Late Sunday afternoon a bunch of men—Wallace Goode's papa, Doctor
Elton, Mr. Shepherd, the new schoolteacher, and Uncle Dan, and others
besides—came to talk to Papa about something bad, something none of
them liked. But exactly what, I couldn't find out. Mister Goode said it
would rile a rattlesnake. Whatever it was had happened Saturday night
over at Mister Goode's house—long after he had gone to bed and while
Mrs. Goode was sitting by the window brushing her hair.
All the men had solemn looks on their faces. And when the doctor said,
"Maybe we ought'a get him out of the settlement before somebody kills
him," the deep lines on Papa's forehead got deeper, and he took all the
men into our front room and closed the door.
Before Wiley or Mierd or I could ask Mama why half the men in Drake Eye
Springs had come and what they were going to do, Mama told Wiley to go
chop wood. "And Mierd, you take Bandershanks over to Grandpa's house
and stay there till I call you."
Mama started shooing Mierd and me out through the hall toward the front
porch, while Wiley ran on ahead. Even though the door to the front room
was shut tight, we could hear all the men talking, Mister Goode louder
than the rest. "If he tries to come in on my wife again, I'll shoot to
kill!" Grabbing my hand and Mierd's, Mama started pulling us along.
"Girls, hurry!"
At the porch steps we met Wiley running back.
"Mama, Ned's out yonder at the gate. That little humped-over Stray,
too. See them?"
Both Ned and Stray were astraddle of the donkey.
"Find out what they want, son."
"Ned's come to get Doctor Elton! I don't know who's bad off sick. He
just said Miss Dink sent him. Said Mister Ward ain't to home, and
something about Miss Ophelia's time coming."
"What time, Mama?"
"Never mind, Bandershanks. You girls scoot on out to Grandpa's, like I
told you! I'll go tell the doctor. Wiley, get on to the woodpile. I
declare to my soul!" Mama hurried back up the hall, muttering something
that sounded like "Demented fool, climbing in windows—worse—his poor
wife home in labor."
Mierd wasn't listening. She had stooped over to tie her shoelace. "Come
on, Bandershanks. Let's skip to Grandpa's doorsteps! Betcha I can beat
you there!"
"Mierd, what's labor?"
"Just another word for work. Come on! Good grannies, you don't know how
to skip worth a hoot!"
"I do, too! Watch me!"
Instead of going on into Grandpa Thad's house, we sat down on the
doorsteps to watch Ned and Little Stray and their droopy-eared donkey.
Stray was still up on the donkey's back. Ned was standing by him,
holding the bridle. Mierd thought Ned must be waiting to get to talk to
the doctor.
Just then we saw Doctor Elton come out, walking as fast as he could
move his stiff, stubby legs. His pants cuffs flapped against his shoe
tops, and Mierd said he reminded her of a pepper shaker bobbling along.
He jammed his hat on his head, said something to Ned, then got in his
buggy and drove off.
Ned climbed on the donkey—in front of Stray—and let the animal amble
back down the hill, following in the ruts made by Doctor Elton's buggy.
Ned's feet almost dragged on the ground, but Little Stray's crooked
legs didn't dangle down much farther than the donkey's tail.
Soon the doctor's black mares and buggy were out of sight, but not Ned
and Stray and their donkey. We could see them for a long time.
On Monday afternoon, Mama and I went to the church to Missionary
Society. While Mama was hitching Dale to our oak tree, I ran on inside.
The church was damp and dark, the benches all empty. "Mama, ain't
nobody in here!"
"We're early, hon. Missionary Society is not supposed to start till
three o'clock. Let's kindle a fire while we wait for all the ladies."
"Is Aunt Vic gonna bring Ginger?"
"I imagine so. She takes that little feist dog with her everywhere she
goes."
"Does Ginger like church?"
"He should by this time." Mama put her satchel and her Bible and the
other book down on the front bench and took off her gloves. I walked on
over to the heater.
"I'm shivering, Mama."
"You'll get warm in a little while. Aw, I bet there's not a piece of
kindling in this wood box!"
There wasn't, but Mama found some old wadded-up newspapers and a few
splinters down in one corner. She piled them into the heater and then
started stripping crusty hunks of pine bark from the logs in the box.
"Mama, look! A black grasshopper!"
"Where?"
"There he goes! He just jumped off that bark. Here he is! On the floor!
See?" I grabbed at him, but he jumped again.
"Bandershanks, that's not a grasshopper. That's just a cricket!"
"Can I have him?"
"Sure, if you can catch him."
I got down on hands and knees and started crawling toward the cricket;
but just as I reached out to get him, he leaped toward the side of the
pump organ. I eased up a little closer and grabbed again! That just
made him jump again, and this time he landed right at the pedals of the
organ.
"Mama, come get him!"
My yelling out must have scared the cricket. Before Mama could even
answer, he disappeared under the organ. I stretched out flat on my
stomach and tried to see where he was hiding. I even felt along the
carpet as far as I could reach up under the foot pedals. I couldn't
feel a thing but sand and grit.
I lay real still, thinking maybe the cricket would come back out. But I
finally decided he was just sitting real still, thinking maybe I would
go away.
"I brought both letters with me, Nannie."
I wheeled over and jumped up! I hadn't heard Aunt Vic and Aunt Lovie
come in. But there they sat by the heater with Mama. It was Aunt Vic
who was talking about letters. Ginger had come with her, all right. He
was already curled up on the end of the front bench.
"Vic, what did Cuddin Lucy write?" Mama asked.
"Not too much—just about Uncle Lige dying. I'll read y'all her letter
and Pa's too, if you think we've got time."
"It's turning off so cold, y'all reckon anybody else will come?" Aunt
Lovie asked. "We may have plenty of time."
"I know Miss Maime won't be here," Mama told my aunts. "She went with
Doctor Elton back over to see about Ophelia this morning."
"Ophelia. Has her baby—"
"It was born late yesterday evening. I thought you'd heard about it,
Vic."
"No."
"It's another boy. That makes six boys and three girls for Ophelia and
Ward."
"Has this one got kinky red hair?"
"Yes. He's Ward made over, the doctor told Jodie."
"Is Ophelia getting on all right?"
"Miss Maime said she thought she'd be all right. The baby's a fine big
thing. Weighed nine pounds! And not a blemish on him."
"Nannie, tell Vic what that loon Ward did Saturday night."
"Maybe you've already heard, Vic. I know you have if you've seen Verdie
Goode."
"No. What now?"
"I won't go into any details on account of little pitchers with big
ears. Just keep your windows bolted down at night. Verdie got the scare
of her life. Hal was home, of course, and he got his gun and shot up in
the air. That scared him away."
"For pity sakes!"
"Men in the settlement met at our house yesterday evening, but Doctor
Elton had to leave before they decided just what to do."
Mama and my aunts were forever talking so I couldn't understand. Almost
every time they got together one of them would mention "a little
pitcher with big ears." They'd never tell me where the pitcher was.
Finally, I quit asking.
"Is Verdie coming this evening?"
"She can't," Aunt Lovie said. "They've got company from town, so she
sent word to get me to take the minutes. 'Course Lida Belle Bailey
won't be here either. She never does meet with us any more. Do y'all
realize that woman hasn't put her foot in this church in over three
months? I think the whole Bailey family ought to be brought before the
congregation, myself. If they're not gonna attend services, we ought to
'whop 'em out,' as the saying is."
"Well, Lovie," Mama told my older aunt, "I found out why Lida Belle
won't come to Missionary Society. She's afraid we'll call on her to
read."
"Read?"
"She don't know how!"
"For goodness sakes! I knew Wes never went to school a day in his life.
That's what worried me and Dan both when he got elected Justice of the
Peace. But I figured surely Lida Belle had had some schooling. Y'all
reckon that's how come all their boys are so backward in their books?"
"Yes," Aunt Vic said, "Mister Shepherd told me yesterday, when we
started getting up the Christmas program, that the boys don't get any
help at home. Mister Shepherd thought it was a wonder the three of them
ever learned their letters."
Aunt Lovie got up and moved closer to the heater. "Nannie, did you know
that Lida Belle and Wes have let Addie Mae quit school and go off down
in Louisiana?" Aunt Lovie always knew everything about everybody,
especially if it was sort of bad.
"Yes, Lovie. Wes was telling Jodie that his aunt begged them to let her
come and spend a while."
"That's what Lida Belle and Wes are saying, but I bet, there's more to
it than that! Y'all just wait and see!"
"Well, goodness," Mama said, "let's don't sit here all evening talking
about the Baileys and their problems. And Ward Lawson! Pa always said
church is the place to talk up the good—not the bad." Mama poked
'nother piece of wood into the heater. "Vic, read us the letters!"
Aunt Vic opened her satchel and took out a thick envelope and her
eyeglasses. "Speaking of the bad, I didn't know till I read this letter
from Pa that he ever knew that sorry Ward's daddy. But he did. He
preached the old man's funeral!"
"Mama, when're you—"
"Bandershanks, hon, you sit still and be quiet. Aunt Vic's gonna read
us a letter from our Alabama cousin and one your Grandpa Dave wrote
years ago—before you were even born. Vic, when was Pa's letter dated?"
"He wrote it May 7, 1903, just seven weeks to the day before he died.
Let's see—Cuddin Lucy headed her letter: 'New Springs, Alabama,
November 6, 1918.'"
Aunt Vic flattened the pages and began to read.
My dear Cousins Victoria, Lovonia, and Nantelle,
It is my sad duty to inform you that my beloved father—your Uncle
Elijah—passed to his reward some ten days ago. We children have
naturally been grief-stricken, but we thank God that He saw fit to take
Pa away without pain or a lingering illness.
He breathed his last, peacefully. And on last Sunday, we laid him to
rest beside Mama in the graveyard at New Springs Church, where he had
been a member over sixty-one years.
This week when we went through Pa's personal effects, we found a
lengthy letter, the last one he had received from your own dear father.
It must have been written just shortly before Uncle Dave's death. So I
am sending it back to you all, knowing you will treasure it. Parts of
the letter are so unusual that I made a copy for my own children to
have in years to come.
I have always regretted that I never knew your father. I still have
hopes that someday I will have the pleasure of meeting all of you kind
kinspeople in Arkansas. Would that the distance between us were not so
great.
Aunt Vic took off her eyeglasses and rubbed her eyes. "And then Cuddin
Lucy just goes on to describe Uncle Lige's funeral, and she mentions a
lot of our relatives back there—most of them folks I've never heard of.
Here, Nannie, you read Pa's letter."
Mama took the yellowed, brittle pages. They rattled as she unfolded
them. She said, "It's in Pa's hand, all right." Then Mama began to read
very slowly.
My dear brother Elijah,
How good it was to hear from you once more. Through the years your
letters have meant more to me than you can ever know, Lige. This time,
please overlook my delay in answering. When I relate how matters now
stand, you can understand why I did not reply by return post.
A great thing has happened to me: _God has offered me death. And I have
accepted!_
Please do not grieve, Lige. This, the end of it all for me, is all
right. True, it is a solemn thing to lie for days on one's deathbed,
waiting, waiting, not knowing the day nor the hour of the last breath.
But that too has come to seem only evidence of mercy, part of my cup
from the Lord's right hand.
When the time does come, it will suffice if a kind eulogist will say
for me, as one said for Grant, "Let his faults … be writ in water."
Lige, my condition came about slowly. I felt poorly all last fall and
winter. For something like six months I had been drained of all my
vigor and former energy. I just seemed like a jaded horse.
I thought surely, though, I'd soon get my second wind. So I went on
about my pastoring. Each Saturday and Sunday, and often on Mondays, I
rode miles in my two-horse buggy as I went to preach at my four
churches over the county. This taxed my strength, so much so that I was
always tired. And during these months it seemed I was called on to hold
twice as many burials and weddings as common.
Then one Sunday in early February, as I was conducting an evening
service at Shiloh, a strange and beautiful thing occurred. It was about
three o'clock.
I turned the pages of the pulpit Bible to the thirty-ninth chapter of
the Book of Psalms. I was planning to take my text from the sixth
verse, which says, "Surely every man walketh in a vain shew: surely
they are disquieted in vain: he heapeth up riches, and knoweth not who
shall gather them."
It was my intent to preach on the theme that one is foolish to lay up
worldly goods. I decided, though, to read the entire Psalm to the
congregation before I started my discourse.
I started reading, distinctly and in measured tones, so that all in the
house could hear every word. And all were listening attentively as I
gave it, verse by verse, with stress on the phrases which I planned to
expound upon.
Then, I reached these lines:
_Lord, make me to know mine end, and the measure of my days, what it
is; that I may know how frail 1 am._
My voice faltered, failed.
There came a rustle and swish, as of a strong breeze sweeping through
the church. It swirled around me and the pulpit like a benign
whirlwind, slowing itself almost to a halt. I lifted my eyes from the
Bible, and there before me was God's angel of death, hovering near—so
near that his soft outspread wings brushed my shoulders. He came
closer. Gently he folded me within ethereal wings and gathered me to
his bosom. He bore me high and far away, into the presence of Almighty
God, making for me a moment of ecstasy and inexplicable joy!
Quickly, the angel was gone, God was gone, and I was again standing in
the pulpit, shaken and amazed. A tremor passed through my whole being,
and I had to grasp the top of the stand until I could recover my normal
sight and senses.
God had shown me my time would come soon. He had held out death to me
and made me see it could mean being in eternal bliss. How wonderful!
But this feeling of exhilaration and joyous peace vanished as swiftly
as had the celestial being. Terrorizing fear engulfed me!
I managed to continue reading. However, the lines were no longer a song
of David, the Israelite King. They turned into my own piteous lament. I
kept on saying the phrases, but by the time I reached the final verse,
I was not reading. I was crying out to my God, _"O spare me, that I may
recover strength, before I go hence, and be no more!"_
How I got through the remainder of the service, I will never know.
Later I could not recall a single word I had spoken. After the
benediction, one of the elderly brethren came up to me and shook my
hand.
"Brother Dave," he said, "that was the finest sermon you ever
preached!"
He didn't know it was my last.
I spent the night at that kind old gentleman's house. Next morning as I
drove my buggy toward home, I let my team find the way by habit rather
than by my direction. They went up and down the little hills and
through the sand beds at slow pace. Eventually I tied their lines to
the dashboard so that I could give full attention to searching the
Scriptures. I needed solace for my very soul.
As I thumbed through the pages of my Bible there welled up in my memory
all the passages I usually read to the bereaved at a graveside. These
brought small comfort. None, in fact. I wondered that I had ever
thought such Scriptures could, in themselves, console.
I searched for other promises but could find not one to blot out my
bitter regret and remorse.
Faces of the dear people in my churches came before me. I thought of
the Sundays I had stood in the pulpit at Millers Crossing and at
Shiloh, here at Drake Eye Springs, and at all my other churches and of
how I had spoken softly and shouted loudly, of how I had cajoled and
pled. Once more, in my mind's eye, I read them the Holy Scriptures and
prayed with them all.
It was summer again, and I stood waist-deep in the pleasant waters of
Cornie Creek, baptizing candidates by the score. One by one I lowered
each into a symbolic watery grave and then raised them up—to walk a new
spiritual life. And members stood at the water's edge and sang the
sacred hymns.
I thought on all these things of bygone years. But I asked myself, did
I actually show the great and mighty and merciful God to the people?
Did a single one get even a glimpse of the truth?
Lige, as I rode on toward home that cold, lonely February day, I was
utterly dejected. I felt all was lost. Finally I stopped looking
through the Bible. I quit thinking of sermons I had or had not
preached. Instead, I began to call out to God. I must have actually
cried aloud, for my mares, Martha and Mary, gave a sudden leap and
almost took me into a ditch!
How long I prayed, I couldn't say. But slowly, great comfort spread
over me like a warm cloak, and with it came a peace, a serenity of
heart I could scarcely comprehend.
As I picked up the stiff, frozen buggy lines, the mares, glad to feel
my hands on the reins, quickened their step. Soon we were crossing
Rocky Head Creek and climbing the hills toward home. The coldness of
the wind or the frost yet in the air brought on one of the coughing
spells to which I had been subject all winter. This time I spat blood!
Then I knew. The dread Consumption had its grip on me!
I thought again of that line: "Lord make me to know mine end." And I
was glad He, not another, had told me.
I knew it was useless to do so, but I drove by to talk with Elton, my
wife's brother, who, as you recall, is the doctor here in Drake Eye
Springs. I had no hope that he could help me, for I already knew there
is no known cure for this scourge. Not only is it fatal, but also it is
considered an affliction of shame or weakness. Why it should be thought
something of a disgrace to succumb to galloping Consumption and not to
another disease, I still cannot fathom.
Elton said he could not be sure of what ailed me, but he feared I was
right in my own diagnosis. Isolation, and fresh air, and complete rest
were all he could recommend. He told me of having read an article in
his medical journal that advocated placing pine boughs about the room
to diminish the frequency of the consumptive cough. But he discounted
that.
Within a week my sons and grandsons built me a small screened-in room
out in one corner of our side yard under the shade of our largest white
oak. Here I spent most of my time. I grew weaker and weaker until
finally I was forced to keep to the bed.
Of course I was obliged to tender my resignation to each of my
churches. Oh, how this hurt me. I loved being pastor to these dear,
frank, open-hearted people. They are hard workers. Of course, now and
then, you will see a man who has let himself be dragged down by drink.
But this is the exception, not the rule.
The very last funeral I conducted was, unfortunately, for such a man.
His name was Lawson. I hadn't ever known him, but his family lived near
Millers Crossing, and they asked me to preach the funeral. I have often
wondered what will become of the man's sons, especially the older one,
Ward. He appeared to be in his early twenties. His pa, from what I
could gather, set a very poor example. And he hadn't sent Ward or any
of his other children to school much. He never carried his family to
church. And in this day and time, school and church make a big
difference in molding character. So chances are young Ward Lawson will
never amount to anything.
Perhaps I judge too harshly. Sometimes, parents cannot realize what
they should be doing for their children. Even now I sometimes ponder
whether I was wise to leave Sand Mountain and to bring my own three
precious little motherless girls to this part of Arkansas, which was so
sparsely settled then. But, my daughters by Rachael grew into lovely
women and each married well. And the second wife I took bore me five
fine children, as you know. So, I must not bewail my lot. God scatters
his children over the land as a man sprinkles salt on meat, to make
life more savory wherever they settle.
My glorious morning is now at hand. I know complete peace. Old friends
and church people still come for miles to pay their respects. Elderly
colored folk stop by. I hear them all pray for my recovery, yet they
know the matter is final. They go away sorrowful, despite all I can say
to reassure them.
Last week my family moved me from the outdoor room, placing my bed on
the south end of the porch so that I can feel any slight breeze that
stirs. Nannie, Vic, and Lovie take turns sitting by my side, day and
night, to waft the air with their palmetto fans, and this does aid my
breathing.
Soon, Lige, very soon I believe, the Lord will send again the angel who
came to me at Shiloh. All my years are passed away, and He will bring
my days to an end as a sigh.
With deep affection and with prayer on my lips for you, I remain
Your devoted brother,
David
Mama folded up the letter. She handed it to Aunt Vic. Aunt Vic passed
it on to Aunt Lovie. They cried like little girls like me.