Old Man Shiloh
Of the Woods
((1893-1895) (Part Four))
It was a year and three days had passed since the death of Angelica, Josephus Jr., paused and looked behind him. Then around an adjacent corner, his father’s head appeared, like a long necked Billy goat. He looked straight at the house, he stepped into view of his father, he was now sixteen, looked up and down the street, then walked along the fence, and his father opened the gate for him, with a wary smile.
“Well, Josephus,” the father said, “boys will be boys, it looks like something’s on your mind?” He somehow assured the boy he was alert to his thoughts, glaring over his shoulder at the road. “Like I say, something’s on your mind—I’ve never did you no harm boy, and I know you got to get it out now and then—but what is it now?”
“Paw, what do you want of me?” asked the boy.
“Now, now, son—get that idea out of your head—hey, I want what you want, for you to grow up and be the best person you can be.”
“You know as well as I do, its one year and three days after the death of Angelica.”
“Sure, sure I do,” his father said. “But sulking about it ain’t going to make your mind easy. I hate to see you mope about something you can’t do a thing about.” Josephus turned about, “Don’t runaway,” said the father. Then he hesitated, thought a moment, “I just can’t seem to help you.”
“Nome,” said the boy. The father tossed his head. He kept on asking what he could do.
So this day, it was about 7:00 p.m., in the evening, “I want a place to be alone for a few days paw?” said the boy.
At the back of the house, across the field, into the wooded area, a path had been trodden from the Civil War days, there was an old Negro who lived in a house deep in the woods, by the name of Shiloh (named for the place of the tabernacle in the days of the Judges), from a distance, you could see a dim light burned in a small corner of the house, they went to the backdoor. The old negro let them in, there was nothing of value, save a few old photographs on the wall, a hearth, barley burning, dirty bottles containing corn whisky, perhaps not even alcohol in it, although it looked it to the boy, he stood there, his kinky grayish hair, and when he spoke his voice cracked.
“You’ll be all right here,” said the father to his son. “You can always find your way back home from here, and old Shiloh, who fought in the Civil War, back in 1863 to 1865, he’ll keep you company. Help him cut some wood, and kill some rabbits to eat, and he’ll tell you wonderful stories.”
“How old are you, old man?” asked Josephus I.
“Yessum,” the old Negro said, “I was born in 1823, makin’ me seventy come August, next month.”
“Why paw, do you think I’d care to stay with this old coot?” asked Josephus I.
“You have to live someplace,” said the old man.
“I’ll be damned if I do!” said the boy. But the old man knew he was just talking to talk…he knew that the boy knew he knew it also, out of some unflagging pride.
“I guess you can find me if there’s any need to,” said the old man, and sat in his rocker. There was nothing else, anyone could do.
“By God,” the father said, “don’t you let life hogtie you son.” Not telling him a thing more, the boy sat down on a wooden chair, by a wooden table, and fell to sleep. So this night it’s about 2:00 a.m., in the morning, and he’s asleep, and the old man walks the boy to a backroom, and sits him down on his bed covers him with a light blanket, whispers to himself out loud “You just don’t know what to do boy… you’re kind of lost I see…”
And like cat-feet, he goes back to his rocker, comes back an hour later, peeping through the keyhole, sees the boy is fast asleep—opens the door a crack, and again with cat like feet, walks back to his rocker, he sat quietly as the boy slept. On the wall hung an old photograph of Jack Johnson, the boxer, and another one of Him in his confederate uniform. “I’ve got to have a drink,” the old man whispered to a mouse racing across the wooden planked floor, grabbed the half empty dirty bottle, and took a good gulp.
He had just finished the drink when the boy entered the room, the blanket around him, he said, “This ain’t half bad, I’ll chop some wood tomorrow.” Then went back into the room and fell onto the bed—purposely.
The light that had fallen across the rocking chair, and the wooden table, blinked out, upon the old motionless body of the Negro.
The rocking chair did not move.
Allowing Josephus to make up his own mind, that was the only part of the whole evening experience which appeared to have left any impression on the boy at all, as he sat up in bed—in the wee hours of the morning, the covers about his shoulders, the boy liked this old ruined house, it had character, the door had been wedged open just a crack. It just happened, the boy didn’t even know how it all happened, but one day led into one week, and a week into a month and a month into a year, and then it was 1894. It just happened. And that mouse just raced across the wooden planked floor, that whole summer, fall and winter. And then one day, in spring, the mouse was in the corner, and he stepped on it, that was the day the boy had taken off, never to return. He could sense it coming, like one might sense the rain, or the winter snows—the boy was looking for a good place to stop, and he did, and he parked his body for awhile, and they had some good chatty dialogues, and then that was that, he was gone. He was now seventeen, and he was thinking of New Orleans.
No. 567/ 1-13-2010
Of the Woods
((1893-1895) (Part Four))
It was a year and three days had passed since the death of Angelica, Josephus Jr., paused and looked behind him. Then around an adjacent corner, his father’s head appeared, like a long necked Billy goat. He looked straight at the house, he stepped into view of his father, he was now sixteen, looked up and down the street, then walked along the fence, and his father opened the gate for him, with a wary smile.
“Well, Josephus,” the father said, “boys will be boys, it looks like something’s on your mind?” He somehow assured the boy he was alert to his thoughts, glaring over his shoulder at the road. “Like I say, something’s on your mind—I’ve never did you no harm boy, and I know you got to get it out now and then—but what is it now?”
“Paw, what do you want of me?” asked the boy.
“Now, now, son—get that idea out of your head—hey, I want what you want, for you to grow up and be the best person you can be.”
“You know as well as I do, its one year and three days after the death of Angelica.”
“Sure, sure I do,” his father said. “But sulking about it ain’t going to make your mind easy. I hate to see you mope about something you can’t do a thing about.” Josephus turned about, “Don’t runaway,” said the father. Then he hesitated, thought a moment, “I just can’t seem to help you.”
“Nome,” said the boy. The father tossed his head. He kept on asking what he could do.
So this day, it was about 7:00 p.m., in the evening, “I want a place to be alone for a few days paw?” said the boy.
At the back of the house, across the field, into the wooded area, a path had been trodden from the Civil War days, there was an old Negro who lived in a house deep in the woods, by the name of Shiloh (named for the place of the tabernacle in the days of the Judges), from a distance, you could see a dim light burned in a small corner of the house, they went to the backdoor. The old negro let them in, there was nothing of value, save a few old photographs on the wall, a hearth, barley burning, dirty bottles containing corn whisky, perhaps not even alcohol in it, although it looked it to the boy, he stood there, his kinky grayish hair, and when he spoke his voice cracked.
“You’ll be all right here,” said the father to his son. “You can always find your way back home from here, and old Shiloh, who fought in the Civil War, back in 1863 to 1865, he’ll keep you company. Help him cut some wood, and kill some rabbits to eat, and he’ll tell you wonderful stories.”
“How old are you, old man?” asked Josephus I.
“Yessum,” the old Negro said, “I was born in 1823, makin’ me seventy come August, next month.”
“Why paw, do you think I’d care to stay with this old coot?” asked Josephus I.
“You have to live someplace,” said the old man.
“I’ll be damned if I do!” said the boy. But the old man knew he was just talking to talk…he knew that the boy knew he knew it also, out of some unflagging pride.
“I guess you can find me if there’s any need to,” said the old man, and sat in his rocker. There was nothing else, anyone could do.
“By God,” the father said, “don’t you let life hogtie you son.” Not telling him a thing more, the boy sat down on a wooden chair, by a wooden table, and fell to sleep. So this night it’s about 2:00 a.m., in the morning, and he’s asleep, and the old man walks the boy to a backroom, and sits him down on his bed covers him with a light blanket, whispers to himself out loud “You just don’t know what to do boy… you’re kind of lost I see…”
And like cat-feet, he goes back to his rocker, comes back an hour later, peeping through the keyhole, sees the boy is fast asleep—opens the door a crack, and again with cat like feet, walks back to his rocker, he sat quietly as the boy slept. On the wall hung an old photograph of Jack Johnson, the boxer, and another one of Him in his confederate uniform. “I’ve got to have a drink,” the old man whispered to a mouse racing across the wooden planked floor, grabbed the half empty dirty bottle, and took a good gulp.
He had just finished the drink when the boy entered the room, the blanket around him, he said, “This ain’t half bad, I’ll chop some wood tomorrow.” Then went back into the room and fell onto the bed—purposely.
The light that had fallen across the rocking chair, and the wooden table, blinked out, upon the old motionless body of the Negro.
The rocking chair did not move.
Allowing Josephus to make up his own mind, that was the only part of the whole evening experience which appeared to have left any impression on the boy at all, as he sat up in bed—in the wee hours of the morning, the covers about his shoulders, the boy liked this old ruined house, it had character, the door had been wedged open just a crack. It just happened, the boy didn’t even know how it all happened, but one day led into one week, and a week into a month and a month into a year, and then it was 1894. It just happened. And that mouse just raced across the wooden planked floor, that whole summer, fall and winter. And then one day, in spring, the mouse was in the corner, and he stepped on it, that was the day the boy had taken off, never to return. He could sense it coming, like one might sense the rain, or the winter snows—the boy was looking for a good place to stop, and he did, and he parked his body for awhile, and they had some good chatty dialogues, and then that was that, he was gone. He was now seventeen, and he was thinking of New Orleans.
No. 567/ 1-13-2010
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