Episode Eight
THE ABYSS
After the morning service at Patty Creek, we hiked up the hill to the Kinney’s. Lidge assisted Mrs. Kinney, Mariah and I followed, Laura carried the baby, and the youngsters rode drag on the herd of toddlers. Laura had prepared a pot of son-of-a-gun-stew prior to leaving for church, and as we entered the Kinney home, the whole atmosphere was permeated with the delightful aroma of stewed bacon and simmering potatoes. Mrs. Kinney brought a large pan of flaky, whole-wheat biscuits from the oven, and Lidge asked the blessing on our meal. The scene was reminiscent of the biblical account of the loaves and the fishes. I couldn’t see how one pot of stew could feed so many people. Somehow it did.
Lidge, Mariah, and I filled our bowls, grabbed a biscuit, and adjourned to the porch to visit. Lidge and I chattered excitedly about the church service, and I became gradually aware that Mariah seemed strangely subdued. I remained silent until I had Lidge’s attention, and then nodded in Mariah’s’ direction to indicate my concern for her silence. Lidge nodded understandingly. “She’s just nervous about being baptized next Sunday,” he said. “She’s scared to death of the water.”
Mariah looked up shyly and nodded in affirmation of her brother’s observation. I was amazed at his insight, and I had to admire his sagacity. “Well, that’s nothing to worry about Mariah.” I responded. “It only lasts a minute.” “This won’t be no Catholic sprinkling.” Lidge piped up. “This is a Baptist service. They’re gonna give her a real good dunking, in the swimmin’ hole, head and all!”
“Have you been Baptized Obadiah?” Mariah enquired expectantly. “I’ve been sprinkled.” I answered. “But I’ve not been dunked!” Mariah looked at me imploringly with those huge brown eyes and asked, “Would you be baptized with me on Sunday?” I tried to back water, but I was already in too deep! “Well sure.” I piped up. I forced a smile on the outside, but inside I’m thinking, how in the world will I ever face Mom and Dad? By the time my folks are finished with me, I won’t need Baptizing at all. I’ll just need an epitaph. Here lies Obie, cold and dead. He should have gone to mass instead!
After lunch, we took our bowls back in the house. The younger children had already gone out back to play and Mrs. Kinney asked Laura to run and see what they were up to. The three of us decided to tag along. The Kinney home is terraced into the side of a deep ravine, and at the bottom of the ravine is an immense blackberry patch. The tangled thicket achieves six to eight feet in height and sprawls for sixty feet across the gully and as far as the eye can see up and down the ravine. A wet weather stream meanders through the middle, and here and there Spruce trees pierce the dense canopy of briars, competing for the sunshine and littering the ravine floor with a luxurious carpet of dry needles. Several of the evergreens sport tree-forts assembled from lumber the children have salvaged from the wreckage of an abandoned barn. A network of paths and tunnels connect the forts with each other and the outer banks.
The balmy fall afternoon was almost summer-like, and between the sounds of children at play, frogs sang from the creek bank and a pair of Mourning doves cooed a melancholy refrain in the distance. A well-traveled trail formed several switchbacks during its decent down the steep bank, and ended abruptly at a small clearing just inside the thicket.
From this point on, the four of us would have to crawl on our hands and knees. Earlier in the season, our efforts might have been rewarded with a bounty of juicy blackberries. The berries were long gone, but the sharp thorns remained, camouflaged by the thick purple foliage of an extended Indian summer. Despite our best efforts, the thorns snatched at our clothes, and periodically resulted in a screech and a grimace, as a determined thorn found its mark and pierced somebody’s hide.
As we approached one of the spruce trees, a half-dozen of the Kinney kids paused and observed our approach with, first suspicion, and then delight. At the ripe old age of thirteen, Laura is too old and much too busy to devote much time to child’s play. The youngsters considered this intrusion of adolescents a real treat and several little ones latched onto Laura’s skirt as we entered their hideout. “Tell us a story Laura, please!” “Tell us about the ghosts!” “Not now.” said Laura feigning annoyance, but obviously pleased by the attention. The kids continued their clamor, eventually weakening their elder sibling’s resolve. “Alright, alright,” Laura acquiesced, collapsing into a bed of needles at the base of a towering Spruce.
“Once upon a time there was a spooky ol’ ghost dressed all in black.” That’s as far as she got! The littlest Kinney had a question. “If ghosts are just spirit,” she asked musingly, “why do they need clothes at all?” “Good question,” admitted Laura contemplatively. This line of thought piqued the children’s curiosity, resulting in several additional questions. “If ghosts wear clothes,” asked another, “do they have to warsh ‘em? Do ghosts get ring around the collar?” This resulted in an outburst of exuberant laughter, exacerbated by youthful enthusiasm. Lidge perked up and his face shone with recognition of his opportunity to participate. “I wonder,” he said, grinning with anticipation, “If ghosts get lint in their belly-buttons.” “Ghosts don’t have bellybuttons silly,” chimed the twins in unison, and the entire hollow rang with squeals of laughter.
In the middle of this jocularity, the briars rustled and in stepped two more youngsters. Mick and Sid O’Meara had overheard the ruckus from across the hollow and come to investigate the cause of all the merriment. Mick seemed to sense the jovial mood of the assembly almost immediately. He sprawled on the ground, rested his chin on his hands, and offered a yarn of his own. “You should have seen what happened at our house! There’s a big old alligator turtle in our pond. The McCauley’s cow was standing belly deep, coolin’ off the other day, when that ol’ snapper swum up and bit the end right out of one of her spickets!” The kids all groaned and grabbed their chests. The response was spontaneous and only served to encourage the storyteller. “‘Before we could get a tourniquet on her,” he continued, “that old cow leaked out three buckets of buttermilk!”
“Oh, go on,” said Laura. “That’s nothin’,” announced Lidge. “We had a big ol’ wolf trap set at our pond, trying to catch a darned ol’ coon. One of them big snappers got caught by the neck. ‘Fore we could drag him out and give ‘im what fore, that rascal chewed his head off and got clean away! A couple of days later he come draggin’ up the hill, fit as a fiddle and carryin’ his head in his mouth!”
At that moment a distant “Helluuu,” echoed from the hill in the direction of the O’Meara place. “Skedaddle,” whispered Sid! “That’s Ted.” Mick and Sid vanished into the thicket as muffled voices became audible at the edge of the hollow. Laura and the youngsters made tracks for higher ground too. Evidently Ted runs with a gang of area roughnecks, and the whole bunch run roughshod over the entire neighborhood. “That’s Ted and those other ruffians,” said Lidge. “We don’t want them to see us either.” “Come on,” Whispered Mariah, and she headed up the trail toward home.
As we reached the edge of the briar patch, Ted and his friends were closing fast. I figured this was all in good fun, but I still had a knot on my noggin from my first encounter with Ted and his red-haired sister. I got the impression there was an element of real risk in these maneuvers. Both Lidge and Mariah seemed serious about getting out of sight.
We were still a hundred yards from the Kinney place at the top of the hill, when we rounded a bend and the trail forked. “This way,” panted Lidge, as he took the right fork. Seconds later, the three of us stood humped over and gasping for breath at the door of a ramshackle old outhouse. At the sound of hurried footsteps close behind, we crowded into the tiny refuge and Lidge bolted the door. It was pitch black inside. The atmosphere was close and stifling, and the odor was exceedingly unpleasant! I desperately wanted to hold my breath, but we were all breathing too heavily for that. I stepped up on the business seat to help ease the crowding, and Lidge braced himself and leaned against the door.
As I stood up on the bench my head hit a rafter, the heat was oppressive, I was all but smothered in a veil of cobwebs, and an indignant wasp buzzed threateningly around my ears! I started to speak to Mariah, but she pressed her finger against my lips and whispered, “shhhh!” Her finger was only against my lips for an instant, but somehow her touch left me warm all over.
As I stood straddling that outhouse seat and crouching to avoid that pesky wasp my face was just inches from the top of Mariah’s head. I could feel the warmth from her body and smell her long, lustrous hair. I pretended to lose my balance as an excuse to lay my hand on her shoulder. She glanced up at me very briefly and then ever so gently she laid her hand on mine. I held my breath, my pulse quickened, and Ted and the band of ruffians arrived outside the door. There were muffled voices and stifled chuckling, and then in unison they counted “one, two, three,” and leaned heavily into the side of that board and batten john. Our fragile refuge listed dangerously to starboard, that ornery wasp planted his rapier-like stinger deep into the lobe of my ear, and both my feet, new boots and all, slipped into that big black hole!
Seconds later Lidge threw open the outhouse door, Ted and the ruffians let out with war whoops as they disappeared down the path, and the blinding light of day rushed in on a sad and sorry spectacle. That dreadful abyss had engulfed me right up to the armpits. My ribcage was stuck tight as a cork in its’ terrible jaws, and a powerful aroma brought evidence; I was stuck knee-deep in that hole’s contents. Abandon hope all ye who enter here! The bowels of the beast made a hideous sucking sound as Lidge and Mariah laboriously extricated me from my predicament. My clenched toes clung desperately to my left boot, and that Godless pit claimed the other.
OBIE
Episode Nine
LAND O’ GOSHEN!
Following my harrowing escape, I convalesced for several minutes, and then we headed up the trail. Moments later we caught up with Laura and the twins. Laura was the first to notice my missing boot. “Th’owed a shoe, did ya?” She asked, teasingly, and then she noticed my pants. “Oh my!” she said, shaking her head in horror, and then repeated the phrase several times. The twins recognized the substance immediately by the odiferous nature of its fragrance. “Shoeee!” exclaimed the first twin, blinking his teary eyes, and the other twin joined in the chorus.
Clomping up the trail with one bare foot and one high-heeled boot, threw quite a hitch in my get-along. Eventually I had presence of mind to remove the other boot and just go barefoot. After a while it occurred to me that half a pair of boots was of little consequence anyway, and carrying it only added to my misery. I stuck the sorry remnant of my prize pair of boots on a fence post and wiped the offending fingers in the grass.
By the time we arrived back at the Kinney place, daylight was rapidly dwindling. Crickets chirped and the dampness smacked of dusk. Christoph had arrived on the dappled gray Belgian and was waiting to take me home. He and Mrs. Kinney were sitting on the porch swing, visiting in the flickering lantern light and supplementing chatter with shortbread. Christoph didn’t notice my missing boots. He was accustomed to seeing me barefoot, and in any case, he was way too busy noticing Laura. All at once Mrs. Kinney paused in mid conversation, her sweet expression went suddenly sour, her nostrils flared, and she stared horrified at my pants! “Land o’ Goshen child!” she exclaimed! “What have they done to you?”
Following my long and colorful oration, she examined my pants from a safe distance and shook her head in empathy and revulsion. “If those were my clothes, son,” she said, “I could probably get them to look clean, but I could never feel clean in them!” Mariah held her nose and took a closer look. “They’re not too bad from the knees up.” she said. “I’ve got a pair of shears. We could make cutoffs out of ‘em.” That sounded good to me. We visited for a while longer while Mariah made short pants from my church drawers and my brother flirted with Laura, and then Christoph took a running jump and climbed up on the mule. I thanked Mrs. Kinney for the delicious meal, got a handshake from Lidge that bordered on Indian wrestling, and turned to Mariah.
For a nickel I’d have given Mariah a great big hug, but I lacked the nerve and was five cents shy of the nickel. That probably wouldn’t have been appropriate anyway. Mariah took my hands in hers and looked up into my face. “You will remember our Baptism next Sunday, won’t ya?” “Yes Ma’am.” “Honest Injun?” she asked. “Honest Injun.” “I’m counting on you Obadiah,” she said. “You won’t forget me will ya?” The idea that I might forget Mariah made me chuckle right out loud. “Not in this lifetime.” I thought to myself, but I didn’t say that to Mariah.
“Come on Bud.” my brother said, and I took his arm and swung up on the mule. Christoph gave a little kick, and that barn sour mule lurched and headed home. I held on tight to Christoph’s waist and clenched my jaw to keep my teeth from rattling. That old mule had a backbone like a picket fence. I scrunched a little to one side to keep my tailbone from banging on the mule’s. She had just two gaits, gut jarring fast, and gut jarring slow. The slow gait was used for leaving the barn, with the fast gait reserved for returning. The fast gait consisted of a cockeyed trot that was enough to jar the teeth from a wooden Indian! And riding double only made it worse.
It was a little after dusk when we trotted into the barn at Camp House. Mr. McGregor’s buggy was hitched to the gate. He’d been invited for dinner, and he and Dad were sitting on the steps. “Ya done good today, laddy.” he said, “real good! We can use some new blood down at Patty Creek.” Dad just looked at me speechless for a moment, and then shook his head as he glanced down and noticed my bare legs. “Were those your good church pants, Obadiah?” he asked. “Where are your new boots?”
I was fixin’ to lay the whole thing out and tell a big tale. I’m certain Dad was all braced to hear one. All of a sudden, I just felt heartsick clean through. It caught us all off guard when my lip began to quiver and I fought to stifle a sob. It sure enough caught Dad off guard. “What’s the matter, son?” he asked. “It can’t be all that bad.” Dad wrapped his arm around my neck and I buried my face in his faded wool shirt. Between the emotions stirred by the church service and the ones stirred by Mariah, the loss of my prize boots, and nervousness over what my folks would think, my nerves were shot and my bowels were fairly churning.
“There, there, Obadiah.” Dad soothed. “Everything’s going to be all-right. Argyle has already told us all about your new church, and whatever misfortune befell your boots can wait until tomorrow. You go out to your room and take a rest. We’ll wake you up for dinner.” I stripped off what was left of my church clothes, did a quick sponge off at the warsh basin, and collapsed in my bunk, exhausted and plain rung out. Within a minute I was sound asleep.
It was well after dark when I stirred and looked around. Christoph was asleep and the stove, stone cold. The folks had already eaten and Mr. McGregor had gone home. I dressed and started over to the house. There was a light in my uncle’s window so I headed over there. He met me at the door with a steaming mug of chocolate and slid a second rocker next to the stove. “Have a seat son, and tell me about your day.” Uncle Gus listened attentively while I related the day’s events. A sympathetic listener can cure a world of ills. It felt real good to get it off my chest. After my tale was finished, he smiled understandingly and patted me on the knee. “Drink your chocolate son. You’ve had a busy day.”
I cupped my hands around my mug and sat staring into the glowing embers of the fire. “Christoph told us about your boots son. Don’t give it another thought. Klouse thinks the world of you. It’ll tickle him to death to make you another pair. Joining another church caught your folks off guard, but that’ll be all right too. Your papa says your mom will come around. We’re awfully proud of you son. You don’t need to feel badly about anything. Your mama is in the kitchen. She’s had a long day too. Go on in and tell her you’re alright.”
I thanked Uncle Gus for the chocolate and walked through the dark house and into the kitchen. Everyone else had gone to bed. The house was dark and still. The door creaked as I entered the room. Mother was in the rocker darning socks by the kitchen fire. She looked up and smiled as I stepped into the room, putting down her darning and patting her bony knee. “Sit here,” she said, “and tell me about your day.” At ten years old, I was coming up fast on being too big to sit on Mammas’ lap. Right now, it seemed the only thing to do. Mamma was getting frail and thin, much like I remember Grandma years ago. I pressed my face against her chest and she laid her bony chin upon my head.
“Argyle says that Patty Creek bunch took to you like a duck to water. They know a good boy when they see one.” Momma started to rock and hum. I knew I had to be getting heavy on her lap, but maybe a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt. I listened to her heartbeat like I’d done so many times; she stroked my hair and kissed me on the brow. I gave my mamma one more hug and then stood up to leave. “I love you Son.” she said, straightening my collar and patting me on the cheek. “Good night, Mamma.” I said. “I love you too.”
OBIE
Episode Ten
EXUBERATION!
The following week slipped quickly away, as weeks tend to do, and before you know it the day of reckoning had arrived. Arrangements had been made for dinner on the grounds at the Kinney’s, following the baptism. I was astonished at the way, when push came to shove, the entire family got behind this event. I’d never seen them so worked up and excited. The entire family would attend the service at Patty Creek Church and then gather at the crick for the baptism. The shindig at the Kinney’s was to be potluck, and Mother, Maggie, and Kathleen, had each outdone themselves. They sure enough had killed the fatted calf! The Kinney’s would have leftovers for a month.
You can just about imagine the scene as the Camp Brigade pulled up at the church. The handshaking and howdy-dos went on for half an hour. Kathleen’s chickens had been a little slow to roast, so we were running a little behind as we pulled up at Patty Creek. We arrived about twenty minutes late, and by then Mariah was working up a lather! She grabbed me by the hand and gave me a good scolding as I slipped down from the wagon. “Where in the world have you been,” she demanded. “I thought for sure you’d backed out and just gone fishin’!”
It was standing room only at that little Baptist Church. Just the thought of a double baptism had set them folks on fire! Good Baptists have gotten a reputation for being kind of quiet and reserved. These folks shot that reputation all to heck! That preacher worked up such a head of steam; I thought he’d bust a boiler! He preached joy and thanksgiving for about forty-five minutes, and then called Mariah and me up to the front, while the whole place broke out in another round of hugging and handshaking.
The baptizing hole was about a hundred yards down a hill to the northeast. The trail was well worn and steep, and a good toad strangler the previous night had left it slicker ‘en, well it was mighty slippery. As luck would have it, Indian summer had broke camp the previous week, and sunny and seventy was only a pleasant memory. The purple foliage of the autumn dogwoods was still dripping from the predawn drenching, the sun was struggling with a tenacious fog, and the best the temperature could muster was about forty degrees. Last week the creek had been cool and inviting. Now it was running swift, deep, and cold. This was going to be mighty invigorating!
The trail crossed a low, fern-covered, boggy area, and then the dense foliage opened up at the creeks edge. Along the creek to the east was a long, narrow gravel bar, filled to capacity with about seventy-five shivering pilgrims, beaming ear to ear, with hymnals in the ready. At our approach the preacher and two deacons slipped off their shoes, stepped ever so gingerly across the gravel bar, and then, clothes and all, waded cautiously into that icy brook until they were about waist deep. The preacher took a deep but tentative breath and read an appropriate scripture until his lips turned blue and his teeth began to chatter, and then he handed the Good Book to one of the deacons and motioned for Mariah and me. Mariah sucked in a big breath of cold morning air, took a tight, trembling grip on my hand, and the cold and nervousness sent us each into a shudder and a synchronized pee chill. I forced a smile and we waded slowly out.
By the time we’d waded out to the preacher, the water was chest deep on me and almost up to Mariah’s quivering chin. I stood beside the deacons as the preacher took Mariah’s hand and quoted several lines of scripture. I could hear Mariah’s teeth chattering, and her eyes were wide as fruit jar lids! It took every bit of her determination, and she never took her eyes off mine, but she repeated that scripture line for line, held a hanky against her face, and the preacher plunged her head and all, into that swirling torrent!
Mariah was still fighting desperately to catch her breath and part her drenched hair from her eyes when the preacher turned to me. By now we were all near the point of hypothermia, and the preacher abbreviated the process considerably. He was still a tad long winded for my taste, but he was a preacher after all, and you had to admire his sagacity. My teeth were chattering till I couldn’t hear a thing he said, but when it came to my part, he nodded, I nodded, and he plunged me backwards into that arctic bath.
I hadn’t had very high expectations for this experience. I’m not really certain what I expected. There were neither doves nor angels, but somehow a load was lifted, and something deep inside was changed for good. It wasn’t that my path seemed clear, but I knew which steps felt right and which steps didn’t, and I was brimming with the boundless exuberance, which comes of a youthful faith. Mr. McGregor played his bagpipes as we headed for the shore. The sun came out and the whole crowd joined in song. We didn’t loiter long on the banks. Everyone was frozen half to death. I can’t really explain it, but as we trudged up that hill, hugging, slipping and shivering, with those Baptists praising God, I experienced a peace down deep in my heart that would temper the rest of my life.
Shannon Thomas Casebeer
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