Ch.8—Old Jim a.k.a. The Mountain Man
One long, summer day blended into the next long, summer day, with no other news flashes, and the other shoe did not drop…yet. I felt like I was stuck in…what you call it?...limbo, I think. I actually found myself wishing for school again, any escape from what might be coming. However, I was starting middle school in the fall and the thought of that next step in my life had me nearly over the brink. The suspense, the waiting for whatever hand life had to deal for me was killing me!
I knew something would happen at home…it was inevitable. John still came to dinner and he was annoyingly nice as ever, but no further discussions of marriage occurred. I had the crazy thought that he should have asked me permission to marry my mother which made me annoyed with him. Really, there would be major effects for me. How childish that I expected anyone to have courtesy toward me and consideration of my feelings! Oh, that’s right…I was just a child and how a child felt didn’t count.
After another increasingly frustrating morning with my mother where we tiptoed around each other, managed to spend the entire time being sickeningly sweet and somehow managed not to say anything worthwhile, I put on my swimsuit and made my escape.
I walked down to the dock and stared out at the water, waiting for it to calm me. I didn’t have to worry about my mother following. She rarely went in the lake. She didn’t like how the bottom felt on her feet, too rocky, too many weeds. I shook my head to clear away thoughts of her. Maybe she was trying to kill me with kindness, to bring me to my knees and beg her to get it over with and marry John! Then I could stop worrying about it and just live my so-called life, whatever that was. I lied down on the dock and glowered at the murky water. I would me darned if I was going to make this easy for her! She said we’d talk when I was ready. Well, maybe I could postpone this conversation until I moved away to college in five more years!
My thoughts kept circling like sharks until I finally pushed them out by reading a book. The sun beat down on my head, turning my eyelids to a blazing red every time I closed my eyes. Hot, humid air weighed heavily as the drone of a motorboat buzzed dully in the distance. When I couldn’t take it any more, I dove into the refreshing coolness. There was a huge splash next to me that sent me sputtering to the surface.
Tadpole was next to me, a baseball cap still on his head and his usual Cheshire grin in place. “Hey, Christy! How’s it going?” he asked, then spit a fountain of water in my face. I game of water wrestling and tag followed, with a relay across the lake. Half way there, it turned into floating on our backs while we gasped for air, then a slow swim the rest of the way. We turned back, dodging a few boats on the way.
We pulled ourselves onto the dock and fell back, flat out, recuperating from our efforts. . We’d probably been resting all of two minutes when Tadpole, his boundless energy supply restored, popped up and asked, “Want to go to Old Jim’s?”
I groaned dramatically. “I can’t move another muscle, not even to lift a finger to poke you. Aren’t you tired?”
Tadpole winked at me, eyes bright. “Nope, I’ll even row.”
I signaled for him to wait there and plodded up the stairs to ask my mother’s permission. She said yes, probably grateful to get me out of her hair. I had hoped she’d ask me to sort socks or do lint removal from the dryer since I was so tired. No such luck.
By the time I returned, Tadpole, that eager beaver, was in the boat, oars ready. I took in his happy expression and couldn’t help but smile back. The boat swayed under my feet as I climbed in and Tad pushed off. His strokes were strong and sure as they cut through the water…for the first ten minutes. When everything about him was drooping, I took over until we docked at Old Jim’s.
We climbed up steps hand-carved by Jim; each one was unique with its own woodland animal. At the top, a vegetable garden stretched to fill one side o f his yard. His little, log cabin rested on the other side with flowers wrapping around the house. Every flower was lovingly planted by his wife, Red. Though her hair was pure white, Old Jim still called her by the flame colored hair of her youth.
We expected to find our old friend in the garden but instead discovered him seated in a wooden chair by his workshop. He was painting a colorful scene of the woods around his home with rich, oil paints. As we approached, he turned to wave at us, his faded brown eyes warm with welcome. His face was weathered, worn into a map of wrinkles. He called them the road map of his life. His huge hands were bent with hard work and arthritis. Salt and pepper hair poked out from underneath his frayed, straw hat. Sometimes he looked so old, and then would surprise us as he did now when he youthfully jumped up from his seat. He gave both of us hearty, rib-cracking hugs. “Well, if it isn’t my young friends! Come with me to see the progress in the garden!”
We followed in the footprints of his heavy work boots. He reached into his back pocket of faded, denim overalls to mop the sweat from his face with a checkered bandana. He stopped when he reached his pumpkins. “Now, take a look there! What do you think?” His voice was filled with the excitement of a child at Christmas.
A long row of small pumpkins, still a soft yellow color, stretched out in front of us. It would be a good crop this fall. However, it was the first four or five that interested us the most. Old Jim had carved pictures into each one when they were very small. Mine was a deer, Tadpole’s was a wolf, and there were bears and a raccoon for Old Jim’s grandchildren. As the pumpkins grew, the pictures grew with them and became more deeply etched into the squash. I reached out and traced the picture in mine. “They’re perfect. I can’t wait for this every year!”
Old Jim patted his chest. “You just warm my heart, Darlin. It’s my pleasure to make them for all of you.”
Tadpole rolled his eyes at this show of mushiness and scampered through the rows, picking ripe vegetables such as beans, peas and peppers, and popping them in his mouth. He brought back a handful and we followed him to Old Jim’s picnic table, handmade again, in the shade. We repeated a tradition we had done many times, sharing the homegrown goodness, crunching, munching and laughing. It always tasted so good, like the sun and fresh air were trapped inside the fresh vegetables. Perhaps it was the care that Old Jim took with every plant; we’d even caught him singing and humming to his garden! If every kid could eat vegetables like these, there’d never be a problem with keeping America healthy.
“Hey, Old Jim, any more coons come lately?” Tadpole asked around a mouthful of pepper. I shook my head at this lack of manners but still couldn’t help grinning at him. You just couldn’t do anything but love Tadpole. He was like a puppy, full of good-natured energy and mischief.
Old Jim finished a handful of peas, pods and all, and leaned back against the picnic table. He tipped his straw hat back on his head and grinned at us. “As a matter of fact, I caught an old ring-tail two nights ago. I painted his tail blue and set him loose on the other side of the lake. Let’s see if he gets back here. My pappy taught me that and it’s always worked. I haven’t had one of my painted coons come back yet.”
“Tell us more mountain stories, “I begged. I pulled my knees up under my chin in expectation. Old Jim had lived a colorful life. He’d had little schooling; most of his learning had come from living. Beginning with his growing up rough in a small Adirondack shack to his years in the navy in World War II and ending with his time on Forest Lake, Old Jim had gathered a treasure chest of experiences. However, the stories Tadpole and I liked the best were the stories that made him know as the Mountain Man. He had many tales, told over and over to generations, about his young years in a one room cabin built by his grandfather. He grew up with seven brothers and sisters and worked hard every day. His father and grandfather had taught him many valuable life lessons. So many of the things he still did, so much of who he was, was shaped by his time in the mountains. As I sat back listening, I could picture myself living in those t
imes. I was barefoot, washing in the creek, running in the meadows, chopping wood for the fire and fishing for my supper. It wounded perfect to me. I could almost smell the fresh pine wood in the cook stove and the latest catch fried in a cast iron pan…
Tadpole snapped his fingers in front of my eyes. “Hello in there! Come back! It’s time to come back, Christy! We’re going to go paint!” He set off at a run, back to the workshop. By the time Old Jim and I caught up, Tadpole had brought out our canvases and paint palettes. We stood near each other as we painted. Tadpole was still chattering while I was unlike my normal self. I didn’t say a word. I sensed Old Jim’s eyes on me and continued to work on my picture of the lake. I tried to get the colors just right, to make it feel like the lake felt to Daddy and me whenever we looked at it. Tears started to burn at the back of my eyes. What was wrong with me?
Old Jim cleared his throat. “Hey there, Tadpole. Go on in the house. Red has some nice, cold lemonade. Why not bring us out some. I’m feeling a little parched.” Tadpole hopped to it and shot off toward the house. Old Jim’s work-roughened hand pressed my shoulder in comfort. “What’s up with you, girlie? You’re not yourself today.”
I felt my throat start to choke up. “I’m okay, Old Jim, really.”
He took my brush gently from my fingers then turned me to face him, tipping my chin up so he could look in my eyes. His own reflected the hurt in mine as he shook his head. “Aw, honey, you’re not okay. What is it, sweetie?”
I found myself wrapped in his arms, burying my face in his sleeveless flannel shirt. His arms seemed big enough and strong enough to hold the world. “Oh, Old Jim, I don’t know what to do. Mother wants to get married again and I miss Daddy so much and everything is just falling apart! What do I do?”
I felt him patting my back as I started to cry harder. Believe it or not, I had hardly ever cried before Daddy became sick. Now I couldn’t turn the faucet off! Old Jim clucked and “there, there’d” softly until I was sniffling and the worst was over. He gestured for me to sit down on a bench by the shed. He looked me in the eye and pointed a finger at my chest. “You are strong enough for this, missy. You’ve already been through the hardest part. Now is the time to move forward. If your mama needs help to move on with her life, you need to let her. Your daddy is the one you both want but he can’t be here. And one thing I know about your daddy is he wouldn’t want this, darlin, you so sad and your mama alone. Try and remember what would make him happy, remember he’d want you to be happy. Give life a chance to bring that back to you. Let this lake and your friends help you. Give your mother and yourself a second chance at happiness. Everyone deserves to be happy, girlie.”
I leaned my head on his shoulder and held onto his arm, drinking in the scent of wood chips from the wood he had chopped that morning. I let the heat of his flannel sleeve soak in to my hand and slowly felt the crushing sadness lift. For the moment, I felt calm and still inside. In a small voice, I softly told him, “I’ll try, Old Jim. Thank you for listening and helping me.”
Magic lesson learned: sometimes second tries are a success. It might not be the same or as good as the first go around in my life, but I would give my new life a shot. Besides, I knew change was a part of life. I only hoped there would be some good changes and soon. A twelve-year-old could only take so much!
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