GRANDFATHER'S LIFE lacked the
inspiration of fellowship and he thereby suffered a great loss; fellowship
would have enriched and sweetened his life. However, grandfather must have
had certain resources within himself. He never spoke of being lonesome.
During the summer days, he spent some of his idle hours out of doors
wherever he could be most comfortable. The front porch was a favorite
resort during the morning hours and he preferred to sit on the porch floor
with his back against the house. Why he never kept a comfortable chair on
the porch, I do not know. Probably it would have seemed too much of an
indulgence; he preferred to sit on the south edge of the floor of the
porch. Sometimes his left foot was on the ground and sometimes it was
stretched out along side its lifelong partner on the porch but whatever
variations there might be in the matter of posture, the spot where he sat
down was always the same; he was never known to sit on the north edge of
the front porch. I wouldn't have believed my own eyes if I ever had found
him sitting there.
How closely grandmother was tied to her home duties is
evidenced by the fact that during the eighty years of her life in
Wallingford, she never found time to visit the "Cascades," one of the
sights of interest located less than two miles distant from the house in
which she was born.
Knitting stockings and other garments to protect her
grandson against the rigors of New England winters, was grandmother's
relaxation from her more arduous tasks. While she was more given to
talking than grandfather, she could not have been said to be talkative.
She said little of her forebears but I do remember
hearing of an Uncle Bucklin, who, like Joseph of old, during a period of
famine divided his corn with those in need. When a friend advised him to
save his corn for the use of himself and his family, he said, 'No, if
everyone else is to starve, we might as well starve with them."
While I was still a child grandmother's half-brother
Bill came back from the West in the last stages of consumption and as the
doctor would not permit him to smoke, he went to Webster's store where
village loafers gathered evenings and smoked their pipes until the air was
blue; great-uncle Bill derived much satisfaction out of thus having
outwitted the doctor but his victory was but temporary. A bed was soon
placed in the south parlor where grandmother nursed him. One morning in
great agitation she called Mr. Harvey Congdon who lifted the bedclothes on
the bed of great-uncle Bill, thrust his hand beneath them, then turned to
grandmother and whispered the words, "Yes, he is dead."
The front porch played very little part in our lives,
although on especially pleasant evenings in summer, grandmother would draw
her chair out and sit there rocking and viewing the parade of villagers
walking or driving past our house. Sometimes cows were driven home from
pastures along the village street by the children of our neighbors.
Whenever grandmother did sit on the porch, I usually
sat on the marble step leading up to it because I knew it was to be a
period of relaxation; it meant that she had cast aside household cares for
the time being. An evening on the front porch was as exciting to
grandmother as a trip to Europe would be to some folks I have known. With
a crocheted shawl thrown round her shoulders to protect her frail body
against the evening chill, she rocked slowly in her cane-seated chair,
talking quietly of times long since past and serenely viewing her garden
of old-fashioned flowers planted by her own hands.
Once in a while a passing neighbor, seeing grandmother
sitting on the front porch, would break his journey for a little chat with
her and, on less frequent occasions, neighbors would make a planned call;
neighborliness was at its best whenever grandmother sat on the front
porch.
There were certain friends almost certain to call; they
were the hummingbirds. In fact grandmother had extended them all a blanket
invitation, written in the only language hummingbirds know, the language
of long-petaled flowers.
Years before grandmother had planted a honeysuckle vine
which twined itself around the two posts which supported the porch. The
hummingbirds viewed the honeysuckle vines as exclusively their own, as
indeed they were. Neither other birds nor bees could reach down deep
enough into the flowers to extract the sweetness held in the long slender
cups.
Grandmother and I spent many happy evenings on the
front porch witnessing the comings, the feastings and the goings of the
tiny, swift-winged hummingbirds and in noting their marvelous skill in
flying backward and forward or from side to side, or standing stock-still
in midair while they harvested the nectar from the honeysuckles.
The hummingbird that hung
Like a jewel up among
The tilted honeysuckle
horns.
-James Whitcomb
Riley.
One evening Mr. Joel Ainsworth called and grandmother
had me bring him a comfortable chair from the parlor. Mr. Joel Ainsworth
was a distant relative by marriage and one of our most respected citizens.
In addition to his other activities, he operated a small farm back of his
house on the highway. He raised vegetables sufficient for the use of his
family and produced eggs and milk enough to supply his own needs and a
small surplus to sell to neighbors. We were, at one time, among his milk
customers. Mr. Ainsworth was also county surveyor and insurance agent; a
very versatile gentleman indeed.
As soon as Mr. Ainsworth had seated himself,
grandmother said, "I am always glad to see you, Joel, and particularly
glad to see you at this time. I understand that you have been interesting
yourself in the candidacy of Mr. James A. Garfield for President. I
thought that I would like to get firsthand information as to how you stand
on the question."
"Well, Pamela, nothing could give me greater pleasure
than to let you know where I stand. I am interested in James A. Garfield
because he seems to me to be another Abraham Lincoln, or as near like him
as any man could be. Of course there never has been and there never will
be another Abraham Lincoln. I have a notion, Pamela, that the best
character builder is adversity; at least that is the school that some of
our greatest Americans graduated from- the school of adversity. A man who
can work himself up from nothing to a position of high honor is the man
for me. James A. Garfield, like Abraham Lincoln, was born in a log cabin
and he had to depend upon his own resources. He had a mother of splendid
character who established his ideals. He did the rest."
After a pause, he continued, "Oh, I don't mean, Pamela,
that it is impossible for a man born with a silver spoon in his mouth to
rise to distinction but the man who has never known what it is to be
waited on has the best chance," and at this point, Mr. Ainsworth tapped
the floor very convincingly with his gold-headed cane.
"I quite agree with every word you have spoken, Joel,"
said grandmother. James A. Garfield had to work hard on his father's farm
and he had nothing but strong hands, a courageous heart and good home
teaching to pull him through. Then there's another thing. He had ambition,
if he hadn't he never would have gone out into the world to fight the best
of them. I like all of his experiences, walking the towpath, teaching
school, studying law, working his way through college, going into
politics. It seems to me that he expected even then to become President of
the United States someday, and thank God, I believe he will. He is
typically American, I believe."
Joel Ainsworth and grandmother shook hands with an
extra strong grip when they parted that night and as for me, I felt that
Mr. Ainsworth was going home far too soon.
From then on, I was for James A. Garfield. Maybe
sometime, I might get a job on the towpath of the Erie Canal and, as
stranger things had happened, I might even become the President of the
United States instead of a locomotive engineer as I had planned.
Grandmother's journeys to the front porch were grand
occasions, so delightful that I wished they might be extended indefinitely
but she had duties to attend to and things beyond number to think about
so, ninety-nine per cent of the time, we lived behind the front porch.
Yes, in the rear of the north and south parlors. In other words, we were
very much shut in; particularly so in the winter when snows hampered the
movements of all except boys.
The passers-by were few and on bleak stormy days they
dwindled down to the vanishing point. It seemed to me that it would have
added something to our sense of comfort at least if we could have looked
out from the warmth of our south parlor at the few hardy and courageous
neighbors, who, in spite of biting winds and pelting sleet, struggled
through the storm to the post-office or store. However, there was only one
member of our family who was ever known to complain of loneliness and that
one was the least circumscribed of all, a boy named Paul.
During my earliest years in Wallingford, Mr. Asa
Webster's store and house were directly across the street from our house.
His store was a gathering place for certain old gentlemen of the
neighborhood, and not infrequently, three octogenarians, Mr. Webster,
Judge Button and grandfather were to be seen on the porch of Webster's
store chaffing on current events and bantering each other on their growing
infirmities. Mr. Webster, however, did most of the talking. He spoke
mainly of his own exploits of former years, how fast he could run and how
high he could jump. He attributed his physical prowess to his strict
regimen of daily exercises. It had been his custom to run a mile and split
a cord of wood each morning to get up an appetite for breakfast. In those
early days, when possessed of youthful vigor, he could spring so high into
the air that he could easily crack his heels together three times during
the interval of going up and coming down-at least, so Mr. Webster said.
When it was manifest that Mr. Webster was in a
reminiscent mood, grandfather used to lean his long-backed chair against
the store front hook his boot heels on the lower rung, grasp his long
staff firmly in hand, ready for any emergency.
Judge Button, having spent many years on the bench
where he had heard many strange tales, customarily cupped his ears and
inclined his body gently toward Mr. Webster as if fearful that he might
miss some essential part of the testimony.
It was customary for the Judge and grandfather to
refrain from making comments during the course of such recitals. Coarse
laughter and ribald remarks were conspicuous in their absence. Both
auditors assumed the appearance of deep solemnity, in fact, they seemed
lugubrious at times. So far as the writer knows, no formal code of correct
practice had ever been adopted; there was no need of one; they all knew
their respective parts and played them. In his heart of hearts, both Judge
Button and grandfather knew that Mr. Asa Webster was not only an infernal
liar but that he was also proud of the fact.
The nearest approach to a comeback that I remember was
when Mr. Webster in a burst of pride, after relating one of his great
exploits, challenged grandfather to walk him a race to Clarendon, three
miles distant, and return. Grandfather accepted the challenge.
Grandfather was very close mouthed about his coming
marathon with Asa Webster; even grandmother had no intimation of the great
event; everything, with one exception, went on as usual, the exception
being that grandfather began to indulge in long, daily walks. Grandmother,
later on, recalled the fact that grandfather seemed to be undergoing quite
a change in his habits; instead of his usual afternoon siestas on the
front porch, he began to take long walks in the country. Whenever
grandfather took these long walks, he took his staff with him. It was too
long to be called a cane but somehow it suited his needs; perhaps he
viewed it as something in the nature of a companion. In any event, during
the days preceding the marathon, grandfather hiked many a mile in company
with his staff.
It was very unusual for grandfather to make changes in
his daily program and grandmother was at a loss to know how it had come
about. She knew however that grandfather would mention the matter whenever
he thought it necessary to do so.
All we ever heard of the events of the race was what
dribbled through by way of Mrs. Button and her daughter Ellen. From that
source we learned that the marathon had taken place. The two octogenarians
started out to round the church in Clarendon. The Judge, in the meantime,
sat on the porch of Mr. Webster's store and acted as timekeeper and
referee. It was agreed, so it seems, that each contestant had to continue
to the end regardless of whether he was winning or losing.
It also leaked out that grandfather started out slowly
but with measured step; Mr. Webster was well in the lead; his step was
springy and his spirit exultant. Eventually he began to hear grandfather
coming with measured step from behind. This was very harrowing to the
nerves of Mr. Webster. According to the underground report, grandfather
rounded the church first and met Mr. Webster as grandfather was on his
return to Wallingford.
Grandfather spoke not a word but Mr. Webster shouted to
his speeding opponent these words, "You don't seem to care much about good
company, Harris."
When Mr. Webster returned, grandfather and the Judge
were waiting for him on the porch. The Judge took a look at his watch but
made no announcement; both he and grandfather looked very solemn indeed;
solemn as two great owls.
Grandfather said, apologetically, "I'm afraid I tired
you all out, Webster. I should have stopped to visit with you but I just
happened to think that my hens were out and I was afraid they might be
scratching in the Judge's garden."
Gone were Mr. Asa Webster's anecdotes of his great
athletic accomplishments. No longer did he amaze his auditors with yarns
of his bone crunching encounters with bears and tigers. Grandfather and
the Judge came to the sad conclusion that they had, so to speak, killed
the goose that laid the golden egg; Mr. Asa Webster never was himself
again.
In course of time, Mr. Justin Batcheller, one of the
partners of the Batcheller Fork Company, wanted to build a fine home on
the ground then occupied by Mr. Webster's store and house, and, thinking
that the price might be boosted if the name of the prospective purchaser
became known, he asked grandfather to make the purchase for him.
Grandfather complied, buying the property in his own name for three
thousand dollars. The house and store were moved elsewhere and a fine
residence built in their place. When grandmother realized what had
happened, she said, "Why, Pa Harris, look what you have done; you have
cheated yourself out of the only loafing place you have ever known." And
so he had; he never found another.
