolled the bag, stuffed in it's bag and secured it to the pack, took one last look at the old root cellar door, shouldered my pack and  began working my way uphill through the underbrush.




"About a hundred yards uphill, I did, indeed come across the lightly travelled trail that ran roughly Northeast of Southwest along the top of the ridge. This must be it, so I set off to the Southwest at a leisurely, but ground covering pace, which would normally give me five miles of travel per hour, give or take.  After about half an hour or so, I noticed a monument of sorts off to the right of the trail. Looked sort of like  the remains of an old chimney, possibly all that was left of a small cabin.  Time to take a short rest and explore a bit, I wondered who might have chosen such a place to live. 


"Pulling my rumpled map from the pack's side pocket, I made a guess of yesterday's distance and concluded that I must be somewhere on Iron Mountain, near about the Tennessee-North Carolina border.  Map showed the trail ran almost on top of the ridge and just to the west of the trail was a small "x" and the word "monument". 




"This must be it!  At least I think I know where I am; map shows a village just a ways off the trail, Shady Valley, one of my mail drops!  (before leaving in  the spring, I had picked several locations along the trail, spaced roughly a week of hiking time apart and asked my family to send mail to me in care of  "general delivery" at these stops along the way.  In  this way I could re-provision and receive my mail at the same time. Shady Valley was one of these.)  Well now, what is this

MONUMENT?

"Certainly no one has been here lately.  Last years fallen leaves covered what looked like the mound of an old grave at the head of which stood a marble marker, surrounded by a stone monument of sorts looking like a chimney.  No flowers or small shrubs, just a grave site, headstone and monument.  The marker just fitted into the mouth of what might have once been a fireplace, but the stones fit closely around the marker indicating that the marker might have been there first, (the marble had been broken into three pieces at one time and reassembled when placed in its present location) and perhaps the monument (chimney?) built around it or specifically for it.  It was well weathered but the engraving still clearly legible.

UNCLE

NICK GRINDSTAFF

Born

Dec. 26 1851

Died

July 22 1923

lived alone, suffered alone, and

died alone

"Well now!  I had  no idea; if he wanted to be alone, this certainly would be a good place.  Sat myself on a rock, slipped off my pack and just stared.  A little sobering to think about, but I remembered my needs for food and water, etc. and figured I should be getting on. I can make it to Shady Valley in maybe an hour, two at the most, and find some supplies and a place to sleep tonight.   (There is a shelter now on this part of the trail called Iron Mountain Shelter.  Wasn't there then, and I understand that Shady Valley no longer has a post office.  Progress, I guess.)

SHADY VALLEY

"Population 876", the sign proudly proclaimed, Ah, civilization.  Very small town,  elementary school, no junior high or high school,  Two service stations, Exxon and Shell,  One seed and feed store, all brands,   One volunteer fire department, one engine and a jeep, Three churches, Baptist, Methodist and Church of Christ.  One dining establishment, a frozen custard stand and, the one I was looking for, "U S Post Office, Shady Valley Tenn 37688", one of my mail drops.  It was a  small, one room building, two windows and door, covered porch. 

"The screen door closed behind me with a soft thud and as my eyes adjusted to the light, I noticed  a small floor to ceiling divider with a window flanked by several rows of post office boxes with combination locks with their circles of letters in place of numbers.  This arrangement took up about half of the small room and to the left stood a small work table flanked by a series of pidgeonholes filled with brochures touting the features and benefit of the attractions in the nearby Cherrokee National Forest. Small sign over the top of the window repeats, "Shady Valley, Tenn 37688".   I was glancing over the various brochures when the rotund and somewhat faded face of a middle aged lady appeared in the post office window.  the pleasantly plump lady, whom I assumed to be the postmistress, bade me a good morning, commented on the pleasant day, noted that I just might have just come off the trail, (how could she tell?), and offered assistance. I gave my name and asked if any mail for me might be the general delivery. 

"She  retrieved a handful of mail from a shelf behind her, flipped through the stack and handed me two letters and a crumpled postcard through the window.  Letters, postmarked about a week apart were the expected ones from my Mother, postcard from my brother, simply saying "keep walking", Bob.  I would open the envelopes later, hopefully she had sent money along with all the news.  "Is the store open," I asked, jerking my thumb in that direction. "Should be", she noted, "Saw him takin' out the trash to the burn barrel a little while ago."

"The faded metal sign advertised R C Cola with a space at the bottom in which was painted simply "General Store".  An ancient, hand operated gasoline pump, the kind gasoline is pumped in to the glass reservoir at the top by means of a lever on the side, then let it flow by gravity into your car or can.  Gallons, or portions thereof, were measured by marks on the side of the glass. Obviously superseded by more modern equipment down the street, this relic stood unused, a monument to the early days of motoring.

"The store itself was a weatherbeaten two story frame building settled on a solid, native stone foundation with a couple small, dirty windows indicating a basement.  The bright second story windows with blinds and curtains proclaimed its being the residence of the proprietor.  The absence of an exterior stair confirms.  The building is set into the hillside making the second level almost ground level in the rear, and old and unused hitching rail still stood in front of the store in further evidence of the past.  There were no sidewalks, but a porch held a small set of platform scales, a large square green kerosene tank with a hand crank pump and two or three aged metal chairs of varying degrees of color and wear; wide benches, 2" x 10" timbers set between the porch roof support posts provided additional seating space with appropriate entrance breaks at the ends of the porch and directly in front of the doorway.  A battered checkerboard sat atop an empty nail keg, with its checkers, old bottle caps, scattered over the board.  I dropped my pack and went inside. A small bell jingled politely as I pulled open the flimsy screen with it's worn Prince Albert Tobacco sign that served as a combination handle and support brace.  The stretch spring which served as a closer snapped the door shut behind me as its little bell jingled madly. 

"There was a moment of blindness as my eyes again took their time to adjust.  Loaded shelves lined both side walls, reaching to the high ceiling, holding items ranging from canned peaches to rifle cartridges. Counters stretched down both sides of the room, separating the shelves from customers and were littered here and there with small displays of inexpensive trinkets or toys. Nearer the door was an enclosed glass case that held several kinds of candy, both bars and bulk bins from which was sold by weight.  On the opposite side of the room, on a similar counter, was another display case holding cigars and other tobacco products for both smoking and chewing, Zippo lighters, Case pocket knives, etc.  In the center of the room stood a large stove, wood or coal burning no doubt, surrounded by a number of  wooden folding chairs and one well worn bench; a large ceiling fan overhead was fighting a losing battle with the summer heat.  At the rear was a glass front deli display case holding yet to be sliced meats, a few cartons of milk, a few dozen eggs and a couple of blocks of butter that appeared to have been molded in a hand press.  A butcher's block behind the deli case was backed by a work counter with a variety necessities like loaves of bread and jars and bottles of condiments.  A small upright block held a small assortment of knives.  The display box was flanked on either side by a cold box for bottled drinks and a freezer for frozen items like Popsicles and, hopefully, ice cream.

"Behind the right counter tall gentleman in a worn pair of jeans and a short sleeved denim shirt  looked up from sorting the ticket books in the wooden cheese box that holds the yet unpaid tickets of his credit customers.  He smiles and bids me a good morning.  He is perhaps six foot, maybe 175 lbs, slender but strong looking, slightly stooped and spry, with a large shock of hair and a mustache both strongly laced with gray: his ice blue eyes peer at me over a pair of rimless reading glasses.  Appears to be in his late 60's, maybe older. 


"He speculates that I am just off the trail (how could he tell? From the odor maybe?) and wonders how he might be of service.  Where you headed?, he asks. South, to the end of the trail.  Long ways.  He is standing behind an ancient, hand operated cash register sorting through his morning mail, next to the register is a small desk nameplate that reads:

A. Grindstaff, Prop.

"He notices my staring and looks up as I comment on the unusual name.  Quite of folks with that name 'round these parts; You see Uncle Nick up on the mountain?  I hesitated for a second and looked up into those piercing eyes again.  Yes, I had seen the monument; asked if he might be related.  Continued his search, he told me that Uncle Nick was his grandfather's older brother. Might have been named for St Nicholas since he was born on the day after Christmas. Or maybe it was as in "Old Nick", another name for the Devil, used to frighten small children.   I submitted my list and he began selecting things from the shelves and telling the tale as he filled my order.


"There had been four children, all orphaned when Nick was almost four; there was another brother, a sister who was two, and his grandfather, who was then a baby.  Kinfolk raised the kids and divided the farm among them when they came of age.  The older brother, Eli, ran off and joined a North Carolina regiment early in the Civil War and got himself killed at Bull Run.  Sister married a man from over in Hendersonville, Don't remember the name and the family sort of lost touch.  They say Nick farmed his portion for several years before he decided that there might be a better life further west.  Sold his farm, took half the proceeds and set out. Left the other half of his money with an uncle for safe keeping; said he would come back for it when the need arose.
 

"We know that he did come back after a while, several years maybe, in the early winter, with only his ragged clothes that were on his back and a well worn hickory walking staff he had cut with an old pocket knife.  They say that he was half starved, dirty and barefoot with sort of a vacancy in his eyes; said he couldn't remember much but bits and pieces would come back to him now and then. Some say he sometimes talked of  living down around Nashville or Jackson, married and had a small child, girl named Anna. Had a little store at and was doing well.  Tended a small farm and his wife kept the store.

"Came home from the fields late one spring evening to find his wife lying in the yard, apparently killed with a nearby axe and their home and business a smoldering pile of rubble.  Anna was nowhere to be found.  No trace of their hidden savings.   Fresh narrow wagon tracks led out of the yard toward the East.  He stripped the harness off his youngest horse, and with only the bridle and a blanket, set off in search of Anna.

"A few miles later a farmer told of seeing what looked like a Gypsy Wagon travelling the road to the east and a storekeeper told of a painted wagon with walls and end closures that had stopped water the horses. Said  there was a strange looking couple with a retarded older son and young daughter, maybe 5 years old, pretty, with long blond hair. Thought they said they were headed for Ashville or was it Bristol?  Told of catching up to the wagon camped on top of a hill just outside Knoxville, seeing Anna peeking out the front of the wagon as he talked with a black eyed woman with the longest, blackest hair he had ever seen.  He was explaining his mission when the world went black.  Could never remember anything but walking after that.


"He must have spent the entire summer and fall finding his way back.  Had a rather large scar across the back of his head, but let his hair long to cover it. Took his remaining money and bought a piece of worthless land on Iron Mountain, built a small cabin and moved up there.  Said he was going to keep looking for Anna.  Forty years he lived up there, digging some Ginseng root now and then and trapping some for the hides, coming down once or twice a year and doin' odd jobs to pay for his supplies.  Just him and his old dog.  I saw him once when I was just a kid, big old man, long hair, shaggy beard, black dog with them brown spots over his eyes, you know.  Friendly though, as I recall. 


"Anyone live up that way now? I asked. "Don't think there is another cabin anywhere on that mountain within 20 miles of his old cabin," he says as he picked another item from one of the higher shelves,.  Then, shifting the subject, Mr. Grindstaff inquired if I had been caught in the thunderstorm and, if so, was I able to find shelter.  I had, and told of the downpour. When I came to the part about the light, he sort of froze; I looked up an saw those ice blue eyes again.  He didn't blink. 

"Light?" he asks.  "Sort of like someone carrying a lantern," says I, and proceed to tell him of the root cellar where I had spent the night. His eyes never left mine and he didn't blink.  His hands were no longer busy, but gripped a package of instant coffee, perhaps a little too tightly. There was a dead silence.
"Once in a great while a stranger like yourself, passing through on the trail, tells of seeing lights up on the mountain, and a couple of deer hunters mentioned it the same thing a few years ago.  Local folk don't go up there much and probably wouldn't say much about it if they saw anything.  Some of them are a bit superstitious and maybe fearful as well.  Wouldn't want to make a big thing over it like down around Brown Mountain, bringing in folks with cameras and so forth.  He paused,
"Don't know of any such place like that root cellar anywhere on the mountain. 


"What about the light; what could that have been?  "Well, some say it's Uncle Nick, still looking for Anna; other just don't know, and some won't even talk about it at all.  Hard to tell.

FINIS



Asking about what supplies I might need, he let me know that the subject was closed and not likely to be reopened.  At my request, he made me a huge bologna and cheese sandwich, as I dredged a cold RC from the cold water in the icebox.  He helped me carry my loot out to the porch.
As we were leaving, I noticed, hanging just to the right of the doorway, an old kerosene lantern, somewhat battered, but still shiny with clean, unbroken glass and a neatly trimmed wick.  I distinctly got that whiff of coal oil and metal again.

"Nice old lantern,".

"My Grandfather's," says he, ignoring my gaze and glancing up the street toward the mountain, Belonged to Uncle Nick, actually, Grandpa brought it down when they tore down the cabin. Still works great.  Keep it here for when the power goes out, like it did last night."


"Have a good trip, son; you be careful out there".









The screen door slammed shut behind him and the little bell jingled nervously.










It was getting close to sundown, and I needed to find a place to bed down for the night.. 

END



Bedtime Story

For De, on the occasion of her birthday, (never mind which one)


Not sure this story was ever really told.


Once upon a time, a long time ago, in a land far, far away ('bout a thousand miles, give or take,  )  there lived a young family, man, his wife, and a young son, soon to be three.  Their mobile home, parked in a trailer park in the suburbs of the big city, measured 42 ft long by 8 ft wide and had only a couple of window air conditioning units, one in either end, to temper the scorching Southern sun; two bedrooms, one a "walk-thru" for adults (had to go through to get to bathroom), and a second with bunk beds for the boy.  A small kitchen, living room and a bath.  Why bunk beds, you ask.  Well, a second child was expected, and soon.

It was in the hottest month of the summer and the AC units just weren't enough.  He worked nights in a bakery downtown and carried a full load of classes at the local University, hoping to teach math and history upon graduation, which was at this point, at least three years away.  She was not in residence at the time of this telling.

Her first pregnancy had been far from routine.  Horribly beset by morning sickness that frequently would not go away for days, keeping her from nourishment to the point of hospitalization and intravenous feeding.  His being on duty with the Army overseas did little to reduce the stress of a first pregnancy, not to mention living in her parents' home. The volume of glucose administered over the nine months of her first pregnancy was measured in gallons, not liters.

Since these episodes were beyond prediction and his caretaking availability severely limited by the work and study schedules, when the she became pregnant a second time, it had been decided that she and the son would remove to her parents farm home, some 75 miles to the south so that she could have readily available assistance at home and an attending physician within reach.  Her nausea was guardedly controlled, and since the income was badly needed, he remained on his job in the city.  As luck would have it, there was the usual summer break at the university and  no summer classes scheduled due to the upcoming delivery.


It was a Sunday evening, just after the late southern sundown when his shift at the bakery ended.  He was tired, sweaty, hungry and thirsty; no was at home awaiting his arrival and/or preparing an evening meal.  The little bar just down the street was on the way home; what harm could a cold beer and a hamburger with fries do?  He stopped, had his meal and spent some time with chatting with a couple of guys from the newspaper print shop just over on the next street.  It was maybe half past nine when he finally set out for home.




Stopping at the service station at the entrance to the trailer park to refill his nearly empty tank on the '57 Mercury gas hog, the night attendant wondered where he might have been since there had been several long distance calls from a hospital asking for him or his whereabouts.  There was a number he was to call and the message was simple, "we are at the hospital; you need to be here".


"OH SHIT!", he mumbled under his breath.  He knew that this meant one of two things, either the delivery of his second child was eminent or problems had developed and she was in danger.  It was a bit earlier that predicted for the former scenario so the latter situation seemed most likely.


He paid for the gasoline and shoved some additional bills in the attendant's hand, suggesting that he call the aforesaid number and advise that he was on his way, and sped off with all the speed he dared to use and the eight cylinder, four-barrel carburetor fed, stick shift Mercury could produce, the highway being 75 miles of two-lane road, interspersed with small towns with speed zones and traffic lights and  State Troopers having a reputation of having no sense of humor or any sympathy for emergencies, real or manufactured, and childbirth is hardly an emergency anyway.


Trip usually took about two hours, but, with Sunday night traffic being light he was able to run with his twin spotlights trained on the road to assist the high beams, he arrived at the hospital a few minutes after ten o'clock, still in his dirty white baker's uniform and smelling of sweat. beer and onions, not to mention being tired and somewhat tense.


His mother-in-law was, to say the least,  unimpressed.  Her imagined version of the husband of her only child and his conduct while living alone in the city was not enhanced by his condition and appearance; she had not really approved of her daughter's selection of a mate and his chosen vocation anyway.  Grandchildren should live near their grandmother, for heaven's sake.


She was still in her room, pains were about 2-3 minutes apart and she was just before going into delivery.  He did not accompany, as he had with the firstborn; had not been invited. He had another coffee and rested; spent time with his amiable father-in-law to tell his version of the night so far.


The delivery went well, the mother was healthy and hungry, and after a few weeks was able to return home with her new little daughter; a young cousin came to stay a while to help.


The little girl was healthy, lively and bright.  She grew up; went to school, learned to love to read and became a model student, always achieving top grades, honor society recognition and went on to complete college, earn a masters degree and became a teacher, married a teacher and became the mother of three. She was successful, helpful and happy.  Her parents were (and are) very proud of her, and, although sometimes forgetful of family occasions, forgetting birthdays, etc., have always been, and still are, extremely proud of their daughter.


It is hoped that she has had a wonderful Birthday today, with many more to come!!


So there you have, as Paul Harvey used to say, "the rest of the story".






With Love,




Dad

Farewell my love!

Farewell my Love!

"Good Night!  Good Night!,

Parting is such sweet sorrow. 

That I shall say good night

till it be morrow!"

William Shakespeare

 "Romeo and Juliet"

Act II, Scene ii

(for the Ps's)



"She's gone!", he murmured, mostly to himself.


He stood just outside the open garage door and watched her going down the drive, turn left toward the mouth of the cul-de-sac and left again onto the development's main street.  Then, behind the bordering pines, another glimpse of the final left turn and a final one as she topped the hill and disappeared.


"She's really gone, and, no, she won't be coming back.  She's with another guy now, someone younger, stronger and more able to deal with her eccentricities.  Someone who can give her the attention she craves and deserves, while she's still young enough to enjoy it.  Someone who will keep her satisfied."


He had found her late in his life, young, spirited, and beautiful, although somewhat more extroverted that the ones before, and at times noisy and loud; always demanding his full and concentrated attention whenever in her presence.


Steve brushed back a tear and continued staring at break in the trees where he last saw her.
He knew it had to be; knew she would leave one day; knew it when he first laid eyes on her. Knew it but would not admit it, not even to himself, but he courted her anyway, he loved her as no other and eventually brought her home.  But it was too late; many years too late.


She was a trophy, but his advancing age, deterioration of stamina and dimming eyesight combined to limit  the activity level and subsequently their relationship.  Then one day he came to realize that he had become afraid to take her out in front of her friends; afraid he would be seen as the old man he had become; an old man now unable to give her the attention she deserved.  He had lost his nerve and his confidence; core elements of their relationship.  As bad as he hated to admit it, he had known she would be leaving; would be happier in her new life.


"So now she's gone".  He stepped back into the garage, closed the door and walked slowly back into the house;  sat down at the keyboard:
"
"She's Gone!", He mumbled quietly to himself, "She'll be happier with him, and he'll be good to her."


"Damn, I'm really gonna' miss that bike!"

Christmas 2014

(Remembering)

 

If you're traveling to the north country fair

Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline

Remember me to one who lives there

For she once was a true love of mine.


Bob Dylan,
"Girl of The North Country"

December 12, 2014,  Two Years!

Twenty four months since things were "normal". .

Twelve since she went away.

My world was turned upside down and shaken.

Left me standing amid the rubble, bewildered, confused, scared.
Weddings and funerals bring out the best and the worst.

One of my greatest fears was that her passing would generate a family rift.
Quite the opposite!
My family, extended family, mostly "in-laws", since my blood kin are far away. 

My "support group", friends, relatives, others..

Christmas seemed like a good opportunity to express my gratitude for your support, without which I doubtless would have been overcome with self pity and turned inward, a bitter old grump.

A grump, maybe, but not bitter.
Life is what it is.
One does not stand still without decay.

Thanks to the medical profession, I am reasonably healthy, 
the pump's repaired and the headlights are scheduled.
The rest will just have to get by. 

I still work, have purpose, still drive, etc.

Thankfully, I am warm, comfortable, well fed.

And grateful. But sad.

I still miss her, but remembering no longer brings tears. (most of the time).

Christmas will be different, I know,
but I will enjoy it, eat too much, and probably gain weight.
Maybe have a drink or two.

Just wanted to say "Thank You!" to all who helped keep me sane
and to your families for the secondary support.  
Thanks to you, I am doin' fine.

Have a very Merry Christmas; a Happy and Prosperous New Year.

 

All the best,

 

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost

"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"