JACK BELDEN ~

any old fella. . .

Jack Belden



Uncle Jack is what the young kids

Around here call him, even though he

Isn’t really their uncle but rather

Their own parents’ uncle and usually

They just called him Jack. His name

Doesn’t come up too much when I’m

Working with my neighbors.

There are three houses of the same family

Up the dirt road running alongside

French Brook. The brook eventually

Climbs higher into the next town of

Cheshire and Jack drinks from this brook.

The dirt road winds around Church Mountain

And swings back into the village

Passing through the covered bridge

And over the waterfall,

Forks then into two roads like a wishbone

That provides travel for a dozen families.

They hardly ever come down our road

Which follows the river, and I don’t

Think anyone knows Jack Belden up there.

The three houses on Jack’s back road

Are the homes for two of his nephews

And his sister; Jack’s small trailer

Is hidden in a hollow from them all.

He never married, doesn’t own a car,

Hikes to Brattleboro 12 miles away or

Picks up a ride with the rural mailtruck.

One day walking home from work

I was 500 feet behind Jack who had just

Left the mailtruck in the covered bridge

And was stalking down the muddy river road.

Middle of the season. A warm day.

The buckets on the roadside maples

Brimming with sap.

A mile down the road

And still a distance between us

I watched him abruptly stop,

Look both ways (but not behind him),

Let down his burlap sack of groceries

From his shoulder, then walk to

One of the trees and remove a bucket,

Drink for a good half-minute

Wipe his mouth with his sleeve

Hang the bucket back

Then continue the remaining mile to home.

I thought all about that yesterday —

It was eight years ago. He was 75 years old.

Today I’m tapping the same trees

On the farmer’s land Jack drank from.

The mud is deep and the day is warm,

Not much has changed.

But I heard and couldn’t believe

That Jack has been in the hospital

Since January, the month we broke

All records for freezing temperatures.

I recall one night sitting with neighbors

Already reminiscing about

The headaches of busted water pipes

Depleting cordwood and icy roads,

But no talk about Jack —

The whiskered old man who walks.

Everett, his nephew, told me

As we filled our aprons with tap spouts

That Jack’s gas ran out in the trailer

During one of those real cold nights.

30 below. His feet froze.

They amputated the gangrene from all his toes.

Shut out all the lights to any more walking.

I wonder what this all means —

We worry about water pipes bursting,

But a quarter-mile away

Jack loses his toes.

It wasn’t brought up at town meeting this year.

Jack’s photograph doesn’t grace

The inside town report bulletin

As one of the patriarchs of Guilford.

Yet, he knows his territory —

Takes a leak outside his trailer door

Like any liberated yankee.

Quietly living so that you

Don’t know that he lives.

Showed me once how to

Crush an early shad bud

Between my fingers
For the first scent of spring.

_______________________

Bob Arnold

Where Rivers Meet