Old Josh, in: “Black-hide!”
(…and pumpkin soup)
[Spring of 1885; Ozark, Alabama]
“Say you! whar do ol man Josh live?”
“Ah…down de road a piece,” says Silas to the stranger, “ ‘bout a mile, at the Hightower place, but ef-in youall wants to find him, you wont find him, anyhow, hes gone fishin’ I reckon.”
The stranger had stopped Silas while riding down the old dirt road, that lead towards Ozark, to go to a store where his brother Jordon worked to get supplies, they got a discount there for renting out Jordon.
At the Hightower plantation, the black stranger knocked on the door, and Charles Hightower answered and the stranger asked where Josh was, said old man Hightower, “You should be using the back door, and asking Granny Mae, not me,” yet Charles hollered for Josh, but he didn’t answer, looking toward the back of his house, toward the barn and beyond were the enclosure was.
“He’s gittin’ on with age…” the stranger said to himself quietly.
Old Josh had seen the stranger and was hiding behind the cow corral bend over some, and behind some bushes and jimson weeds, to insure he was fully covered.
The stranger was now sanding looking through the open area of the corral with his owl-like face—Old Josh’s knees bent, acing a tinge, but not willing to stand up yet.
Thus, he remained hidden about one-hundred feet away. The stranger just stood there chewing his tobacco, glancing here and there; up and down over this way and that way—eyes eating up each square foot (Mr. Hightower had left the front door to attend to other business, and Granny Mae, with the help of Lula the Cook, who worked part time help, from the Shanty Town, down near Ozark (who had helped the Hightower’s since 1849, now in her 80s, and was given a lump sum of money to buy her shanty, from Shep Hightower, Charles’ father, and her freedom papers), was peering out the window at the stranger.
“Hey! whuts youall want?” asked Lula the Cook to the stranger.
“Im lookin’ fer Josh Jefferson, my name is Abram!” said the stranger, then he saw his brother,
“There you are,” said Abram, jes’ a-sitten… behind those there bushes…whut fer?” he said; yet old Josh continued to conceal himself, even though Abram saw him and put his foot on the fence, the wooden railing, near Josh.
“Waz you callin’ somebody—? …git your black-hid out of her!” said a voice.
Abram looked deadeye into Josh’s face, from a distance, from where he stood with his foot on the fence, was perhaps twenty-feet.
“Say Josh, whut you doin’?”
Old Josh still remained quiet, then Josh hollered at him, “keep-a right on goin, dont look back, I dont see your-feet movin!”
“Well, I reckon I came a long ways fer nothing…” said Abram still chewing his tobacco, while listening off and on to the mockingbirds singing on a nearby old Alabama Oak.
(There was dust in the air, this early spring morning, blowing about, flowers filling the air with light odor scents; Josh wanted to lay down, didn’t really want his day disturbed; wanted to go fishing, was about to before he saw the stranger coming up the road on a sprinkled old horse. He walked like his brother, didn’t really know it was him, but had a second sense it was somebody from the past, back when he was a boy in the Congo, a little brother, he thought had died, but was being cared for evidently by one of the relatives of his mother, things he forgot; he was not stolen from the tribe like he and his mother, when out one day in the wild meadows (thus left behind); he was really more like a half-brother, same mother, different father.)
“Looks like your in the poo’ house Josh,” he said to Josh with a grin.
“Im goin’ on seventy-nine years old, Josh,” he said, as if his days were numbered—then spat into the weeds some of his over moistened tobacco he was chewing.
“You done left me in the Congo, I waz jes’ a boy—walking here and there lookin’ fer you and ma, till folks say you git picked up by some white gorillas and taken away! and they picks me up, liken did to youall, an’ I be taken to St. Louis, Missouri an’ I be a butler all these days, now I is free like you, an’ I git $2000-dollars fer my services these last ten-years, come-on with me, we can buy land and be free…?”
It showed on their faces, the long and hard years of labor, loneliness, on both their faces, a little less on Josh’s perhaps, or so it seemed: he took things a bit lighter than Abram; accept, or learned to accept what was, was, had Abram showed up twenty-five years ago things might have been different, possibly for this moment, would never had had to occur.
“I’ …s got money to buy your freedom,” said Abram, to Josh.
A shadow of gloom was on Josh’s face, and a bitter sneer that he tried to hide, said, “I is free, been free fer twenty-years, glad to see you is doin’ fine brother, but you got to do whut you think you got to do, me, Im fine here, I got my boys, and—oh well, I got my shack. What more do I need, no big change fer me at 82-years old, jes’ want to go fishin’ and that stuff.”
Now Josh and Abram sat on Josh’s porch (of his two room shack); Abram still chewing his tobacco, slowly. Hightower had departed.
“Josh, come wit me,” said Abram abruptly in a soft voice, as if he was a big brother. They sat there for hours, drinking moonshine, and talking, and both fell to sleep, and Silas come home, tip-toed past them, slowly, not to wake them up, and into the hut, and sat down by the small wooden table, and had some pumpkin soup.
In the morning Abram looked at Josh, they had fallen to asleep and woke up, where they sat, and Abram’s old spotted horse had not been fed, and was pacing, nibbling over in the bushes eating whatever. It had been something like, eighty years since they had seen each other, long years for both brothers.
“Nah…! All right!” grunted Abram, as he stood up, flung his coat over his shoulder, spat out some tobacco onto the dirt a few feet from the front of the porch—put on his hat emerged onto the road in back of Hightower’s house. At the same time, old Josh turned his head to see what his son was doing; he heard a noise in the hut, said to his boy,
“That there chewin’ is goin’ to kill you uncle yet!”
Abram heard it, and I suppose that was good enough for him, he had acknowledged him to his son, and they drank together, and they fell to sleep by one another, like back in the Congo, when he was four and Josh was eight, then he looked at his brother…, said in a murmur, “… damn his black-hide!”
Written 1/20/2006; the Author lived in Ozark, Alabama in the mid l979s.
[Spring of 1885; Ozark, Alabama]
“Say you! whar do ol man Josh live?”
“Ah…down de road a piece,” says Silas to the stranger, “ ‘bout a mile, at the Hightower place, but ef-in youall wants to find him, you wont find him, anyhow, hes gone fishin’ I reckon.”
The stranger had stopped Silas while riding down the old dirt road, that lead towards Ozark, to go to a store where his brother Jordon worked to get supplies, they got a discount there for renting out Jordon.
At the Hightower plantation, the black stranger knocked on the door, and Charles Hightower answered and the stranger asked where Josh was, said old man Hightower, “You should be using the back door, and asking Granny Mae, not me,” yet Charles hollered for Josh, but he didn’t answer, looking toward the back of his house, toward the barn and beyond were the enclosure was.
“He’s gittin’ on with age…” the stranger said to himself quietly.
Old Josh had seen the stranger and was hiding behind the cow corral bend over some, and behind some bushes and jimson weeds, to insure he was fully covered.
The stranger was now sanding looking through the open area of the corral with his owl-like face—Old Josh’s knees bent, acing a tinge, but not willing to stand up yet.
Thus, he remained hidden about one-hundred feet away. The stranger just stood there chewing his tobacco, glancing here and there; up and down over this way and that way—eyes eating up each square foot (Mr. Hightower had left the front door to attend to other business, and Granny Mae, with the help of Lula the Cook, who worked part time help, from the Shanty Town, down near Ozark (who had helped the Hightower’s since 1849, now in her 80s, and was given a lump sum of money to buy her shanty, from Shep Hightower, Charles’ father, and her freedom papers), was peering out the window at the stranger.
“Hey! whuts youall want?” asked Lula the Cook to the stranger.
“Im lookin’ fer Josh Jefferson, my name is Abram!” said the stranger, then he saw his brother,
“There you are,” said Abram, jes’ a-sitten… behind those there bushes…whut fer?” he said; yet old Josh continued to conceal himself, even though Abram saw him and put his foot on the fence, the wooden railing, near Josh.
“Waz you callin’ somebody—? …git your black-hid out of her!” said a voice.
Abram looked deadeye into Josh’s face, from a distance, from where he stood with his foot on the fence, was perhaps twenty-feet.
“Say Josh, whut you doin’?”
Old Josh still remained quiet, then Josh hollered at him, “keep-a right on goin, dont look back, I dont see your-feet movin!”
“Well, I reckon I came a long ways fer nothing…” said Abram still chewing his tobacco, while listening off and on to the mockingbirds singing on a nearby old Alabama Oak.
(There was dust in the air, this early spring morning, blowing about, flowers filling the air with light odor scents; Josh wanted to lay down, didn’t really want his day disturbed; wanted to go fishing, was about to before he saw the stranger coming up the road on a sprinkled old horse. He walked like his brother, didn’t really know it was him, but had a second sense it was somebody from the past, back when he was a boy in the Congo, a little brother, he thought had died, but was being cared for evidently by one of the relatives of his mother, things he forgot; he was not stolen from the tribe like he and his mother, when out one day in the wild meadows (thus left behind); he was really more like a half-brother, same mother, different father.)
“Looks like your in the poo’ house Josh,” he said to Josh with a grin.
“Im goin’ on seventy-nine years old, Josh,” he said, as if his days were numbered—then spat into the weeds some of his over moistened tobacco he was chewing.
“You done left me in the Congo, I waz jes’ a boy—walking here and there lookin’ fer you and ma, till folks say you git picked up by some white gorillas and taken away! and they picks me up, liken did to youall, an’ I be taken to St. Louis, Missouri an’ I be a butler all these days, now I is free like you, an’ I git $2000-dollars fer my services these last ten-years, come-on with me, we can buy land and be free…?”
It showed on their faces, the long and hard years of labor, loneliness, on both their faces, a little less on Josh’s perhaps, or so it seemed: he took things a bit lighter than Abram; accept, or learned to accept what was, was, had Abram showed up twenty-five years ago things might have been different, possibly for this moment, would never had had to occur.
“I’ …s got money to buy your freedom,” said Abram, to Josh.
A shadow of gloom was on Josh’s face, and a bitter sneer that he tried to hide, said, “I is free, been free fer twenty-years, glad to see you is doin’ fine brother, but you got to do whut you think you got to do, me, Im fine here, I got my boys, and—oh well, I got my shack. What more do I need, no big change fer me at 82-years old, jes’ want to go fishin’ and that stuff.”
Now Josh and Abram sat on Josh’s porch (of his two room shack); Abram still chewing his tobacco, slowly. Hightower had departed.
“Josh, come wit me,” said Abram abruptly in a soft voice, as if he was a big brother. They sat there for hours, drinking moonshine, and talking, and both fell to sleep, and Silas come home, tip-toed past them, slowly, not to wake them up, and into the hut, and sat down by the small wooden table, and had some pumpkin soup.
In the morning Abram looked at Josh, they had fallen to asleep and woke up, where they sat, and Abram’s old spotted horse had not been fed, and was pacing, nibbling over in the bushes eating whatever. It had been something like, eighty years since they had seen each other, long years for both brothers.
“Nah…! All right!” grunted Abram, as he stood up, flung his coat over his shoulder, spat out some tobacco onto the dirt a few feet from the front of the porch—put on his hat emerged onto the road in back of Hightower’s house. At the same time, old Josh turned his head to see what his son was doing; he heard a noise in the hut, said to his boy,
“That there chewin’ is goin’ to kill you uncle yet!”
Abram heard it, and I suppose that was good enough for him, he had acknowledged him to his son, and they drank together, and they fell to sleep by one another, like back in the Congo, when he was four and Josh was eight, then he looked at his brother…, said in a murmur, “… damn his black-hide!”
Written 1/20/2006; the Author lived in Ozark, Alabama in the mid l979s.
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 2:56 PM
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