Secrets Of The Olden Days
linda j, crider
It was spring in southern Appalachia. A warm breeze teased the tender new leaves of the hardwood tress. The sun filtered through the green branches making dancing shadows on the greening grass. An old man sat in a high backed rocker on the porch of a small house nestled in a holler in one of the outskirts of the many small towns sprinkled about the foothills. His grandchildren clamored about him as he sang, “The Cat Came Back” in a scratchy voice.
He never thought he’d live to see the children of his three children. He had married very late in life and his wife had died shortly after birthing their twins. He was fortunate his wife’s mother took over the raising. The oldest child, a girl, was three when the twins were born. A girl and a boy, both so small they easily could have rested comfortably in a shoe box. It was only by the grace of God and Granny Patterson’s mountain ways the children grew strong and healthy in a time and place where most would have floundered and died before their fifth birthday.
“Sing it again, Papa Josh.” one of the children said when he finished the old mountain song with its up and down melody.
The old man’s blue eyes twinkled as he rubbed a gnarled hand over his pink head with its few bristly white hairs on top and little more looking much like a ragged ruffle around the edges, above his ears and in the back above his shirt collar.
“Let me rest a bit first,” he said drawing a deep breath into his 77 year old body.
“Tell us about the olden days,” Linda, a flaxen haired girl of about Six said, knowing her grandfather had indeed lived in the real pioneer days of the country.
“Yeah, yeah.” the others yelled. “Tell us about the olden days.”
The old man sighed and stared across the yard to several cows grazing in a nearby pasture.
“I had a big farm one time. It was a ranch. Circle J. Over a thousand head of cattle ranged on it,” he said softly as if slipping to another time and place. “St. Joseph Missouri.”
“You was a real cowboy, Papa Josh?” Claudia, another grandchild asked as she climbed upon the arm of the rocker.
“Yes, I was,” the old man said matter-of-factly. “Rode a horse and wore a cowboy hat too.”
“Did you have to fight outlaws and Indians?” Janie asked, her five-year-old interest peeked.
“Sometimes I had a few cattle rustled,” he said.
“Did you live in a bunkhouse?” Seven-year-old Claudia asked, seeing a wild-west play house and her imaginary friends, Miss Brown and Miss Brucie, coming to tea parties.
“No. I lived in the main house. It was a big white house with lots of rooms,” he said.
“Did my daddy live there, too?” Janie asked.
“No. I was a young adventure seeker then. I left home and headed West to find my fortune. It was before I married your grandmother,” he answered between a little smile.
“Did you have a bunkhouse?” Chris, now four asked.
“Yep. There was a bunkhouse and fifteen bunk hands slept there and the bunkhouse cook,” the old man said to the little boy who sat cross-legged on the porch beside his feet.
“Did you wear cowboy guns? Did you ever shoot any bad guys?” Linda asked, thinking she would have liked to be a cowgirl in the olden days.
“I never shot anybody, but I did go to a funeral fur an outlaw. He was shot in the head by one of his friend.s,” he said.
All the children squirmed in excitement waiting for him to go on with the story.
The old man’s cheeks got rosy red as he smiled and continued. “My ranch was next to some of the Jesse James family. And, when he was killed, he was going by the name of Tom Howard, but he was Jesse James all the same.”
“I heard of Jesse James,” Janie said. “He was a bad outlaw. Is that who you mean, Papa Josh?”
“Yes,” he said still smiling. “It was springtime like this and warm, like the weather today as I recall. And, being neighbors of the family, I went to the funeral.”
The old man paused to read just one of the children on his lap then continued, “It was hot in the little church and there weren’t many folks there. But I saw a man on the back seat all slumped down with his hat on. It was pulled real low. I thought it was kinda disrespectful to the dead man, but thought maybe he was another outlaw and didn’t want anybody to see his face.”
“Maybe it was the man who shot Jesse James and he just wanted to be sure he was still dead,” Chris said.
The old man laid his head against the back of the rocker and chuckled merrily. “I don t think so,” he said. “You see, I saw the man. When the service was over and folks was leaving, I was behind the widow James and when we got close to the back of the church, the man stood up. He didn’t speak, but handed the widow a big handful of money, then raised his head slightly and I saw those haunting blue eyes. They belonged to the man who was supposed to be dead and in the coffin.”
“But, that means Jesse James wasn’t dead,” Linda said “Who was in the coffin?”
The man looked at his grandchildren and said as if sharing a long pent up secret, “You’re right. T believe Jesse James was at his own funeral but not as a dead man, but was, for sure, the man on the back seat. And, I don’t know who was in the coffin. maybe nobody. I never saw the man again. But, I didn’t stay in Missouri long after that.”
“But, Papa Josh, why did you leave? And, where did you go?” Linda asked. “And, what happened to your big ranch with all the cows?”
“Well, one day I woke up and thought about ranching and decided I didn’t want to do that anymore. So I told my foreman I was leaving and I walked out of that big ranch house and locked the door and threw the key on the porch. Then I just walked away. I never looked back. I guess the farm was sold for taxes. Don’t know. Never bothered to find out.”
“Where’d you go?” Linda asked again, feeling a bit sad.
“I come home,” he said happily. “I come here. These mountains are the home of my heart. I was born here and here’s was where I met and married your grandmother.”
“Did you love her a lot?” Janie asked. “I wish she was alive now.”
“Yes. She was like sunrise and sunset over these mountains. She was the brightest light in my life,” he said and raising his gaze to a distant high mountain said in a half-whisper. “Yes, I loved your grandmother, Elizabeth.”
“Yuck! I don’t like to talk about girls and I don’t like to talk about mushy stuff,” Chris yelled. “Sing ŒThe Cat Come Back’ again.”
Everyone laughed. As the old man began the scratchy singing, the screen door opened and a young woman, wearing an apron, announced dinner was ready and waiting. Everyone hurried. Fried chicken, biscuits and gravy for Sunday dinner had never tasted better there on that day in the southern Appalachian mountai
