Son of a Bitch
The
old man is a something else
Son
of a bitch — no other way to
Think
of it, even though it isn’t
Exactly
kind, but that’s the way it is.
He’d
bitch at you, he’d bitch at me,
Give
him a topic — weather, taxes,
School
budget, road maintenance, local
Politics
— the first person in to see
His
son at the town garage, the last person.
You
knew what would be said as soon as
You
left, you almost wanted it to
Begin
while you were still there.
Give
him time, he’s heading that way.
Has
helped his son at work on truck
Engines
for the last twenty years and
Is
now past seventy, wool capped,
Glasses,
blunt forehead, all shoulders
In
a sweatshirt no matter when I see
Him,
even picking strawberries up on
One
of the sunny hills across town, but
He
is almost friendly when doing that.
A
gorgeous garden, peas are always up
By
early May, and he has a way and
Tenderness
to work in asparagus and
Bushels
of raspberries on the small
Vegetable
bed he plows by the side
Of
the road. Plants his bush peas
Roadside
to shed dust that rises
From
an overpopulated back road;
How
those neighbors fly. He has bitched
And
stamped so many years about the
New
hoard that his language and treatment
On
the subject is abbreviated to
A
shake of his head — he knows you
Understand
even though you weren’t
Born
here — the key to what it means
To
be native in this old man’s eyes,
Idiotic
as it might seem since he isn’t
Anymore
native than the next white old
Gent
still farming in town following
His
own father’s haul, but it does
Generate
a certain policy of who-is-who
In
the town. “How long you lived here?”
Is
like having the last word.
The
old man and his son have lived here,
Right
here, no more than a few feet either
Way
of birth-right, in this house and not
Including
the porch where I stand trading
A
few words with the old man — he tacked
That
on ten years ago. We have known
One
another twenty years and no matter
Each
time I see him we go into the same
Routine
of weather, seasonal news, how
Far
along we both are in getting up next
Winter’s
wood supply. He can be counted
On
to have his firewood (cut from bought logs)
Bucked
and split and stacked in a half
Dozen
rows thirty-two feet long fresh and
Sturdy
and incredibly pleasing to the eye.
He
does this all by himself with a wood splitter
And
grubby chain saw, while maul and wedge
Are
always close by for what won’t split.
His
son burns oil in a castle of a house
And
can’t make any sense of this wood
Infatuation
but he will tell you it gives
Dad
something to do, maybe keep him out
Of
the garage away from the customers
Who
walk away bewildered by the old man’s
Statements.
How in the world can one man
Be
so outright angry and do such complete
Work
in his garden and firewood detail?
I
can picture him right now moving between
The
stacks of firewood adjusting the ends
Of
each row not to spill apart, raking
Bark
and chips, liking every bit of the
Feeling
he must have knowing it is early
May,
far from winter, and here he is
Ready
for anything. A son of a bitch.
Born Here
Mason
was never meant to die —
I
know we all still think that,
But
he did, before winter, and
We
lost one of our last town farmers.
I
wonder what he would have thought
Of
this past winter of nearly no snow —
Mud
that we figured dry by late
March
how it doubled-back after a
Week
of rain ruining the roads all
Over
again. Mason would have
Taken
it in stride, he was born here.
How
many times did he pull out
A
lost visitor to the village
At
the foot of his hill — door deep
Tipped
in mud — shying away from
Taking
money for his time as he neatly
Curled
up the log chain on the rear
Tongue
of his tractor. It was a half
Mile
trip back up the hill. Unlike us,
Mason
never had a view to the river
From
his place, but he and Ruth
Often
drove down the valley
Road,
slow as a walk, looking into
Our
yard over stone walls where Susan
Raked
the wet spring flower beds,
Her
hair torn in the wind.
Those
were the days! If they missed
Us
going down river — on the way
Back
they waved — real waves, like
They
meant it. We would return
The
favor when hiking around the
Old
woods road of Church Mountain
Rising
into Mason and Ruth country,
With
its hilltop view of the valley.
I
always felt back at home returning
From
work in the winter seeing
Distantly
their row of barn windows
Lit
for milking. One man and
Woman
together kept the farm
Mended
and able. It was one of the
Last
working farms in Guilford, and
Now
without Mason, there are four farms
Left.
Thirty years ago, Mason always
Reminded
us with his own personal
History,
there were thirty farms in town.
Mason
died of the old man’s disease
According
to Bill Weathers, who is
His
cousin, and can’t pronounce Alzheimer’s.
When
he died Ruth scrubbed every room
In
the house from floor to ceiling and
Still
hasn’t moved Mason’s old blue
Oldsmobile
out of spring mud beside
The
barn — which we could identify
Anywhere
— even in the grocery store
Parking
lot twelve miles away in town.
Ruth
and Mason shopped together, cut
Hay
and logs and bread together, and
Maybe
it is one way for Ruth now to
Spend
her own last years tending one
Cow
in the barn and fattening a calf
For
veal. We hiked around the mountain
Yesterday,
saw the changes of a
Better
road, new neighbors, and now
We
scramble with our little boy
Carson
who loves to run in the woods.
In
all four downstairs windows of the house
Ruth’s
poinsettias are thriving, just
Like
always — nothing has changed —
Except
Mason is gone.
Barefoot
She’d
be barefoot from
Late
spring right up till
Fall
and around deer season
She’d
be wearing sandals.
Go
down to their place —
Rusted
stovepipe sticking
Out
of a window, he’d be
In
the small garage tooling
Under
someone’s car. Jump between
Mechanic
work, body-shop and
Towing;
most people brought
Their
car there only once.
But
from the mobile home steps
She’d
holler another “customer”
Was
calling on the telephone.
He
gave me that look of importance,
Rubbed
grease off his hands onto
Newspaper,
trotted out of the garage.
They’re
both middle twenties — three kids.
The
two youngest boys sit naked around a mud
Puddle,
play with broken toy trucks
That
look like their father’s truck
—
huge wheels, shattered windows.
He
skips the steps up to the trailer,
Leans
past her wide body with the desire
Of
a brother, not a husband,
Disappears
for awhile.
She’s
eating a sandwich, I wave to her,
She
smiles. Everyone who remembers her
As
a teenager say she was thin, pretty,
The
blonde hair always washed and combed.
This
afternoon she is in a bathrobe,
Her
bare feet spread thick. After she
Smiles
at me she looks everywhere
Else
— over the acre of junk cars,
Ratty
trees, a lawn mower stuck in
High
grass, down to four cows at
The
furthest corner of the pasture,
Back
to her two boys splashing
Like
ducklings in the puddle —
Everywhere she looks, but at
me.
Bob Arnold
