Chips of Red Paint

by K. Martin Beckner

  Nearly panicked, Charlie and I walked quickly down the hill to the spring house. I was so nervous I nearly fell a few times on the way down. We went inside the springhouse and sat down on the ground on each side of the stream of water that poured from the wooden gutter. We heard a helicopter fly over us. It sounded close to the ground.

  “What do we do if they come down here looking for us,” I asked.

  “I guess we’ll just have to take off running,” said Charlie.

  “How will we know when they’re gone, and we can go back to the cabin?”

  “I imagine Mr. Miller will come and let us know.”

  It was about two hours before we heard Mr. Miller’s voice telling us it was okay to go back up to the cabin. He had waited a while to come and get us because he wanted to make sure all was clear. He said that the people who had been calling our names were a search team the police had sent out to find us. He told them he didn’t have any idea where we were, and he had never seen us before. Fortunately, they believed him and didn’t bother to ask to search the house, where they would have found our backpacks lying on the floor close to our bed. Mr. Miller had forgotten to hide our backpacks. I was very much relieved to have survived such a close call. Mr. Miller was very short of breath as we climbed back up the hill. He had to stop several times and almost fell twice.

  Later that day, Mr. Miller said we were going to have a fish fry for our supper that night. But first he said we had to go fishing. Charlie and I were thrilled. Mr. Miller gave us some bamboo fishing poles and galvanized buckets, the same buckets we’d been using to collect our drinking water.

  “What’s the buckets for?” I asked.

  “They’re to put the fish in we catch,” said Mr. Miller.

  “Okay,” I said, “I was just wondering, because we’d been collecting our drinking water from these. Is this the first time you’ve used these buckets to collect fish?”

  “No, I usually use these buckets to spread manure on my garden.”

  “Gross,” said Charlie.

  I felt queasy.

  Mr. Miller laughed and said, “Y’all is some of the most worrying kids I’ve ever seen. I always wash these buckets out with hot soapy water after I’ve had fish in them. And I was just pulling your leg about the manure.”

  “That’s a relief,” said Charlie.

  “It sure is,” I said.

  Mr. Miller grabbed a tackle box and a can of worms, he’d collected previously, and together we headed down the hill. We walked past the springhouse and followed the creek until at last we reached a large isolated pond. The pond was a beautiful clear green, not muddy looking like ponds so often are. The stream coming from the springhouse continually fed the pond, keeping the water fresh. The creek continued its journey on the opposite side of the pond. A large ancient tree towered over the pond. Hanging from this tree, a grapevine almost touched the ground.

  “This is the prettiest pond I’ve ever saw in my life,” said Charlie.

  “It sure is,” I said. “Most ponds I’ve seen look muddy.”

  “I had this pond dug years ago,” said Mr. Miller. “I picked the perfect spot next to this tree with the grapevine. The pond’s kept fresh with the water from this stream. The stream continues on the other side of the pond. That way the water stays level. It took some engineering to get it right.”

  “This would be a perfect place to swim,” said Charlie, Pulling on the grapevine. “We could have a blast swinging into the water from this grapevine.”

  “It’s perfect,” I said, clapping my hands together.

  “Well, you won’t do any swimming today, unless you want to scare all the fish away. Fish don’t bite when they’re nervous.”

  “That’s true,” said Charlie. “One time I went fishing with my uncle. He got mad because the first thing I did when we got there was to throw a great big rock in the pond. We didn’t catch anything all day.”

  “What if the owner catches us fishing in their pond?” I asked.

  “I’m the owner,” replied Mr. Miller, indignant. “Do you think I would have dug this pond if I didn’t own the land?”

  “You must be rich to own so much land,” said Charlie.

  “I told y’all I was pretty well off. Most people wouldn’t realize by looking at me that I’m such a land baron.”

  “What’s a baron,” I asked.

  “I guess you’d say it’s somebody that owns a lot of stuff,” said Mr. Miller.

  “I hope I own a lot of stuff when I get big,” said Charlie.

  “You’ve got to work hard if you want to make anything out of yourself,” said Mr. Miller, baiting his hook. He showed us how to bait our hooks, and we threw our lines in the water and waited.

  The pond was so isolated that I couldn’t hear any traffic in the background, and I imagined that we were in a time one hundred years ago, long before cars existed. I glanced up at the sky and saw a few crisscrossed white trails left behind by airplanes. I tried to ignore this invasion into my fantasy world by not looking up. I wondered what someone one hundred years ago would have thought if they had looked up and saw an airplane. I figured they would have thought it was some kind of giant bird that had survived the days of dinosaurs. They would have been amazed to know that one day people would be able to fly across the sky and go anywhere in the world that they wanted to in a short time.

  I remembered my history teacher saying once that it used to take weeks for people to travel in a buggy or wagon to other states. He said trains improved travel for people, but they were no match for airplanes. Airplanes would have seemed like magic to someone living during those early days of America. And here I was thinking that they had it made back then, back when everything was simpler. Staying with Mr. Miller made me feel like I actually had gone back in time, that I was living the life of a pioneer, and I was enjoying it very much.

  “I think I’ve caught something,” yelled Charlie, as he stood up very excited.

  “I believe you have,” said Mr. Miller. “Now take it easy and pull it in slowly. We don’t want to let it get away.”

  Charlie had caught a large catfish, at least by Charlie and my standards, and we jumped up and down with excitement. I was now motivated to catch a bigger fish, and in a short time, to my delight, I had caught a bluegill. It was a smaller fish than Charlie had caught, but I was just as excited as Charlie had been. I felt dejected when Mr. Miller threw it back in the water, saying it was too small and needed time to grow. But soon I caught a catfish bigger than the one Charlie had caught and found myself fully recovered from my earlier disappointment. Moments later, Mr. Miller caught a large catfish too. Within a few hours we had caught eight catfish. I was thrilled that my first catfish remained the largest catch of the day. Our buckets nearly full, Mr. Miller declared that we had enough to eat and should leave the rest of the fish in the pond to catch later. We gathered our buckets of fish and supplies and headed back up the hill to the cabin.

  Upon returning to the cabin, Mr. Miller showed us how to prepare the fish for cooking. Charlie was more excited about this process than I was. I watched squeamishly through squinted eyes as Mr. Miller chopped off the fish’s heads, peeled back the skins, and removed the meat from the bones. I wasn’t too fond of the fishy odor, either.

  Once the fish were prepared, Charlie and I gathered some wood, and we both attempted to start a fire using the ancient method Mr. Miller had taught us. After several frustrating attempts, Mr. Miller got tired of waiting and started the fire with a match. He said we’d try it again sometime when he wasn’t starving to death. We got the fire going, and Mr. Miller placed the catfish fillets, which he had rolled in cornmeal, onto an iron skillet that was over the fire. I don’t recall better tasting catfish before or since. I made sure I was the one who got to eat my prize catch, the biggest fish of the day. Mr. Miller also made some very delicious hushpuppies out of cornmeal.

  It seems strange to me now that, with all I believed to be going on in my life, I had adapted so w
ell. In only a few short days, I had left behind the life I’d known since birth and had started a new life. The fact that I was enjoying myself so thoroughly, I’m sure, aided my quick adjustment. I also believe youth deserves a lot of credit. As a very young person, I was ready and willing to explore and try new things, unhampered by the daily routines that adults so often feel obligated to adhere to. Oh sure, when it got quiet and my thoughts were allowed to wander, I thought of my recent previous life. The two things that bothered me most at those times were the loss of Hazel and not being able to see my parents. What relieved by anxiety was my belief that Hazel had gone to heaven and that someday, when things settled down, I would return to my parents and my dog. There would, however, be a lot of explaining to do.

  From the short period of time during which I got to know him, up until I reached adulthood, I had nothing but the utmost admiration for Mr. Miller. He was to me like some mythical old man from a fantasy novel, full of kindness and wisdom. In many ways, to this day, he remains to me that type of character, but as an adult, I have some pestering doubts as to his kindness and wisdom. If he really had been kind, he wouldn’t have used our fears, mostly my fears, I might add, Charlie being primarily along for the ride, to deceive us into staying with him. And a wise, as well as kind, person would have seen to it that we were immediately returned to our frantic parents. But I’ve tucked those negative thoughts in a drawer, and for the most part, though I know the drawer still exists, I never open it. What comes later in my recollection of these events is what always wins the argument within myself of him being a kind person, and these memories I keep in a drawer that stays open.

  Although I’m never able to fully validate in my mind his wisdom, I will say this: he has been a very influential person in my life. His stories have stuck with me like a collection of fine, often read books in the great library of my collective thoughts.

  The next morning I woke up to Charlie shaking my shoulders. “Hey, Brian,” he said, eagerly, “let’s see if Mr. Miller will let us go swimming in that big pond today.”

  “What’s going on?” I said, wiping the sleep from my eyes.

  “I said, ‘Let’s see if Mr. Miller will let us go swimming in the pond today.’ That’ll be the most fun ever.”

  “I didn’t bring any swimming trunks,” I said.

  “Who needs them. We’ll just wear our underwear. It’ not like there’s going to be any girls around.”

  I got dressed quickly. Charlie was already dressed. We found Mr. Miller in the back yard weeding his garden. He seemed a little annoyed when we asked him if we could go swimming, since he’d planned us a whole day of working, but he gave in when we told him we’d work extra hard when we got back. After we ate a breakfast of scrambled eggs and country ham, along with some strong coffee, Mr. Miller gave us a couple of white towels, and Charlie and I headed down the hill towards the pond.

  Upon reaching the pond, Charlie undressed quickly, grabbed the grapevine, and swung over the water. He let go of the vine and dropped into the water with a big splash. I cautiously undressed and stepped slowly into the water.

  “You’re so chicken,” said Charlie, “You should just grab the grapevine and jump in. It’s more fun that way.”

  “I’ve got to get used to the water. I’ll freeze if I jump in all at once.”

  “As hot as it is out here, and you’re worried about the water being cold. The water’s perfect.”

  Not persuaded, I slowly immersed myself in the water and swam towards Charlie. Charlie splashed water in my face, then pushed me under the water. I recovered and did the same to him. Gaining confidence, I decided to try the grapevine. I swung over the water and let go, nearly landing on Charlie. He responded by laughing and dunking my head under the water again. Along with swinging from the grapevine, we played games like seeing who could stay under the water the longest, and who could swim across the pond the fastest. Charlie won the races every time, but I held my breath the longest a few times.

  After swimming for about two hours, we dried off, dressed, and headed back to the cabin, laughing and joking all the way. Mr. Miller complained that we’d stayed gone too long, but he didn’t seem very mad about it. We sort of forgot about all that extra work we were going to do, and Mr. Miller didn’t bring it up either.

  That night we gathered around the campfire with Mr. Miller for the last time.

  “You know,” said Mr. Miller. “I hope you two learn something while you’re here.”

  “What do you want us to learn?” I asked.

  “I hope you learn how to slow down and not let your life pass you by while you’re watching the idiot box. Life’s short, and one day you’ll wake up and look in the mirror and realize you look like King Tut. And if you ever find someone you really love, hold onto them with everything you’ve got. Hold onto them until they’re gone. And if they ever are gone, let them go. Don’t forget them, but let them go. Don’t waste your life away like I’ve done. I’ve spent too many years grieving and hiding from life. I guess you two coming along has in some ways made me feel like living again, now that I’m about dead.”

  “You’re not about dead,” I said.

  “Now, don’t interrupt me. I want you two to remember what I’m saying.

  “The last thing I want to say is this: don’t stop trying until you can start a fire with them sticks. If you can learn how to start a fire with sticks, you can learn how to do anything.

  “Okay, now that I’ve said what I wanted to say, I need y’all to promise me something.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “I need y’all to promise that one day when you’re back home with your families, you won’t tell anybody about me. You see, the world don’t understand people like me. I’m an old man. The few that know I’m up here, I’m sure, believe I’m some kind of crazy hermit, and they’ll think I kidnapped you two. They won’t understand that you came up here voluntarily and that we’ve all had a great time. They’ll come up here and cart me away, and I’ll have to spend what few good years I got left at the state hospital or in a jail cell, depending on how crazy they think I am.”

  “We want to stay up here and live with you,” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Charlie.

  “I want you to stay here, too,” said Mr. Miller, “but I was telling you this just in case things don’t work out.”

  “I walked over and hugged Mr. Miller around the neck, then sat back down on my rock seat and cried quietly, not sure at the time why I was crying. I looked over at Mr. Miller and saw that he had tears too.

  “Let’s talk about something more fun,” said Charlie, breaking up the mood. “I’m starting to get depressed.”

  Mr. Miller laughed and said, “Did y’all ever hear about the time Bigfoot was captured in these woods?”

  Amazed, I wiped the tears off my face and said, “When did that happen?”

  “Oh, this was back years ago when I was a lot younger.”

  “Were you the one that captured him?” asked Charlie.

  “I sure was. Why that was the biggest thing that’s ever happened around these parts. I’m surprised they don’t teach this story in history class.”

  “Man, I can’t believe I’ve never heard about it,” I said.

  “Me neither,” said Charlie. “You would think people would still be talking about it.”

  “This is what happened. Almost every night around midnight, or so, I’d wake up hearing a really loud footstep, sounded almost like it was hopping. It’d get louder and louder, until I could tell that whatever it was was hopping past the cabin. I tell you, the dishes in the pie safe would rattle when that thing went by. I’d get my gun every time and look out the window for it, but it was always too dark to see anything. It wouldn’t come out on nights when the moon was shining bright, and by the time I’d get my lantern lit, it would always be gone.

  “I was determined I was going to catch that thing one way or another. One night I ran a wire across the road, thinking th
at it would trip the monster, and I’d be able to light my lantern and grab my gun before it got away. Well, that didn’t work. I woke up later that night to the sound of the giant footstep. I scrambled around and got my lantern lit. But I tell you what, that thing just kept on hopping right past the wire without a care in the world. By the time I got out outside it was gone.”

  “It must have had real good eyesight,” interrupted Charlie. “That could explain why it liked to travel at night.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t think of that,” I said, totally engrossed in the story.

  “Nope, it didn’t have good eyesight,” said Mr. Miller, “and if you’d let me finish the story, you’d find out why.

  “Anyway, the next day I came up with another strategy. I had to think hard to come up with this idea, but this time it worked. I dug a big hole in the middle of the road and covered it over with brush. I was nervous as a tomcat all day, thinking about what was going to happen when that monster stepped in that hole. I finally drifted off to sleep that night, and again I was woke up around midnight to the sound of the footstep. This time, however, when it got close to the cabin, I heard a crashing sound. I was beside myself. I had caught it at last. I lit my lantern, grabbed my gun, and ran outside.”

  “Oh, man, I’d be scared to death,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t,” said Charlie.

  “I shined my lantern down in the hole, and there it was—the biggest foot you ever saw. It didn’t have no body attached; it was just a big foot. It was wearing about a size fifty penny loafer. That thing was just a hoppin’ around like crazy in that hole. I called the local newspaper, and a reporter came over and took pictures of me standing next to my huge catch. The headlines all over the country read, ‘Buford Miller Captures Bigfoot’.”

  “What?” said Charlie. “That’s the craziest story I’ve ever heard.”

  “That wasn’t true was it?” I asked.