His timing was impeccable as he walked the two miles from his house to the farm. Actually, he never had to walk the full two miles as the locals would give him a ride in whatever direction he was traveling. The old men that worked in the fields or woods would inevitably have a hitch in their get-a-long or a missing a finger or two. Work was more important than safety and this was small price to pay. Charity was always local and passing Bert without offering a ride would never be beard of. Everyone is going to be old one day and eventually the favor returned.
Bert’s father was a blacksmith who built a beautiful home on West side of Frye Mountain. His trade became obsolete when cars replaced horses and the economy moved to the cities. Bert lived in the same house, but with no education and only his labor for hire, it became a shadow of its once glory. No electricity, central heat, or running water and a few curtains that have greyed over the years.
Bert would show up, always on Saturday, mid afternoon, knowing that my father would be home working the farm and my mother preparing beans for dinner. He carried an old scythe over his shoulder and sharpening stone in his back pocket. Regardless of the season, he always wore green woolen pants, like the ones the old loggers would wear, with hems that have long disappeared, a woolen plaid short, and a red bandana around his neck. He a well worn path for his “spittle” out the left side of a full beard and a hair that last saw comb in his childhood. His face was molded from sun, wind, and earth with crevices and wrinkles that formed with different gestures.
Chewing plug tobacco with a crooked smile, he would eventually find my father and offer a plug as a gift of greeting. My dad did not chew and always politely refused, but patiently listened to the old man. After some necessary niceties, Bert would point out to my father some overgrown grass or brush that the tractor had missed and he could lay. Back then, charity was local. The hay didn’t need laying and you would never refuse an old man asking for work. A tractor could clean it up in minutes and both Bert and my father know that. He would never insult Bert by offering money and Bert always had a bigger plan. Bert wasn’t educated and he wasn’t stupid. Sunset and dinner was not far off and he planned to stay around for both. A price was agreed upon and Bert set out to execute his plan.
With only a few hours left in the day, Bert would take out his sharpening stone and spend a good 20 minutes preparing his scythe. He would swing his tool with wide arcs that have been perfected over the years creating perfect cuts in the and grass assuring everybody this was not his first job. Most of all though, if Bert saw you watching him, he would set the scythe down, unwrap the bandana from his neck, and wipe his face and brow. Watching and old man work and he must have been in his eighties by now, would garner the sympathy of the hardest of men. Bert would work until he saw my father and us boys walking down to the farm house. Knowing very well my mother was cooking beans with salt pork, Bert would ask about what “Mah-lene” is cooking tonight and spew the compliments of her food like a snakes salesman peddling elixir. Bert was never offered dinner nor part of the contract for his work, but had practiced this dance for many years.
As much as my father had a tender heart for an old man who was too proud to ask for charity and willing to work, Bert was my mother’s arch nemesis. She knew the dance also and her abject dislike for Bert was forged over the years of this tango. She know it was fruitless but parlayed her defense with as much gusto as she could muster. Waiting on the porch for his money, Bert would hurl compliments through the screen door akin to a dog howling at the moon. “Mah-lene, are you cooking cornbread with those beans? Bacon or hot dogs? Molasses or maple syrup? They been cooking since morning? “ The barrage would last until mother would come out of hiding. Something about a question unanswered unbalances the moment. The negotiation have just begun.
Now Bert smelled. No other way to put it. A combination of earth, sweat, tobacco, and well, a man who had not seen soap for a few years. My mother’s first concession would be to tell him to sit on the porch and she would bring him out a plate. She would cut up the meat finely as Bert’s ability to chew had become diminished with age, throw on some cornbread, and a big spoon. She would deliver the food herself and would tell Bert to “get along” as soon as he was finished. These words bounced off Bert like hail off a tin roof. He ate his meal slow…. real slow to make sure the family finished before he did. Mostly, he wanted to see if my mother had made a dessert. She always made a dessert on Saturday’s and he knew it. The compliments would fly, the negotiations renewed, and a bowl of sweetness eventually found its way to the porch.
Now Saturday night was a night when my parents would celebrate another successful week on the farm with a few beers. Early to bed on Friday for the next day’s work and no liquor on Sunday. That was our farming life and Bert knew it. My mother would tell Bert to get along after dessert and he would tell her he needed to rest for just a few minutes before the trip. “beans need a digestin’ and I don’t want cramps on the trip home” “Man-Lene, it sure would be a great day for me if I was having a beer” “I’ll get along after the beer. I promise I’ll get along”. Now my mother would never have a beer in front of the neighbors nor in front of Bert. Bert was the only thing standing in the way of her Saturday night beer. A beer it was and Bert was always quick with task.
Bert would finish his beer and start walking down the road with an exaggerated limp whistling as loud as he could while every few looking back over his shoulder every few steps. It was the moment my mother gave my father “the look” and words not need to be spoken. Sometimes she would get a pair of socks or one of Dad’s worn out shirts. My dad would then pack them up and give Bert a ride home. When he returned the conversation was always the same.
“Why did you give him work when we don’t need it?” ….. “He needs the money.”
“Why don’t you just pay him to go away?” …. “I don’t want to take away his pride.”
“Why do you feed him?” …. “ “He was hungry and I cold not send him home on an empty stomach”
“Why did you give him a beer?” …. “The man has to enjoy something”
“Did he appreciate the shirt?” …. “He thanked me and asked for something in blue next time.”
Bert had a plethora of farms he would visit and show up every few months. I am sure he had a schedule of work, meals, and liquor that took him where his palate relished. You could see Bert walking the three miles to Freedom Bangs and Knights store the next day, limping a “little louder” when a car passes near. He never waked the full way. Its what you did. Charity was local, hand to hand, and what comes around goes around. You weren’t required to provide it, but obligated. Saying no had direct consequences and saying yes provided some sort of balance. A question asked and answered. He died alone in his sleep, but I am sure with comfort, a little pride and a full stomach.
