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
