—You got any neighbors that ya think I might like to meet to help me get to know this area a little better? Archie asked.

The old man thought for a moment.

—They’s a little zen man that lives about halfway down the mountain where a gushin’ spring comes outta the ground. Some folks call’im the little goat man, but most of us call’im Zen. I don’t know why. He come down here a good while back from somewhere away from the hills. He don’t eat nothin but wild stuff and what he gits from his goats. He does keep a few chickens. Everybody around here keeps a few chickens. He rakes his yard about ever day. He totes up river gravel from the bottom a little sack-full at a time and dumps it in his yard and rakes it. Done that for years. Keeps the purdiest yard. It’s always got rake lines in it, and he rakes’em in purdy patterns in different patches around the place and he’s got these little trails around the yard where ya can walk and not mess up his gravel, and he’s got these little teenie trees next to big rocks scattered around. Don’t know how he gets them little trees to look like they’s grown trees. Most of the folks around here sweep their yards, but he don’t do that. He rakes his yard cuz it’s gravel instead of dirt and he gits them lines in it thataway. Man it’s purdy. Looks almost like a midget place. Oncet or twicet a month the sheriff’ll bring’im some whiskey and set a spell with’im. He usually brings’im enough till the next time. They been friends since before anybody can remember. Some folks say right after he gotchere they got in a little tussle when the sheriff went out there when Zen first showed up and bought his place. The sheriff wanted to let’im know he wuz an outsider and to let’im know who’s who around here, and the sheriff pushed’im down a couple of times, and the little zen man got up and whupped the daylights outta the sheriff who was twicet his size and strong as an ox and then he helped him git up and clean off the blood with some o’ that cold spring water and then the two of’em just generally rested and visited for a few minutes after he’d made sure he hat’n broke the sheriff’s arm. Then the sheriff offered’im a job and Zen said Naw he’d rather just stay up here and watch the sun come up of a mornin’ and the sheriff said okay he got that but he might need to deputiz’im ever now and then for special trouble and Zen said that’d be fine and the sheriff said he’d go ahead and deputize him right then for carryin’ a pistol and Zen said that’d be fine but he dit’n have a pistol and the sheriff said he’d bring’im one in a week or two, which he did and a gallon jug of whiskey. They been buddies ever since. Ain’t nobody messes with Zen.

Archie chuckled and said he’d love to meet Mr. Zen. The old man told Archie he would take him down to Zen’s place anytime he wanted to go but he didn’t think Zen was much into religion but he didn’t know for sure and he didn’t need to call him Mister. Archie said he wasn’t much into religion either, and the old man said But everybody knows you’re an archbishop. How can you not be into religion? Archie said We’ll talk more about that later. Let’s see if we can run down there in the morning.

Archie appreciated the Appalachian people for generally knowing how to fix their own problems. If they don’t, they will figure it out. They approach each problem with a view to pushing through it or working around it. They are seldom formulaic about it. They don’t need formulas; what’s there is there. Deal with it. And so he could see how the sheriff would not consider it to be unusual for Zen to help him after their tussle, and for them to become fast friends. As for Zen, his problem was that he had been pushed down twice – and he needed to make sure that he was not pushed down again. So in this case, he did not attempt to work around the problem, but rather chose to push through it. As a result, he made the problem go away.

From the sheriff’s point of view, he had just met a super interesting little fellow, who had whipped the daylights out of him. There was no call to be angry about this; he had simply met someone whose services he could use in the future. And besides, he was fascinated by this little fellow, who had taken him down, and then helped clean him up after the tussle. The fellow even acted like he actually liked the sheriff, which was unusual around here. Most people in these parts didn’t seem to like the sheriff, although they voted him into office every time there was an election. This puzzled the sheriff, but he didn’t let it bother him. Anyway, for now he had found a new buddy.

Archie looked forward to meeting Mr. Zen.

These are old mountains, where one can, and should, live by the seasons. Plant and tend the crop in this season and one will have food to eat in the next season. Here, the crop grows better to the sound of the dulcimer and the fiddle and the banjo. These old mountains proclaim that as truth. But they also proclaim that one should not, cannot, live by bread alone. And here, perhaps more than anywhere, one can find that elusive nourishment that sustains and protects Homo in his inevitable journey through the valley of the shadow of death.

Here reconciliation of the brutal sweetness of independence with the slavery of economic advancement is impossible. They cannot be reconciled. Perhaps some form of détente, or compromise, is possible. Time will tell. But until it dies, which will not happen, the human spirit will demand, and have, something greater than the illusory security of material wealth. Here the painters and the poets and the prophets celebrate that spirit; in the desolate regions they bemoan its loss. In the rich country many of them mock this spirit and celebrate its loss; but they spit against the wind, and their sputum flies back into their faces and soils them and slimes them. And yet even then, there are some in the rich country in whom the spark survives who do bemoan the loss of that spirit; they go into the metropolitan mine shafts that we call the subways, and they paint their pictures there, and the poets and the prophets write their moans and their groans there on the subway walls as they long for eternity. And the Holy Spirit of God hears those moans and groans and translates them and presents them to the Unnamable: Abba, Abba, save us! And Abba says Come to me, and most do not heed that call.

But there are those who do. They flee the cesspools and come to bathe and swim in crystal waters where life abounds. Their neighborhood is a thousand miles from top to bottom. But as time passes they come to see that their hood is not measured in units of distance. Their hood is the community of the free, the society of sapiens. They have escaped the prison of materiality and have come to a realm where they can have peace and rest. That is the real Appalachia. That is the real archdiocese that you will encounter here. It is not an archdiocese where life is always pretty, and easy, and without trouble, but it is a place where glitter is not glory in the view of most who live and die here, and that sets it apart from most of this land.

He must leave this rot. His woman and his son were gone. He felt fortunate that he had been able to get them buried before the gravediggers died. There were three of them counting the one she had carried in her womb for eight months. It remained there, inchoate, when they put her in the ground. All three now lay together. He had yelled at those who had dumped them in. He had expected some dignity in the interment but there was no dignity. The monks shoveled mud and dirt over them as he yelled. They did not look at him. One said, —Friend, you should not complain. Yours at least have their own hole. We put seventeen in one hole this morning before we came here. I doubt any of them knew each other. They came to their hole on the death wagon.

There was nothing but death in this stinking, heavy, immobile fog that shrouded the town. Now the gravediggers were dead, and no one would touch a corpse so they all lay rotting where they had drawn their last breath, in the streets, in the dank interiors, even in the public waters. When he left he would leave nothing because there was nothing. He had the clothes he wore and a sack with a few small loaves in it and a pouch of salt and a cloak and a thick wool blanket and two empty water flasks that he had used in his ventures in the East. He had a blade and an oak staff and a longbow with five dozen arrows in his quiver, and a purse fat and heavy with his own coin. In his youth he had traveled to the Eastern Empire with his master, a noble who had insisted that he learn the skills of a scribe and an archer while he was still a boy. His master had survived in the East, mostly as an administrator, and had returned to the kingdom and had freed his servants, and as he lay dying from this stinking pestilence he summoned his former servants and gave each a leather purse full of silver and gold coin.

There was nothing left in this town but dead and dying bodies, the filth of human detritus, and a stench that filled every space. He must leave today, now. He had been thirsty but the smells had made him gag and had lessened his thirst; there was no beer, no wine, no mead, and the swill in the public fountains was undrinkable. Every day until the last of the friars died they pulled bodies from these fountains. He was thirsty but he had no choice but to wait until he could drink from a spring in the hills, a spring above the towns and away from the hillside villages. He had learned from the Eastern priests that there was bad water and there was good water, and he knew without doubt that there was no good water here; he would find good water, but it would not be here. He would eat his crumbs in time, and he would eat grubs and roots and whatever nature might provide. But he would live. He would leave this town now, and he would live. His choices were to live in the forest or die in the town. He would go to the forest. He knew the forest and he knew that he could live there. There is life in the forest, notwithstanding its mystery and the fear of it because of the occasional wolf or bear, or dark spirit according to some. But he knew where the dark spirit was this day, and he would leave that this morning, right now.

So he left, walking quickly, occasionally looking back to see if there were others behind him. There were none, and by noon he had passed through the city gate. He stopped and looked back for a moment, said goodbye to the dead, and chose his course.

By late afternoon he began to look earnestly for a brook which would indicate a source of good water. Now he was truly thirsty and he needed water. By his reckoning he had traveled ten to twelve miles. He had passed through or skirted several hamlets, and he aimed for a forest that he could see vaguely through the mist three or four miles distant where he could prepare a camp to give him comfort through the night. But his thirst was such that he decided to look for water now, before he got to the forest, where he might not find water before nightfall and surely would not find it in the dark of the night.

He came upon a thin line of vegetation cutting through a field, probably growth sustained by the waters of a tiny stream, he thought. He left the road and cut through the field and came to a brook. Though he was intensely thirsty, he determined to drink from the source of this brook where the water would be clean, and good, and where he could fill his flasks with water to get him through another day of flight from the filth and wretchedness that he had left a few hours back. As he walked upstream he could see a knob of woods ahead on a slope, and beyond that there was no line of vegetation cutting through the field beyond the knob. So the spring would be in that little patch of woods.

Suddenly he stopped. He smelled smoke and it was the smoke of a campfire. The knob was about a quarter of a mile away. Because of the fog, he could not see the smoke, but he knew this smell. This was not the smell of peat burning on a peasant’s hearth but of deadwood and some juniper. This would be a campfire. Now, instead of following the brook straight to the trees, he swung out and flanked through the field to approach the knob and the spring from a vantage point above the spring. He took his longbow from his back and nocked an arrow. He stooped as he flanked the little wood and began slowly approaching it from above. When he came to the edge of the growth and entered he saw a woman seated on a fallen log next to a small fire with a toddler beside her. He could hear the gurgle of the spring nearby. He approached, slowly.

—Are you alone?

She did not look up. —I heard you and saw you coming when you flanked us. I have this child. I have goats, three does and a buck. I have a few coins in a pouch. I have God. And now you are here. I am not alone.

—You saw me?

—Yes. It is easier to see out from here within this wood than to see in from out there.

—Where are the goats?

—They are browsing somewhere here in the wood. They will come when they come, or when I leave.

—You have no food?

—The child and I have milk from the goats. I know how to pick mushrooms. I know how to catch small animals and fish. The ferns are tasty. I can dig for grubs with my blade; the ground here is full of them and they roast very nicely and taste good. I have a fire steel and flint. I have air in my lungs to start the tinder, unlike most in the city which I left. We have not starved, nor will we, by the grace of God. Where are you going?

—I don’t know. I am just going. And you?

She looked at the child, and then into her fire.

—Nor do I know where I am going, Sir. What I do know is that right now I am here by this fire. It feels good.

—Where is your man?

—He is in the city. He will never leave the city.

—He is very foolish.

—He is very dead.

He looked away for a moment.

—Forgive me.

—Done. They buried him a month ago. He has much company there. More than half the city. And most of the rest will soon be dead.

—Yes. But they will not be buried. The gravediggers are dead.

She motioned with a nod, —Sit. I will give you some cheese. I am Maria.

—I am Gavin. Some call me Shanke — the long-legged one.

He drank from the spring and filled his flasks and then took a loaf of bread from his sack and broke it and handed a chunk to her. She broke off a morsel and gave it to the child. They ate.

—What is the child’s name?

—I do not know.

He stopped chewing, puzzled, and looked quickly at her and the child. —The child must be two or three years old. Surely you have not waited this long to name it?

—When I left the city I found the child sitting by its dead mother just outside the gate. She had been dead for some time. I watched others walk by without giving the child any attention. I could not do that. I do not condemn the others, but I could not do that.

—How about its father?

—I do not know. I asked the few who were nearby. None knew. Some said the child had been there by its dead mother for two days. I picked him up and put him on my shoulders and left the city with my goats. That was three days ago. He is not heavy, as you can see.

—It is a boy?

—Yes.

He handed the little one a piece of his bread.

She watched them. The light had begun to fade.

—You may camp here tonight if you wish, she said, looking into the fire. It will soon be dark.

He studied the tiny flames. He could think of no compelling reason to proceed to the forest and set up another camp, when there was already comfort here. It was true that he would be three or four miles farther along if he went on to the forest now, but farther along to where? There was plenty of brush and bough here to make a small shelter for himself, as she had already done for herself and the child.

—You are very gracious. I will stay here tonight. I will not violate you.

—Nor I you, she said.

~~~

When morning came the fog was gone and the goats were back. Two lay near Maria and two near Gavin.

—Would you and yours come with me? he asked Maria, as he began to gather his kit. The goats were already sniffing him and rubbing against him, enjoying their morning. Maria was picking dead black coals from what had been the fire and putting them in a small leather pouch where she kept her flint and steel.

—It would slow you down. The goats do not travel fast, nor does this little one.

He nodded. —True, but that would not matter, would it? We’re just going — no destination except to put distance between ourselves and that deadly pestilence, wherever that may be. And it will be safer for us to be together.

He motioned toward the child. —It will surely be better for the little one. We can take turns with him, and there is no need for us to travel fast. We must only keep moving. And the goats will give us food as we go. God brought us together did He not? Or would you prefer to say it was my thirst?

She looked down and smiled. She liked this man. She picked another handful of dead embers one by one and put them in her tinder pouch.

—We will go together.

And so they did. It has been a long journey, too long to recount here in full.

One day one of her neighbors who lived on the next mountain over came by with his sick wife and asked if there was some kind of soup that might help cure her of whatever it was that was ailing her. The sick woman had a fever and a headache, and a serious case of the shakes and a sore throat.

The old man pulled up on his mule wagon.

—Howdy. Th’old lady’s got to hackin’ again and she’s got the shakes real bad and her throat’s ahurtin’er. I’uz wondering if you could cook’er up sump’n that’d help’er?

—Howdy, Lester. I’m shore sorry to hear that. We’ll see what we can do. Let’s ease her down off that wagon and get her in the house. Hey darlin’, we gonna try to get you to feelin’ better.

The old man climbed down and helped his woman as she eased down from the wagon, and he and the soup lady helped her onto the porch and into the house.

—You go on back and take care of yore place and we’ll take care of what’s goin’ on here. I’ll set up with her if I need to. I’d say come back in about three days. She walked the woman over to a straightbacked chair and helped her sit.

—I shore appreciate it. The man left and the soup lady went back inside and helped the sick woman onto a cot near the fireplace.

—You need a pot before I go out?

The woman shook her head. —I don’t think so. I had the runs yesterday, but I ain’t had’em this morning.

—Awright, I’ll be right back. We’re gonna cook you up some medicine. I’m gonna set this chamber pot rightchere just in case.

She went out back to her shed and found a couple of old leftover boards that she had tossed into a corner when she had patched her corn crib a few months back. The wood from which these boards were sawed was heart pine. With a sharp blade the soup lady scraped a couple of the planks and smelled the spot where she had scraped. She picked one and went back in the house and started shaving wood from the plank in paper thin curls. She took a double handful of these shavings and put them in an iron kettle and covered them with water and set the kettle on the fire to boil.

The soup lady then went out to a willow tree that was growing at the edge of her place and with her blade she carefully sliced some bark from a stout branch, making sure that she got the inner bark, and took that back to the fire where the heart pine shavings were simmering. She would wait to put the willow bark in the simmering liquid near the end. She didn’t want to kill the good of the bark by heating it too much. The old Cherokee women had taught her that. The sick woman lay on the cot staring blankly and shaking from time to time as the soup lady worked.

After a few minutes the soup lady fed her fire and tossed in the willow bark and stirred the liquid. She would let this simmer and then cool just enough so that the alcohol would not cook off when she poured the warm turpentine and willow broth into the whiskey.

The whole process took about an hour. Once she had her potion mixed up properly it should work quickly. The sick lady should be feeling better long before her husband got back to their place on the next mountain over.

The soup lady had enough potion now to last a few days thanks to a generous measure of whiskey in the mixture. She poured some of the potion into a clay mug, almost filling it, and took this to the sick woman and eased her up into a sitting position. She wanted her to take a heavy dose of this medicine on the first go round. She could sip it later, but she needed to chug it now.

—I want you to take all this right down. Take as big o’ swallows as you can.

The woman drank the warm liquid in three or four swallows and exhaled deeply.

—That’s good, Sweetie. Let’s get you back down now and you rest. I’ll put you a pot rightchere. And here’s you some fresh spring water to drink. You just keep drinkin’ on that. If you feel like you need to go to the outhouse you let me know. We’re gonna whup this thing.

Three days later the old man came to fetch his wife. She was up walking around tending a kettle of greens cooking on the fire. She looked good. They all three ate dinner which consisted of greens and cornbread and side meat and clabber. When they had finished the old man helped his wife up onto the mule wagon.

—How much I owe ya?

—Nothin’. It’s been a real pleasure havin’ her here with me. Just bring me a jug the next time you run off a batch.

—I’ll do it.

He done it.

Another mountain rose on the other side of the little valley down toward which the brook by his place flowed, and on that other mountain Jessie Pender went to her front porch every evening about thirty minutes before sunset and began strumming her old dulcimer and singing to the critters of the mountain, the birds and the rabbits and the squirrels and the gobblers and her pigs and chickens and milk cow. Sometimes Earl thought Maybe she’s singing to me and playing for me too. Her husband had been gone for almost fifteen years now and she had started going to her porch and playing her dulcimer right after he left. She could see the road from there in several different places as it snaked up the mountain toward her house and then on up to where it crossed the ridge above her place and descended into the next valley toward the town by the river in the bottom of that valley. She looked to see if he might be walking up the road on her mountain, and she looked up to see if he might be coming down the mountain on the road as it descended from the ridge above. She had done this for almost fifteen years now, and from that first day she had brought her dulcimer to the porch and strummed it as she sang and called to her husband, and he never came walking up the road from the valley below or walking down from the ridge above.

Earl listened, and it seemed to him that of an evening when Jessie started singing, a spirit flowed out from her porch and settled over the valley, and then the birds stopped singing and chirping and the pigs stopped squealing, and the other mountain critters stopped and listened and surely were touched by her sounds and by this spirit, as he was. This year the ritual was especially intense because of a dove that flew in and alighted on his split rail fence every evening just as Jessie began strumming and singing. Doves keep one mate, and this for life, and where one goes the other follows. As you travel these mountains watch for that and you will see. But this dove always came alone. It came when Jessie started singing, and it left when she stood and went back inside with her dulcimer. Soon Earl came to believe that this daily appearance of the lone dove was a sign, but he could not fathom what it was signing.

One evening Earl sat on his porch and watched Jessie come out with her dulcimer and start playing. He looked over to the rail fence to watch the dove fly in and alight there. This evening the dove did not come. Earl focused on the absence of the dove more than on Jessie this evening. When the sun had set, Jessie went back inside her house and the dove still did not come. Earl did not sleep well that night.

The next afternoon the same thing happened, and then the following afternoon and the one following that. Earl decided he must go tell Jessie about the dove.

The next day, early in the morning, Earl made the one hour journey by foot to Jessie’s house. She saw him coming way down the road and went out to meet him as he neared the path that led up from the road to her front porch.

—What in the world brings you all the way across the draw Earl? You ain’t been over here in two or three years.

—Jessie, I got to tell you something that’s been happening. I been listening to you play of an evening for quite a while now, and this year a lone dove started flying in and perching on my fence right when you started playing. Then he’d leave when you finished and went back in the house. Trouble is, he ain’t showed up this whole week and this is already Friday. It’s a sign, Jessie. I’m telling ya I know it in my heart.

They walked up the path to the porch and sat. They looked out across the valley where Earl’s house and his outbuildings sat in a patch of green halfway up the other mountain. It wasn’t a half a mile away as the crow flies, but it was close to an hour by the road on foot or in a mule wagon.

—He ain’t coming back Jessie. I know in my heart it’s a sign. He ain’t coming back. I know you’ve been wantin’ him to come back for fifteen years now, but he ain’t coming Jessie. He’s dead. That’s got to be what the sign means.

Jessie looked Earl in the eye while he spoke. When he had finished she got up and went inside and after a minute she came back out with her dulcimer. She sat and played slow, and tears splashed from her cheeks onto the instrument in her lap. She played and finally she stopped and looked out across the valley. This time she did not look down the road into the valley, as she had done for fifteen years, and she did not look up the road toward the ridge above. Earl kept a few sheep, and she looked across the draw at his little flock, which appeared as a tiny white patch against the green pasture. For several minutes she watched the white patch move slowly across the green field. Earl waited and watched her.

—Earl, I know you’ve been coming out and settin’ on your porch watching me just about every day since your sweet Glenda died. I can see ya across the valley there, just like you can see me. That’s been seven years Earl. That means little Josh is already seven years old. How’s he doin’?

—He’s good Jessie. He’s a little too skinny. We ain’t had a decent home cooked meal since he was born and she died. I’ve fed him, but I ain’t much of a cook, and it’s been just him and me. He goes around the hill to his grandma’s some, but she stays likkered up. That’s where he is right now.

She looked at him, and then looked back across the valley. —Yont me to come cook you some dinner?

Earl was surprised. —I’d love that, Jessie. You talkin’ about today noon?

—Yeah, I reckon I am. It ain’t even the middle of the mornin’ yet. You got a chicken we can dress and fry up? Or maybe make some chicken and pastry?

—I got a yard full o’ chickens, and it don’t matter how you cook it. You need to get ready or anything?

—Naw not really, but you’ll need to go catch the cow and put a lead rope on her. She won’t just follow us the whole way over there without a rope on her.

Earl was caught off guard. Normally guests did not bring their cows with them to dinner, even here in these mountains.

—Why in the world would the cow be coming with us Jessie?

She looked back across the draw at the green field with the little white patch moving slowly across it. She looked for a long moment.

—Earl, if I come cook you and Josh some dinner I ain’t leavin’. I ain’t leavin’ tonight, I ain’t leavin’ tomorrow, I ain’t never leavin’ Earl, and you know as well as I do that cow’s gotta be milked mornin’ and evenin’ or she’ll get the fire in her tits and die on us. I cain’t leave her here if I ain’t comin’ back cause she cain’t skip a milkin’. You can come back with a wagon tomorrow and get the pigs and the chickens and whatever else needs to be took care of right away, but if I go I ain’t leavin’. You sure you still hungry enough to have me come over and cook you some dinner?

As she spoke, Earl watched her with his mouth hanging open. This had come out of the blue and he was stunned. Earl was generally a slow going, steady man, but this was moving fast.

—I’m about as hungry as a man can get, Jessie.

—Awright. You go catch the cow and I’ll pack a sack. You understand dontcha Earl? I ain’t never leavin’ if I come with ya. You need to get ahold o’ that ‘fore I come over there.

Earl stood for another moment with his mouth hanging open, staring at her.

—I believe I got that Jessie. I shore do. I’ll be back up here with the cow in just a minute. You go ahead and get yore stuff together and we’ll go have us some dinner, you and me. Lord have mercy! I reckon I’m fixin’ to get me another cow!

And thus it was that Earl and Jessie became Earl and Jessie, and Jessie never left. She never, ever left.

~~~

There is a patch of ground in the east of the North American continent that lies roughly between southern New York and the northern reaches of Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia, where more than twenty-five million people live and procreate. The distance from top to bottom is about one thousand miles as the crow flies. The region includes four hundred and twenty counties in thirteen states, but these twenty-five million people don’t pay much attention to counties, states, and other forms of government. They are mostly concerned with eating and drinking, procreation, and doing the will of the Lord. Almost all of their pursuits are conducted within these basic categories of human activity.

These are mostly mountain people. They inhabit both the little mountains of the north and the south and the periphery, and the big, rugged, backbone mountains of the high wild country.

Somehow the character of the people seems to mirror the character of the mountains they inhabit, except that one would be hard put to find more than just a few wild people in the middle country of the big, hard, backbone mountains, probably not more than would reside in any specific aggregation of homo sapiens anywhere. This might be somewhat puzzling, but up in the high country where life can be mean and raw there are countervailing forces and experiences enough to soften the jagged edges of the struggle; thus the disproportionate number of good, sweet people in these big, wild mountains.

The people in the northern part of this territory are different in some respects from the ones in the south, but not so much in ways that matter. Those in the north speak with a bit of an accent — so say the southerners — and they don’t eat much grits or cornbread in the north. But they all, everywhere, survive. This they all know how to do. They know how to keep warm in winter and cool in summer, and they rarely go hungry. Theirs is not what their neighbors outside the region would call haute cuisine, but most of the Appalachians wouldn’t care much about haute cuisine anyway. But they can hustle up a bowl of fried fish or chicken that kings and queens would slobber over, and they can serve you biscuits and cornbread and hushpuppies and greens of a hundred sorts that are subliminal. From north to south they know how to use a blade and a gun, and most of them have a number of these, and they set aside money to pay for ammunition before they buy groceries or pay their taxes. With one bullet an Appalachian woman can put as much as a hundred pounds of meat in the house. Or, conversely, keep two hundred pounds out.

These people don’t cotton much to style in their attire but tend more toward comfort and utility, which is really a part of surviving. Most of them wear warm coats and pants in the winter and short sleeves in the summer, without much regard to fabric and color as long as it is comfortable. One could argue that they do pay attention to style in their headgear because of the ubiquity of the duckbill cap that most of the men and many of the women wear, but because they will wear the same cap all day every day for ten or fifteen or even twenty years, it is stretching it a bit to call this headgear stylish. These caps are functional. If a man has long hair, as many do, the cap will hold it in place. If he has short hair the cap will cover it and he can dispense with combing it. And if he has little or no hair it prevents heat loss in the winter and scalp blisters in the summer. And many a cap has a ten dollar bill hidden in the inside headband that is removed only in the most extreme emergencies. Not a few of these caps have a little fishing gear attached or stashed for those very same emergencies.

These people don’t like to overwork themselves. And why should they? If a man and woman have the basics — shelter, food, comfort, and maybe transportation — why should they waste their time expending energy for someone else when they could be making music or poetry or liquor (some would claim that there is no material difference), or just plain philosophizing or daydreaming? Many Appalachians consider these to be important, life-sustaining pursuits that are much more valuable than what the outsiders would impose upon them. This has consternated to no end the outside politicians and do-gooders who have spent a hundred years trying to bring the Appalachians into the modern economy. They have had some success, mainly in the liquor and associated industries, which were already well established informally anyway, and to some extent in industries that are associated with hunting and fishing. Remarkably many of these people whose only educational diploma was delivered to them when they finally completed the eighth grade can rebuild or soup up any engine that you put in front of them if it predates the electronic age, and many are catching up with that, and the outsiders have had some small success in recruiting some of these geniuses into the national racing industry. But generally these economic missions continue to fail because most of the people in this vast territory prefer not to overwork themselves, preferring instead to spend their lives living.

Many of the economic missionaries to the area have abandoned their mission and have adopted the Appalachian lifestyle after only a few years of living in the territory. In some cases this has resulted from matrimony, in others from despair in their failed missions, and in still others from enlightenment and the discovery of real living. Those who despair tend to be depressed for a time but as life moves on and their neighbors stop by and sit a spell, and bring them some fried fish or fried chicken, or a mess of pork chops and maybe an occasional jar of mountain nectar, their depression is eased and they too begin to see their community in a new light and to enjoy a more decompressed lifestyle. Once settled in, many of these renounce their mission and never leave. They put in a little garden, get a couple of pigs and rig up a pen of some sort for them in the backyard, get a dozen or so chickens, and maybe some rabbits and a couple of milk goats, and of course a duckbill cap, and they are home.

~~~

As the years and decades have become centuries, and change has come to this land, as it does to all without fail, the little spring-fed brook that starts right behind Earl Jackson’s house has channeled enough water to fill a river, and it still flows, picking up volume as brooks and streams along the way join it and contribute. There are still a few cows and sheep and goats and pigs and chickens on small farms scattered around the mountains and the valleys, and homo still rises at dawn and feeds them and counts them, and claims them as his.

Earl and Jessie are still there, resting in that green field where the sheep used to graze. Jessie never left. She never, ever left. There is a fence around the plot, and there are other graves there now. One can still hear the mountain sounds of Earl’s and Jessie’s time, but they now compete with the roar of engines on the road and in the fields, and even in the sky.

The doves are still there and they come and they go, and frequently in the evening before the mountains darken, they fly in and alight on the fence that surrounds Earl and Jessie and they coo and they nudge each other, and again that timeless spirit spreads across the mountains and the valleys, and the creatures hush, and if one listens intently as the light fades and darkness deepens, one can still hear, as they sound that distant ancient cadence, the call of the dulcimer and the songs of the hills:

ecce homo, ecce homo

Abba, Abba

ekklesia

—Within each of us there is a stirring that is set in motion by a singular call from the heart of God. It comes to all of us, this call, but in most of us the stirring wanes and like embers that have glowed for a moment and then died, the sound of the call fades and the stirring ceases. But again and again the Creator calls; He never stops, and in a few the stirring is augmented and quickened by the content of the call and the delicacies of the feast that these few perceive.

Abraham our forebear heard this call and felt this stirring, and he tasted these delicacies because he broke his bonds and left his home and came to the feast. And like him others in the flow of time have heard the call and felt the stirring and have turned toward the Source and have cried Abba! and they have feasted.

The call endures. He came to us and lived among us and we killed him. But he rose and forgave us, and Abba now reaches out to gather us and to draw us into the great eternal assembly, where we feast and where our souls are safe and protected as we march into eternity.

And Abba says I AM, come to me.

And we say Abba, break these chains!

And Abba says come!

And we say Abba, help us!

And Abba says come!

And we say Abba, save us!

And Abba says come to me!

And we say Abba! Abba!

~~~

—What if the church, the ekklesia, really proclaimed the good news of the kingdom of God? What would the message be? What if the church told the whole truth? What if we spoke to our young people of the deceitfulness of wealth and told them that life does not consist in an abundance of possessions? What if we taught them the joy of simplicity and the satisfaction of enough? What if we spoke of the peace and rest that come from exhaustive service to others? What if the church taught its leaders that their flock is much greater than individual assemblies? What if we prayed again and again that we might see the church as Jesus sees it? What if we opened the eyes of our soul and saw the Paraclete at work?

I taught a class at church several years ago called Christians, Jack Mackerel, and Eternal Life. It was a good class. A few years later I taught it again. It was a good class again. If you teach the truth about Christians, Jack Mackerel, and Eternal Life it will be a good class even again. The truth of simplicity and of enough never changes. Many leaders of the church have forgotten this.

Soon I would like to be in a class called Rice and Beans, Jesus, and the Great Assembly. Will you help me teach it?

And another called Puppy Breath. I love puppy breath. Have you ever smelled puppy breath? A class in the assembly of the saints called Puppy Breath? Yes, we could do it. No, I have not lost my mind. Do you know who created puppy breath?

And another about moonrise. One time I saw the movement of a full moon as it rose on the horizon. I saw the moon moving! But here’s the catch: I had to stop and be still and look to see that movement. I need a class on stopping and being still.

And rest. A class on rest. Yes, that would be holy.

Tomorrow. What would we say to our young people if we taught a class about tomorrow?

A class about angels and exquisite experiences in which God draws us to him. A wild owl perched on my finger for close to an hour one time. He had got stuck in my barn and I had rescued him. He was flapping about trying to get out through a glass window. I reached up and held out my finger and he stepped onto it. I walked the hundred yards or so to the house and he stayed there all the way perched on my finger. He could have left me at any time. For an hour or so he and I marveled at each other as we moved about the house and the porch, and finally I stood on the porch and lifted my hand and he flew away. I drew closer to God with that owl on my finger. That happened. Angels.

Experiences of the simple. I remember one such experience when with just a handful of twigs I made a cup of tea in the fireplace in an old farmhouse. The house had no electricity and no running water and I had been living there for several months, cooking my meals in the fireplace or over a fire outside. I filled a metal cup with water, set it on three small rocks, and put the twigs under the cup and lit them. I was doing an experiment in simplicity and frankly I doubted that the tiny handful of twigs, less than half the volume of the water in the cup, would be enough to heat the water to a boil, but it was! I have never forgotten the amazement and the satisfaction that I experienced in that moment of simplicity and enough. Enough.

Back to dogs. A sweet, humble dog came to live with me one day. She showed up at my place with a leaf in her mouth. I had never seen her before. She was a black, short haired, medium size dog, and every single time she approached a human being, without fail, she picked up a leaf and brought it as an offering. I named her Leafer. We loved each other. One day I found her lying dead in a field in front of my house. She had a leaf in her mouth. Her final offering. Angels. One day I hope to learn and to teach about angels. I have a long way to go.

Yes, that stirring is there. It is there, moving. With the ears of our soul, if we listen, we hear that call from the heart of God. The feast is spread. The Paraclete serves delicacies that are unnamable. Abba! Abba!

There was a complete hush in the assembly. Archie looked at his people. He had intended to stop here. Short and sweet! But he had more to say.

I know I’m a strange sort of fellow, but I am a disciple of Jesus and I have committed myself to a life of service and prayer. I pray for the entire church in Appalachia and I have devoted my life and my thinking and my service to this region. My view is that God has given me spiritual responsibilities for this great flock; Appalachia is my flock not because I have been appointed by any earthly ecclesiastical institution, but because I have decided to focus my prayer and spiritual life on this region, as a follower of the teachings of Jesus. The ekklesia passage above is a transcript of a sermon that one of our preachers presented to a high church congregation, at their invitation, and their leaders were offended by it. They were offended! They came to me and asked me to chastise the man, and gave me a printed transcript of his sermon, which I have just shared with you. I told them I am not about to quench the Spirit, and that they would do well to listen to this sermon and learn from it. So they determined to have me dismissed, but they could not do it because nobody hired me to start with; I answer to God. If I’m not hired, I can’t be fired. No matter what they do with or to me, they cannot keep me from serving you. I live to serve you. And no earthly institution can take that away from us. That is freedom.

For several years one of my core prayers has been that I might see the church, the ekklesia, as Jesus sees it. As most of you, I come from a deep-rooted church tradition which is fundamentally exclusionary in that we denied affiliation, association, or what many called fellowship, to those who did not share our very precise doctrinal perceptions and behavioral regulations. Any mention of, or even the vaguest allusion to, the Holy Spirit, was likely to get one ostracized, or at the very least asked to consider moving their membership to avoid conflict in the local congregation. The thinking was that it should be clear to anyone who thought about the matter that the activities of the Holy Spirit in human affairs had ceased upon the completion of the biblical canon, whatever and whenever that was, and from that time forward God’s Holy Spirit acted only through the biblical message. That is the tradition from which my walk with Christ developed. I am grateful for much of that tradition because it gave me a good foundation in biblical learning and taught me to appreciate the cohesion of local assemblies, both of which remain important tenets of our faith. We refer to our assembly as family, and that is what it is and should be. We take care of each other. We support each other. When we sin — an area in which I have developed extensive personal experience — we reach out our hands and pull each other back. We are family. But I thank God that he has put a hook in my nose and has led me out of this false doctrine of the death of the Holy Spirit. The Comforter, the Paraclete, the Advocate, the Helper, whatever we want to call him, is alive and well, and all we have to do to perceive him and his activities is to listen with the ears of our soul and see with the eyes of our heart. Once we do this we have these exquisite encounters and we draw closer to our Lord through them. He teaches us in them, and we rub shoulders with him, and we sense unspeakable glory. Abba teaches us through jack mackerel and rice and beans, and moonrises, and owls perched on our finger and staring at us, and the simplicity of a tiny fire to make a cup of tea, and a dog with a leaf in her mouth as she crosses over into eternity. He does this for us. The feast is there. The Paraclete is our server; and he is not dead. Our God is not dead. This is the truth and this truth sets us free if we accept it. If we are not moved by these encounters we are dead.

I believe that Jesus has answered my prayer about seeing the church the way he sees it, but I cannot fully articulate this. I doubt that anyone can if we are honest with ourselves. He said that the kingdom of God is not something that we can point to and say There it is. He has answered my prayer by helping me refrain from saying There it is. He has helped me understand that the kingdom, and by extension the church, the ekklesia, is within us, or among us. He has helped me to see that I don’t need to set up boundaries and parameters and say That defines the church. He has helped me understand that he defines the church; I just follow him. He is the sovereign.

I believe that elders, bishops, overseers, who share these views will see their flock as more than the aggregate of the members in their local assemblies. It is clear that the early church elders saw themselves as shepherds of a broad flock in a designated place. Thus we have references to the ‘elders in Ephesus,’ the ‘elders in Jerusalem,’ ‘elders in every town,’ etc. It is true that Acts 14.23 refers to elders in every church, but to say that this means that elders are limited to local groups, what we usually call congregations, begs the question. It appears to me that ‘every church’ meant the ekklesia, the broader assembly, in every town. ‘Every church’ could have sub-assemblies, groups meeting in different homes, or in different public or private places, such as in Jerusalem for example, but ‘the church in Jerusalem’ certainly meant the aggregate of all these sub-assemblies.

I recognize that this view of the flock is not congruent with much of our general tradition, but it is biblical. Tradition does not trump truth. And for this reason I pray for elders or shepherds who see the flock differently than our general tradition. I pray for elders who see their flock as the church in places, and who will deal with the fallout resulting from this view however they must with the help of the Holy Spirit. This is a spiritual matter, and the Spirit will guide and nurture the shepherds of the flock wherever they are, and no matter what barriers Satan throws up, which he is certain to do.

Blessings upon all of you. Leave here knowing that we are not an institution. Remember, the Master himself said ‘You can’t point to it and say There it is.’ There is nothing complicated about it. Nobody can ever take you away from this family.

Peace. I’m off to eat with some friends at a little place just on the other side of the railroad tracks. They specialize in greens and beans, and a bowl of rice. That’s what I’m having. I love’em!

Archie smiled and waved as he left the lectern. The applause and the boos were thunderous.

Vincent Bossard, known to everyone as Vinny, lived at the boarding house for three reasons: it was near downtown, Miss Sophie’s food was superb, and she let him take a bath every day if he wanted to. He didn’t work at a public job because he didn’t have to. Every month he received a government pension that gave him enough money to pay Miss Sophie for room and board, which was essentially all he needed, and after he had paid that he still had twice that much money left over to spend or save. He saved a lot more than he spent. He was able to do this because he wore a suit of clothes for years, and what else was there to spend anything on? Miss Sophie washed and ironed for him for an extra three dollars a month, so after that anything that he spent his money on, he considered to be for luxury.

Vinny smoked five cigars every day the sun rose except on Sunday. But even this didn’t cost him anything because a tobacco company in Durham sent him three boxes of cigars every month because they said they especially appreciated what he had done for the country. Each box had fifty cigars in it, so he received one hundred and fifty cigars every month, which was more than enough for him given the fact that he cut back to only three or four cigars on Sundays.

Vinny smoked fewer cigars on Sundays because he didn’t smoke during church and Sunday School, but he actually smoked more tobacco on Sundays than on the other days. He did it this way: when he got down toward the end of each cigar that he smoked during the day, he took out his pocket knife, opened a blade, and stuck it into the cigar as close to the mouth end as possible. He was thereby able to hold the cigar with his blade and smoke it down to a smaller stub than if he held it with his fingers toward the end of the smoke because his fingers started getting burned when the cigar got down to about an inch not counting the ash. By using this method of completing his smoke, Vinny ended up with a much smaller stub than he would have otherwise. But even here Vinny practiced his innate frugality, for he did not discard this stub by throwing it onto the courthouse lawn, or even putting it in one of the nearby ash trays. Instead, after he had allowed the cigar to burn out, he carefully rubbed the ash off the end and placed it in a small goat hide leather pouch that he had acquired in Cuba in 1899 after the war. On Sundays, he took these accumulated stubs and chopped them into tobacco flakes and smoked this tobacco in his pipe. Uncle Vinny was both a cigar smoker and a pipe smoker, but all in all he preferred his cigars — he just didn’t want to be wasteful. When someone once asked him if this chopped tobacco from the ends of the cigars didn’t taste nasty, he said No, no man — these cigars are like life — they get better toward the end.

What Vinny had done for his country that the tobacco company in Durham especially appreciated was he left the lower part of his leg in Cuba in 1899. When the major army evacuated Cuba that year after they had won the war, the United States left the black Ninth Infantry Regiment there to support the occupation. They did this because seventy-five percent of the white soldiers got the fever while they were there, but the blacks seemed to be immune to it for the most part; by the time they left only 73 of the Ninth’s 984 soldiers had got the fever.

But Vinny hadn’t got his leg shot off in a real battle. He lost it when he was ordered to chase down one of his own colleagues who had moved into a house of ill repute in downtown Havana. He had gone after the errant soldier, who was actually a white man who declined to evacuate with the rest of the force because he preferred his current living conditions over those that he knew he would experience if he returned to his daddy’s farm in Alabama. After inquiring at the house of ill repute about the errant soldier, Vinny was directed to a small town several miles outside Havana where someone told him the soldier was setting up a new business. Vinny got to the town and someone alerted the soldier that a man in uniform was looking for him so he started running out of town. Vinny chased him and the soldier led him through a swamp where Vinny got snake bit right at his knee. He nevertheless continued and caught up with the soldier, who ended up having to tote Vinny back to town because by the time Vinny had finally caught up with him he, Vinny, had become so sick he could hardly move. Notwithstanding his current circumstances, this soldier was still a good man — he was just committed to ameliorating his living conditions and he believed that Havana and its environs constituted a prime location for doing that. He was scheduled to be honorably discharged from the army as soon as he set foot on American soil anyway. And he couldn’t let a comrade in arms just die without helping him, if help him he could.

The soldier enlisted the services of a mule wagon and driver and transported Vinny back to Havana and dropped him off at the first hospital that he came to. The medicos saved Vinny’s life but not his leg. They cut it off just above the knee, mended the stump, and took him to his bivouac as soon as he was well enough to be moved there. The soldier that Vinny had been chasing stayed in Havana and became a very successful businessman. The army put into his records that he had died in a swamp from the fever. As the years passed, the character of his investments evolved, becoming more conventional, and in 1919 he cashed in and returned to Alabama, where he bought three farms adjoining his daddy’s place, hired a farm manager to oversee the three tenant farmers who ran the farms, and placed his daddy in charge of the whole operation at a salary that was more than five times what he had ever made in a year of farming. After he got his daddy settled in and established as a serious farm operator, the former soldier moved to Durham and started a tobacco importing business, specializing in Caribbean, especially Cuban, cigars.

Vinny convalesced in Havana for three months after losing his leg, and finally made it back to New Orleans where he had grown up as Vincent Bossard among many siblings and cousins and other distant relatives who had paid him very little mind until he returned with his disabled veteran’s pension. This income was sufficient to sustain him, but because of the love visited upon him by so many of his relatives, Vinny was penniless by the middle of every month. So after the middle of the month he hobbled down to the Quarter with his crutches and harmonica — known as a harp by everybody south of the Mason-Dixon Line — and sat on a bench with his hat on the ground in front of his feet and played, and played. By the end of the day there were usually enough pennies and nickels in his hat to buy his supper and the next day’s food, but nothing more. This was not so bad though, for his relatives didn’t come by much during the second half of the month because they knew that Vinny was broke and wouldn’t be there anyway because he needed to work and earn a living.

Vinny carried on like this for a few years and his family grew and grew, and they spent more and more time with him during the first half of the month so that soon he was penniless after the first week of every month, which prompted him to hobble down to the Quarter now for three weeks or so every month and make music for money. During the fourth week of one month a few years after he returned to New Orleans, it occurred to Vinny that he probably had more relatives than anyone he knew and that somehow he needed to get away from them. Although he loved music, he hated making it for money. Music to him was part of his soul — it always had been, just as it had been for his granpappy who had taught him how to hold the harp and blow through it without spitting in it too much, and how to put the sounds together until you were making a song — your song — and using this as a way to tell people what was in your soul.

But doing this for money was kind of like prostituting — at least that’s the way Vinny felt at the time. And that’s what finally made Vinny decide to do something about his relatives, or more precisely about his financial situation. He had to leave this town.

Vinny’s veteran’s payment came on the second day of every month, or on the last day of the month if that was a Friday. The month after he made his decision was one of those Friday months, and this helped him a bit. His closest relatives would usually begin to show up during the afternoon of the second day of the month to check on Vinny’s welfare and this would usually continue for about a week. He had never told his relatives that his money came early if the last day of the month was on Friday. The government had made arrangements for Vinny to pick up his money at a bank on the date that it was to be paid to him. This month he had laid his plans carefully. For the last two months he had even cut back drastically on his eating and had saved every penny he could from playing his harp.

On Friday morning when he got out of bed he put everything he had except his crutches into his army duffel bag and set it by his door. He took his crutches and made his way to the bank and collected his payment for the next month which began the next day, Saturday morning. He walked back toward his room and along the way he stopped a carriage and hired it to take him to the train station by way of his residence. The driver took him back to his room and fetched his bag for him. Vinny went to his landlady and paid the next week’s rent just in case he needed to come back for some reason. He told her he was taking a little vacation up in the mountains. She told him that was fine by her and that she hoped he enjoyed himself and maybe he could bring her back a little something from the mountains because she had never been able to get away to the mountains. Vinny said sure.

He arrived at the train station and the driver took his bag to the baggage room. Vinny thanked him and paid him and then bought a one-way ticket to Asheville, North Carolina, and boarded his train. When he arrived in Asheville early Monday morning he asked a Negro porter if there were any boarding houses near downtown that would welcome a man of color from New Orleans.

—You got any money? the porter asked.

—I do indeed, said Vinny. He showed the porter the wad of bills that he had just received from the government, and a little leather bag that was full of silver and copper coins.

—I’d say Miss Sophie would be glad to take you on, but you better let me walk you over there and take that bag for you. And you better not be showing that money around or you won’t have it long in this town.

Miss Sophie’s Room & Board was only a little over two blocks from the depot. The porter hoisted Vinny’s bag onto a small wagon and invited Vinny to sit on it for the two block trip to the boarding house.

—No thanks. I’ll take these here crutches and walk right along with you.

Thus it was that Vincent Bossard moved from the Quarter in New Orleans into Miss Sophie’s Room & Board in Asheville, North Carolina, where he lived the rest of his life.

Settling In At Miss Sophie’s, Asheville 1920s

Vinny settled in to his room at Miss Sophie’s, and the first morning there he wrote a letter to the tobacco company in Durham informing them that he had moved to Asheville and provided them with his new address. He then spent about a week getting used to Miss Sophie’s cooking, which was not hard to do. She didn’t cook cajun, but she knew how to cook. At every noon and evening meal she put out at least two meats and three or four vegetables. The boarders ate at one long table family style, and filled their plates family style. In fact, as the days passed, Vinny began to feel like he was part of a family at Miss Sophie’s place. There was another colored person there, a young school teacher, and she was one of three females that stayed at the boarding house. There were five men.

Miss Sophie made some modifications to the house so that there were nine rooms to let which meant that each boarder had a private room. She installed a sink in each room to take some pressure off the three bathrooms that were available to the boarders. She had her own separate two-room apartment just off the kitchen and her own bathroom. The two full bathrooms upstairs were designated for the three ladies, and the five men shared the full bath downstairs and the water closet. She provided a chamber pot with a lid to each resident for use in each room. Rent included a weekly change of bed and bath linens and the laundry of these items. In cold weather Miss Sophie put what she called a feather bed in each room. This was what many in the north called a comforter, which might be described as a huge pillow — way bigger than the bed — that was stuffed with feathers which one could hardly stand to sleep under except in the most frigid weather. If the weather was not below zero — and it rarely was — most residents put a sheet on top of the feather bed and slept on it instead of under it. This is probably how it came to be known as a feather bed in the south.

If a renter wanted Miss Sophie to do his or her laundry she provided that service as well at a price that was competitive with the local laundries, and included ironing. Her residents were well fed and quite comfortable in their living conditions.

Miss Sophie made it clear when she interviewed an applicant that there were plenty of good boarding houses in the area, and that if one was uncomfortable eating at the same table or living in the same house as a person of another color, or even a Cherokee, then they should seek room and board elsewhere. Her boarding house was open to anyone she chose and that was that.

As far as Vinny could tell, that was fine with everyone there. Her rooms were always occupied, and there appeared to be a waiting list. The only complaint that he ever heard about the arrangements at Miss Sophie’s was that it was almost impossible to keep from putting on weight if one stayed there for any length of time. In fact, the food was so good that she put in a second long table in the dining room and accepted day boarders for breakfast and dinner, essentially doubling her clientele except for supper. It may not have been a restaurant officially, but it was a fully integrated southern eating establishment as early as the 1920’s.

Vinny began to get fat. Every morning he ate a breakfast that consisted of eggs and sausage and ham and fried pork chops and fried chicken, and often fried tenderloin chips and grits and some of the best biscuits that he had ever tasted. Miss Sophie had a Negro lady, Jamie, that helped her cook and she made the biscuits. She made these with lard and buttermilk and white flour, and occasionally delighted the guests with biscuits that had copious amounts of hog cracklins mixed in. These were the solids that remained in the bottom of the lard vat when chunks of fat were thrown into the cast iron pot and rendered over fire into lard. In Vinny’s opinion few experiences in life were as sublime as biting into a hot biscuit that was filled with cracklins and slowly chewing it, and then washing it down with hot black coffee. After breakfast he either settled into the parlor and listened to the conversations of those who remained at the house — which were few because most had some kind of daytime occupation — or went to the front porch and rocked the morning away, watching the world go by.

By noon he could not truthfully say that he was hungry but the aromas coming out of the kitchen coupled with the arrival of the noon eaters urged him back to the dining room table. So he went, and he ate, and then he rocked the afternoon away on the porch and watched the world go by some more. And then he went back to the table at supper time and ate his evening meal. Vinny was happy, and getting fatter.

What more could a man want? His room and his board and his laundry consumed barely a third of his monthly payment from the government. His cigars cost him nothing because of the nice tobacco company in Durham. He had already received his first shipment of these at his new address because he had notified them of his change of address as soon as he got to Asheville. They had even thrown in some extra cigars with a note congratulating Vinny on his move to North Carolina.

At this point none of his funds were diverted to any of the Bossards in New Orleans, who he knew must be experiencing a dearth of funds for their daily needs, but he could not concern himself with that. They would just have to make do themselves, perhaps even go to work. Here he was happy, the residents liked him and were friendly to him, and most of them called him Uncle Vinny, which pleased him immensely. He had turned fifty a few weeks after he arrived at Miss Sophie’s, and she had thrown a party for him after supper on his birthday. All the residents were there and each of them gave him a little something. And then he gave each of them a fresh cigar, including the women, and invited everyone to join him on the porch for a smoke. Two of the ladies politely declined, but to his utter amazement and joy, the young Negro teacher lady said sure she’d love to smoke a cigar with him on the porch, and she did. And then Miss Sophie came out to the porch with a tray that had a decanter and several small glasses on it and proposed that everyone serve themselves and raise a toast to Uncle Vinny, which they did, including the teacher lady, who sat in a rocking chair next to Vinny. When everyone exclaimed how good and how smooth the whiskey was, Miss Sophie explained that she had received it as an offering from one of her early suitors up in Murphy — or actually way up in the mountains outside of Murphy, and that it was at least fifteen years old and that she couldn’t think of anyone she would rather share it with than Uncle Vinny and his friends on this very special evening. With a twinkle in her eye she said that she doubted that its makers had paid taxes on it, but what did that matter — it was delicious, taxed or not. Uncle Vinny was happy, and because he was getting fat just sitting here on the porch, he determined that beginning the next day he would take his crutches and make his way to the courthouse lawn and sit on a bench for the morning, weather permitting. This would give him some exercise that he was not getting at the moment. He explained this to the teacher lady and she told Vinny she thought that was a great idea. When she told him she needed to turn in because she had to deal with twenty-five teenagers all day the next day she didn’t call him Uncle Vinny — she just called him Vinny. He thanked her for smoking the cigar with him and she said she was the one that needed to thank him and that maybe they could do it again sometime. She went back in the house and Miss Sophie poured him another glass of that delicious Appalachian Mountain nectar, and Vinny was happy. He was home.

One morning about three months after moving from New Orleans to Asheville, Vinny left the breakfast table at Miss Sophie’s Room and Board and went to his room and loaded a little sack that he usually carried slung over his shoulder. He made his way down the front steps and the path to the sidewalk and headed for the courthouse which was about four blocks away.

He had already made the trip three times, but did not tarry there on the earlier trips. Today would be different. He decided he needed to spend more time away from Miss Sophie’s front porch. He moved along at a nice pace with his crutches and arrived at the courthouse lawn a few minutes later. There were several benches on the lawn. Vinny picked out one that faced south. It was under a big oak tree which would provide him shade in the summer time and a warming sun during cold weather. During his earlier surveillance trips he noted that this bench was never occupied, so he decided to claim it today by possession and use.

Vinny’s first visitors were some pigeons and squirrels who came claiming some offering or another for use of the bench. He crumbled one of the biscuits in his bag and tossed the crumbs to the pigeons, and to the squirrels he tossed a handful of unshelled peanuts that he had taken from his personal stash. He liked to watch them go through the shelling process before eating them or stuffing them into their cheeks.

These visitors drifted away after Vinny finished feeding them, and Vinny sat and watched the world go by. At about nine o’clock a string of jailhouse inmates dressed in black and white striped jail attire hobbled from the jail on the other side of the square to a side door on the ground level of the courthouse. One deputy sheriff led them, and one followed with a shotgun. No one tried to escape and it appeared to Vinny that most of them seemed to enjoy being outside for the brief walk to the courthouse. Some of them even waived at Vinny and he smiled and waved back. You might say these were Vinny’s second visitors, although they were not able to draw near to him at the time because of their chains. But that would change for some of them.No one else came that morning, and shortly before noon Vinny left his bench and crutched back to his room. He joined the regulars in the dining room and ate a big lunch and then made his way back to the courthouse for the afternoon. He was determined to set up a schedule and follow it as long as the weather permitted, for he knew he would need some time to get acclimated to the weather in the North Carolina highlands as opposed to the mild winters in New Orleans.

His bench was still available so he made his way over there and claimed it. The pigeons and squirrels immediately came over to demand the afternoon rent, which Vinny happily paid.

About half an hour later a deputy walked over from the jail. He was a big white man — tall and muscular — big.

—Howdy.

—Howdy Sir, said Vinny. He touched the brim of his hat.

—Ain’t never seen you around here before have I?

—I doubt it — today’s the first time I’ve been here to sit and stay awhile, although I’ve walked downtown a few times.

—Where ya comin’ from?

—I moved up here from New Orleans about three months ago.

—And you ain’t been in jail yet?

Vinny laughed. —Naw, and the good Lord willin’ I don’t plan to visit your facility any time soon.

—Don’t be sayin’ nothin’ bad about our jail. We feed’em good in there. We even got some that won’t stay out. They come in and do their ten days and when we turn’em loose and make’em leave they walk two blocks down the street and steal a pouch of tobacca right in front of the store owner and sit there til one of the city boys gets there. He brings’em back and books’em and they ain’t missed a meal. How’d ya lose ya leg?

—Lost it in the war in Cuba in ‘99.

—You sleepin’ on the streets?

—Naw, I’m staying at Miss Sophie’s Room and Board.

—Ah, Miss Sophie’s — the only intergrated place in town. I reckon you got a pension of some kind? We got a loiterin’ law here.

—That’s right. I been blessed with a small pension that gives me way more’n I need.

The deputy nodded.

—I’ve et over at Miss Sophie’s a time or two. Don’t matter to me if there’s Negroes or Cherokee in there. The food takes care o’ that. If ya let’er know a day ahead of time ya want to eat dinner there, she’ll feed ya, for a quarter. A man cain’t do better’n that.

—No Sir Sheriff, you got that right. Would you care to join me for a cigar? He reached into his bag and extended a cigar to the deputy.

—Naw, I gotta get back. The sheriff just wanted me to come over and check on ya and make sure nobody’s messin’ with ya.

—Well here, take this one and take one to the sheriff and tell’im I said I sure appreciate it. He handed the two cigars to the deputy.

—Thank ya. I’ll tell’im. What’s yore name?

—Vincent Bossard, but everybody calls me Vinny.

The deputy stared at him for a moment.

—Well I’m gonna call ya Uncle Vinny if that’s alright by you. You look like you’re about twicet my age, and that’s the way my family raised me, don’t matter what color ya are.

Vinny smiled.

—I would be honored. And what’s your name if I may ask?

The deputy looked at the ground and kicked a dirt clod with the toe of his boot.

—Vincent Sewell.

Vinny smiled again.

—And what do people call you?

The deputy waited a moment and then kicked another dirt clod and looked off toward the jail before answering.

—Vinny, he said, and then they looked at each other and both broke out laughing, knee slapping, belly wrenching, lung wheezing hard.

Thus it was that Deputy Vinny and Uncle Vinny bonded with each other. The deputy was Uncle Vinny’s third visitor, and the first who had a philosophical exchange with him on the courthouse lawn. From that moment forward, deputy Vinny would have taken a bullet for Uncle Vinny.

The Boarding House Receives an Unusual Guest

Sophie rose for the day at four-thirty and walked up the stairs of her boarding house to check the four rooms on the second floor. All four doors were closed and the bathroom was empty. She went back down the stairs and checked on the five rooms down there that she rented to her male guests. All appeared to be well. Miss Sophie’s foremost concern was to make sure that her guests were comfortable in their rooms, that they were well fed in the dining room, and that they paid their rent in advance on the first day of the month without fail.

Sophie kept one room upstairs, the fourth room, that she would not rent long term because she wanted to be able to provide lodging to ladies passing through town, or passing through a difficult moment in their lives, who needed a room temporarily. The other three rooms upstairs she was willing to rent long term if that’s what the guests wanted. They usually stayed occupied, and if a lady who had rented the temporary room needed to make her stay more or less permanent, Sophie would move her into the first permanent room that became available upstairs so that she could free up the temporary room for ladies who urgently needed a place to stay for a few nights for whatever reason.

There were several boarding houses in Asheville, but Sophie’s was the only integrated one at the time. Sophie maintained good relations with the proprietors of these other establishments, and when a young lady appeared at her front door needing lodging, and Sophie’s fourth room was unavailable, she could almost always make arrangements to place the young lady in a nearby room.

When the fourth room was available, Sophie was not nearly as strict about rent when a woman needed the room. She would discreetly inquire about the woman’s financial situation, but her decision to accommodate the applicant was not based on her ability to pay. If the woman was penniless, Sophie always assured her that she could earn her keep for a few nights by assisting in the kitchen and with other tasks around the house.

Another concession that she made with regard to the fourth room was that she would allow two guests to occupy it at a time. And she made this clear to everyone who asked to rent the room for a few nights. She had two beds in the room, so the guests didn’t have to share a bed. This enabled her to keep the rent lower for that room, and to accommodate more ladies who needed her assistance for temporary lodging. Sophie had been doing this for years, and she had never had a real problem with ladies taking advantage of her. She accomplished this by making it clear from the start that rental of the fourth room was temporary, and by maintaining a working relationship with various agencies and churches and others who would assist women who needed their assistance.

Over the years Sophie had lodged some unusual ladies in the fourth room. One time a few years back, a lady in her late twenties rang the doorbell at nine o’clock in the evening. Sophie came to the door and led her into the parlor. The young lady explained that she needed a place to stay for about a week and then she would be heading out to Abilene where her brother had assured her that she could find work. Sophie told her that the rent for the room would be six dollars for the week and that if she wanted board as well that would be another four dollars. The young lady retrieved a coin purse from her bag and took out 10 silver dollars.

She left before breakfast a week later, explaining to Sophie that she didn’t have time for breakfast because she had to catch an early train. Sophie quickly packed her some ham biscuits to take along, for which the young lady thanked her. A half hour later when Sophie went to the fourth room to fetch the bed linens that the young lady had used, she found a pile of twenty dollar bills, fifty of them. A note was pinned to the top bill:

Thank you for your wonderful hospitality. It‘s been a very long time since I have experienced family as I have for the past week at your place. I leave this offering with the request that you use it to assist persons in need who may come your way. I trust your judgment in its use.

There was no signature. Since that day, every year on the first Monday in November, which was the day the young lady had caught her train to Abilene, a local lawyer has rung Sophie’s front doorbell and handed her one thousand dollars in twenty dollar bills with a nice note in the handwriting of the young lady who had written the first note. After Vinny arrived, the note always inquired about him. This puzzled Sophie to no end, until she realized that this generous young lady must be sending a spy in to check on the place from time to time. Each year Sophie sent one hundred dollars to each of four other nearby boarding houses whose proprietors she knew assisted people who needed help. She never kept a penny of the yearly thousand dollars for herself, never paid any of it to herself as rent or board, but rather stuffed it into the pockets of her temporary guests as they left, based upon her perceptions of what they might need during the next stage of their journey, wherever that might be leading them. Many young ladies were surprised to find a twenty dollar bill with a note pinned to it in their pocket or purse after they were miles away from Miss Sophie’s place. And this generosity was not limited to women. Sophie used the fifth room on the first floor for the same purposes as the fourth room upstairs, and when a young man, or an old one for that matter, who had stayed with Sophie for a few days while looking for work took his leave, he also often took a twenty dollar bill in one of his pockets or in the top of a paper bag in which Sophie had packed him some lunch, without knowing it until he was long gone from Miss Sophie’s.

The high that Sophie experienced when she sent someone along with twenty dollars that he or she didn’t know about was far better than anything she had experienced when pulling one of her long mountain drunks, or likkerin’ up as they called it up in the real high country, before her granddaddy saved her by moving her to Asheville and setting her up with the boarding house.

It hadn’t been easy getting to now. She had pulled a few drunks in Asheville too, but granddaddy had sent with her Jamie, the Negro cook who still lived with her and helped her run the boarding house; Jamie nursed her through the drunks, kept grandpa informed of her state, and kept the boarding house running while Sophie climbed back out of the black hole. After about six months of this Sophie decided to quit getting drunk, and she never got drunk again. That was behind her, and now she was experiencing a high that made the highs of the past pale in comparison.

Vinny’s Next Door Neighbor

Vinny’s next door neighbor at Miss Sophie’s was a man who called himself a half breed because his mama was a full-blooded Cherokee and his daddy was full-blooded Scotch-Irish. He was a funny-looking fellow who looked distinctly Cherokee except that he had a tightly curled head of hair. He had a Bachelor of Arts degree from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. One night during the fall that Vinny arrived in town, this neighbor, George Barnes, who had occupied the room right next to Vinny’s for three years, completely upset the equilibrium at Miss Sophie’s by coming home toting a basket with a baby in it.

George had been working as a librarian for several years at various venues, including the new junior college that had just been started up in Asheville. He made a decent living as a librarian, and his room at Miss Sophie’s was his home. Over the last year or so he had spent most of his weekends away from the boarding house. He had missed the supper call this evening so he took the baby straight to the kitchen. The men who were sitting on the porch smoking and talking immediately got up and followed him into the kitchen to see what the baby was about. The ladies who had been sitting in the parlor talking, and two of whom were also smoking, got up and followed the men and George and the baby into the kitchen to see what the baby was about. There had never been this many people in the kitchen at one time, at least since Vinny got there because Sophie didn’t permit the crowd to come into the kitchen. She would occasionally invite someone to step into the kitchen to sample some dish or to inquire about their day or some other event, but otherwise the kitchen was off limits to the crowd. Tonight when the baby came in she was not in the kitchen, but from her rooms next door she heard the commotion and went to see what was happening. She and Jamie got to the kitchen door at the same time.

George had set the basket with the baby in it on the work table and was inquiring about where he might find some milk for the baby. Jamie moved everybody aside and lifted the baby out of the basket. The baby looked like a little Cherokee baby — especially with its thick black hair. Jamie looked at George and then back at the baby, and then whispered into Sophie’s ear. Sophie looked at the baby’s thick black hair, which was tightly curled like George’s, and nodded.

—Where’d you get this baby, George?

—She’s my baby, Miss Sophie.

Everybody hushed and listened.

—It’s a girl?

—Yes ma’am.

—Why didn’t you tell me you had a baby?

—It was kind of private and her mama still had her.

—What do you mean her mama still had her?

—She still had her till she got killed yesterday.

—Her mama got killed yesterday?

—Yes ma’am.

—Where?

—Up in Murphy. She was staying with some friends. That’s where I’ve been goin’ on Saturdays these last few months. We got married about a year and a half ago and we ended up with this baby. We even got married the county way. Her family said we didn’t have to since we were Cherokee but we went through a Cherokee and a county ceremony anyway and we’ve got a certificate filed over in the Cherokee Records and at the courthouse. I’ve got a copy of the marriage certificate right here in my room. We were going to rent us a place here in Asheville as soon as I got enough money put away to start out on our own.

—How’d she get killed?

—A gang of boys jumped her and when they had all finished with her, they stabbed her. I got a telegram at the library today telling me to come get the baby before the law takes her. They haven’t found the boys and nobody’s sure they could identify them.

Everybody looked at George and then back at the baby, who appeared to be perfectly content in Jamie’s arms.

—So this baby’s how old?

—About five months. He swallowed hard. I’ll find someplace else to stay; I can start looking tomorrow, but I need to feed her something now. If it’s all right I’ll just keep her in my room tonight. If I take her to any of the churches they’ll call in the law, and I’m not going to let the law take my baby from me.

Everybody looked at Sophie and Jamie and the baby. Nobody said anything as they waited for Sophie’s decision.

—What are ya’ll starin’ at? Get back out there where you’re supposed to be — we gotta figure out what we’re gonna do with this baby. George, you’re not goin’ anywhere for now — this baby needs her daddy right here with her. You got any diapers in that basket?

—They told me there were two extra ones in there, but they said they didn’t have any milk to send. Her mama’s been nursing her.

—Who’s they?

—The Cherokee family that were lettin’ her mama stay with them till we could get us a place here in Asheville.

—Well she very clearly needs a clean diaper now. I’ll send Jamie for some in the morning and we’ll make do tonight with what we have. I’ve got some soft dish towels that’ll work just fine ‘til we can get some diapers tomorrow. I’ve got some nipples in there that we can put on a juice bottle, and we’ve got plenty of canned milk. She’s not gonna starve before mornin’, and we’ll decide then how we’re gonna handle this. The law may come lookin’ for her whether we like it or not. You make sure you can put your hands on that marriage certificate fast in case any of the state people come nosing around.

She reached for the baby and Jamie handed it to her.

—Yep, she definitely needs her diaper changed. George, she can stay here in your room with you, but I think you ought to let her stay in Jamie’s room tonight. Jamie knows how to take care of these little ones, and you’re gonna need some sleep. And as far as tomorrow goes, you go on back to work. This baby’ll be safe right here ‘til you can come back home to her.

—Yes ma’am. Thank you Miss Sophie.

She pressed the baby’s head into the crook of her neck and turned away from the crowd for a moment. Then she handed the baby back to Jamie and brushed the tears from her cheeks.

Jamie took the baby and held it against her neck just like Sophie had done.

—George, if you need to see this baby anytime during the night you just come knock on my door, you hear me?

—Yes, Jamie. Thank y’all so much. You may not know it, but my baby is the most important thing in the world to me. I loved her mama, and it hurts so much.

And that’s when he broke down crying, and that’s when Jamie and Sophie broke down crying, and after a few moments Sophie told him he should go on out to the parlor to settle down for awhile before bedtime, or if he wanted to maybe he ought to go ahead and settle down in his room.

—We need to take care of this baby now and us standin’ around crying is not helping much. Jamie’ll bring the baby in there so you can tell her good night before she puts her to bed.

—Thank you Miss Sophie. I believe I’ll just go on to my room now. You got a chicken leg or a pork chop I could take in there with me? I’m kind of hungry now that I’ve got the baby here.

—Oh my! I forgot about you needin’ to eat too! I’ll fix you a whole plate. You want to eat in the dining room?

—No ma’am, I don’t believe I could handle the company right now. But I would appreciate it if you’d tell everybody out there what you decided. You know we’re all kind of one big family here and they’ll want to know.

—I’ll go out there and tell’em. They’re probably listenin’ through the walls anyway, but I’ll tell’em so we can all get some sleep tonight.

She started toward the parlor and then stopped and turned to George. —What’s her name?

George hesitated and looked at the floor before answering. —We named her Sophia Adsila Barnes the night she was born at the hospital. We wanted her to be the kind of person you are Miss Sophie. I had told my wife all about you. That’s the name we told the doctor to put on the birth certificate. Adsila means blossom.

Sophie turned away from him. After a few moments she turned back to George and looked him in the eye. Then she went back into Jamie’s room and told her to go out there and tell everybody what they had decided to do with the baby for now. She just couldn’t face that crowd in the dining room.

The Day After The Baby Arrived

The next morning everybody got up a little earlier than usual. They all looked down the hall toward Jamie’s room and stuck their heads in the kitchen to see if the baby was up and about, and then took to their normal morning routines. Cold weather had not set in yet, so some of the men turned on the porch lights and sat out there for their first smokes of the day. This caused the neighbors on each side of Miss Sophie’s house to stick their heads out their front doors to see what was going on, what with everybody being on the porch a half hour early. Upstairs, the ladies stirred early too, and one could hear the clinking of the little bottles in their toiletries and soon the air was mixed with the smell of their perfumes and the aroma of the cigarette smoke from the smokers who had remained in the parlor, and the morning was alive.

Each morning Miss Sophie or Jamie rang a little bell when they were ready for the residents to come to the breakfast table. They rang the bell a little early this morning and everybody hurried into the dining room. As they ate, everybody kept looking toward the kitchen door to see if Jamie or Sophie would bring the baby in so it could join everyone for breakfast. After everyone had settled in and begun to eat, Jamie walked into the room with a bundle in her arms, and as she set it in George’s arms a big black mop of curly hair began to stir and she let out a loud yell.

—What’s wrong with the baby? they all asked.

—Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that baby, said Jamie, She’s just tellin’ y’all good mornin’!

Everybody said good morning back to the baby, and George looked proud and happy, this even though he had lost the baby’s mama two days before. He wondered about the feelings he was having. He had loved the woman. They could sit quietly for hours and not talk and yet feel peace in each other’s presence. And they had made this child together, and had told each other that it was their child and that they would always take care of each other and the child, and the monsters had killed her and now only he had the baby, and when he thought about her mama he felt empty and angry. The young mama would not see her baby flower into the person that George had determined that he would help her become. And so he held the baby, and at the same time that he felt this deep, empty sadness and anger, he also felt an inexplicable joy and happiness as he rubbed his hand over the little girl’s mop of thick, black, curly hair.

Everybody had forgotten about their food. Sophie stood at the head of the table next to the kitchen door as Jamie touched George on the shoulder and reached down and took the bundle from him. The bundle yelled again, and Jamie and Sophie smiled and said she was just telling everybody she was just as hungry as they were, so everybody needed to get on with their breakfast and they would feed the baby in the kitchen. So everybody got back to their breakfast and coffee and began to comment about what a fine baby that was and what a head of hair she had and where was she going to stay, in George’s room or in Jamie’s room? Or maybe she should have her own room. They could switch rooms around some so that the baby could have the little room next to Jamie’s and George could have the room next to that so that the baby would be in a room between George and Jamie. There was already a door between Jamie’s room and the baby’s, and they could easily put in a door between the baby’s room and George’s new room. One of the ladies suggested that maybe the baby should stay upstairs since she was a girl and that’s where the females stayed, but that didn’t go very far. The consensus was that the baby was still George’s baby and that she should stay by him. And thus the crowd at Miss Sophie’s Room & Board spent the rest of breakfast time determining what changes would need to be made there at the house for their new baby. Every time they heard a yell from the kitchen, they moved ahead with greater resolve.

Vinny’s New Leg

About the time the baby arrived, another major change was taking place in town: the government was giving Vinny a new leg. He had gone for years without an artificial leg, partly because he didn’t want one and partly because the army people down in New Orleans didn’t push for it. After all, they were costly.

But the situation in Asheville was different. The government fellow who took care of Vinny’s records here and who made sure he received his pension payment every month had convinced Vinny that he ought to give the leg a try. And so he had agreed, and today, the day after the baby arrived, Vinny went to the medical office that would fit the new leg on him and coach him and teach him how to use it until he felt comfortable and balanced with the new appliance. He spent the morning there getting the leg fitted and then walking around the walls of the room holding a handrail on the wall. Although his stump was perfectly healed — it had had years to heal — it was very tender and sore by the time he finished his first exercises with the staff at the medical office. He had expected to take his leg home with him, but they told him it would be a few days before he could do that because he needed the practice and he needed to toughen up the fleshy part of his stump that came into contact with the leg so that he would no longer feel any soreness.

After three hours at the clinic, Vinny crutched back to his room in time for dinner, where the baby was still the center of attention. The non-resident regulars who took their noon meal at Miss Sophie’s now found themselves to be additionally differentiated from the residents by this unusual fact: no matter how intrigued they were by the new baby, since they didn’t live at the boarding house, they couldn’t claim this baby as their baby. The language of the residents was full of the first person plural — We’re gonna cut a door between his room and her room; we’ll keep her in diapers, you don’t need to worry about that; we’re not gonna let anything happen to our baby — the law ain’t got no right to come take’er from us.

And so by this attitude the baby was incorporated into the family immediately. Everyone respected the fatherhood of George, and the rights attendant to that status, and not a one of them would have attempted to block George from taking the baby from the house and going elsewhere. But that issue had been settled by the matriarch of the family and her helper. The baby was staying here, and so it was their baby, to be cared for by them, to be financed by them, to be guarded by them from the impositions of the outside world.

Vinny knew nothing of Sophie’s charitable account, or of her blessings to certain sojourners at the house — even the sojourners didn’t know about it until they were long gone. And so he had no idea that the baby’s financial needs were already met. But something in him stirred and made him commit then and there to use whatever funds he needed from his growing savings account to make sure this baby lacked nothing. And so it was with everybody else at the boarding house. Not a one of them was rich, but they were all — men and women — wage earners who had a little margin in their finances. Without consulting each other at all, they all allocated in their spirit a portion of their cushion to their new baby. They did this without even thinking about it. It was just there, this commitment — unreferenced, unspoken, undefined: this baby was not going to go hungry, no sir. And although she no longer had a breast to suck on, she’d have plenty of bodies there at the boarding house to keep her warm and happy. And she was going to have clothes as good as those of any other baby in town, and if she got sick there was going to be money to pay the doctor’s bill, yessiree.

Something welled up in the women at the house, making them want to hold the baby and cuddle her against their breasts and feed her and keep her clean and warm; and something made the hair rise on the necks of the men because they felt mad and protective when they imagined various harms that some outsider might wish to visit upon their baby. Somebody could get killed if they tried to come in here and hurt this baby. Such was the commitment of the residents of the boarding house to Sophia. It was immediate and it was not reasoned. It sprang from within their usness, and it was just there, and it was not in the outsiders, in those who did not reside in their house.

Vinny’s stump was sore. He had spent almost three hours that morning wearing his new leg and putting weight on it as he moved around the training room. But he was determined to go back this afternoon and practice some more; his goal was to begin wearing his leg all day within a few days, and to lay aside his crutches within a month. The doctor had told him that he was going to have to completely relearn how to balance himself when he walked, because he didn’t have toes on his stump side and that’s one of the main functions of toes, besides stinking. This tickled Vinny when the doctor said it, and he determined that he was going to relearn balancing with his artificial leg as quickly as he could. So that afternoon he went back to the clinic and spent another two hours walking on his new leg. He was making progress. They told him he could take his leg home with him the next week if he wasn’t too sore, but that he should count on using his crutches for another month or two along with his leg until he was totally comfortable with his balance. Today Vinny left his leg at the clinic after another two hours of work there, and crutched directly to his bench on the courthouse lawn, where he paid his rent to the squirrels and pigeons and lit up a well-earned cigar.

So Vinny’s life changed that fall in two significant ways: he obtained and learned to use an artificial leg, which he came to like, and he became an undeclared protector of a new person in the household, a baby named Sophia.

Nobody Could Sleep

Nobody could sleep. It was already ten o’clock and the neighborhood was dark and the evening sounds had waned and the night had settled outside, but not here inside Miss Sophie’s place. Sophia the baby wouldn’t stop yelling. This was disconcerting not only to George but to the whole household. George had essentially relinquished the charge of his baby to Jamie, who was now in the room next to his trying to comfort the baby, but nothing was working. And by now every person in the house had developed a kind of parental relationship with the baby, and so its cries tonight kept them awake not by the noise but because of their protective instincts and urges toward the infant.

Not a person in the house would have tried to prevent George from taking his baby and moving somewhere else if that was what he determined to do. But that was not on the table. This was George’s family. The baby had been in the house now for several weeks, and everybody who lived there had developed a relationship with her that caused them to have urges to succor — to surround and protect and nourish this baby that was now their baby, at least for a time.

George tapped on the door.

—Come on in George.

Jamie was holding Sophia and rocking her in her arms.

—You reckon she’s hungry? he asked.

—No, we’ve fed her and she took a whole bottle. And she had a good burp. She may have a little colic, but I don’t think so. Sometimes babies just need to cry.

A Government Lady Comes To The House

About two months after the baby arrived, Sophie’s grandpa and grandma came for a visit. Sophie had written them about the baby, and her letter had been full of excitement. They decided to come down and visit Sophie and see her new boarder.

Just as they drove up and parked in front of the boarding house, about mid-morning, Deputy Vinny pulled up in his patrol car and parked right behind them. He greeted them and followed them up the steps to the front porch. They went in, and he lingered and after a moment he rang the front door bell. Sophie came to the door and greeted him.

—How’s it goin’ Vinny? Don’t tell me you’re wantin’ to eat dinner here today?

He laughed. —Naw, I just need to speak to Uncle Vinny for a minute if he’s around. But how about tomorrow?

—I’ll set a place for you. Let me go see if Vinny’s in his room. Come on in.

A few moments later Vinny came out and the deputy suggested they go out and talk on the porch.

—Uncle Vinny, I need to tell you something. We got a call this morning from the Social Services people up in Murphy asking about the baby.

—What’d they want?

—I’m not sure, but it sounds like they think the county should take custody of her.

—Why would they think that?

—I don’t know. I heard the sheriff tell’em the baby’s staying with her daddy and that they’ve got a good comfortable place to stay. He told’em George has a full-time job and they said that’s the problem — she don’t have nobody to stay with during the day while he’s at work.

—That’s crazy! She’s got Miss Sophie and Jamie here all day every day during the week, and her daddy of an evening and on the weekends. Them two ladies are not going anywhere what with having to cook three meals a day every day.

—I know. I just wanted to let you know there may be some trouble. You might want to warn George and Miss Sophie before them Social Services people come down here and start pokin’ around.

—I will. Is that all you know about it?

—Yep, that’s it for now. I’ll letcha know if I hear anything else.

~~~

He couldn’t imagine this happening in New Orleans, especially among his people. If a parent died, the other parent took care of the child, and family and friends stepped in as needed. Unless there was clear evidence that the baby was being mistreated or neglected, the people felt that who raised the child was none of the state’s business. This baby clearly was not being mistreated or neglected. She was happy, fat, comfortable, and loved by a houseful of people that had suddenly become her family.

He found Jamie in the kitchen.

—Where’s Miss Sophie?

—She’s back in her apartment with her grandma and grandpa. You need to talk to her?

—I think so. The deputy just told me that the state people from Murphy called and asked about the baby and wanted to know where they could find it. Sounds like they’re talking about putting the baby in foster care until George can prove that he’s fit to take care of her and is making sure she’s being taken care of while he’s at work.

—George don’t have to prove nothin’! snapped Jamie. He’s that baby’s daddy and he’s taking good care of her. But she knew that Vinny was right to be worried. George was a nobody to the state. Over the last years the state had built up its bureaucracies to the extent that they had to go out among the people looking for problems, so they could find work enough to justify their continued existence. For the most part these bureaucracies and their bureaucrats were worthless, fulfilling no valid social function whatsoever. Their concern was not the welfare of this baby but rather the power they could exert in the circumstances. She could feel this in her bones.

—I’ll tell Sophie to step out here for a minute. You want to talk to her folks too?

—It don’t matter. I’m sure she’ll tell’em if I don’t.

Jamie stepped out of the kitchen and in a few moments came back with Sophie and her grandparents. —Vinny, tell’em what you just told me.

Vinny told them. The old man and his woman nodded. Sophie stepped into the baby’s room and came back with Sophia in her arms. Grandma reached for the baby and took it.

—If they’ve gone this far they’ll try to take this baby, said Jeremiah. Not that they care about the baby or her daddy — they don’t. But they’ll follow their policies. That keeps’em funded.

—Miss Sophie, I think we better call George at the library and tell him what’s going on, said Vinny. For all we know they may be on the way from Murphy right now. We know for sure they’ve already called the sheriff asking where they can find the baby.

—I’ll call him, said Sophie, but I think maybe the baby better take a ride for a little while, like maybe for a routine checkup at the doctor’s office. I’ll take her and let Jamie take care of dinner and supper today. It may take me awhile to find a doctor that can see her, so I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m gone pretty much the whole rest of the day.

~~~

Not ten minutes after Sophie drove away with the baby a black sedan parked at the curb in front of the boarding house, and a woman dressed in dark blue business attire got out of the car and came to the front door and rang the bell. Jamie came to the door.

—May I help you?

—I need to speak with Mr. George Barnes.

—I’m sorry, he’s not here right now.

—But he lives here?

—Yes, he does.

—And does he have a baby?

—Yes he does.

—And the baby lives here with him?

—Yes, the baby lives here. May I ask the purpose of your visit?

—I’m with the Department of Social Services over in Cherokee County and I have an administrative order authorizing me to take the child into protective custody. Please take me to the baby. She stepped closer to the door.

Jamie didn’t move. —The baby is not here.

—Where is she?

—I don’t know, said Jamie. The owner of this boarding house took her for a routine medical checkup, but she said she was going to have to look around for a doctor, so I can’t tell you where she is.

—I don’t believe you. Step aside, I want to look inside.

Jamie still didn’t move. —I don’t think that would be appropriate. I’ve told you the baby is not here.

—It doesn’t matter what you think. I have a legal authorization to take that baby into custody and I am going to take her to Murphy with me this afternoon. Step aside.

Jamie blocked her way.

—If you don’t move, I am going straight to the sheriff and have him come back over here with me and enforce this authorization.

Jamie still didn’t move.

—Very well, I shall be back shortly. She turned and walked briskly to her car.

Jamie went to the phone and called the sheriff’s office and asked for deputy Vinny.

—You were right. She’s here to pick up the baby. I wouldn’t let her in, and I told her the baby is not here right now. In fact I told her the truth but she didn’t believe me, so now she’s on her way to your office to get someone to come back over here with her and take the baby.

—Did Miss Sophie take her to the doctor? I heard her say something about that awhile ago.

—Yes, but I have no idea which doctor.

—I’ll put out an all points bulletin on the radio and see if we can find her or her car. It shouldn’t be too hard. Everybody here knows Miss Sophie, and every deputy knows her car. Half of’em are lustin’ after her. We’ll take our time sending somebody back with this woman. As understaffed as we are today it could easily take an hour and a half before we can send anybody over there with her. We’ll let Miss Sophie know what’s going on as soon as we find her. One of us will be over there in a little while with this woman, so we’ll try to make sure Miss Sophie doesn’t come home any time soon.

~~~

Sophie drove around town trying to figure out what she should do. It certainly would be a good time to take the baby for a medical checkup but it might be more important to get the baby to her daddy and let him decide what to do. She could drive out to the college library and talk to him there. She could get a student to go in and tell him to come to the car.

She drove to the next corner and just as she turned, a city police car pulled behind her and turned on his flashing light. She pulled to the curb and the officer pulled in behind her. She recognized him when he walked up to her car.

—Miss Sophie do you have the baby with you?

—I do.

—There’s a woman here in town from social services who says she has an authorization to take the baby into custody.

—Did you pull me over to help her do that?

—You know better than that Miss Sophie. I just wanted to tell you that one of your tires looks a little low.

—Thanks, Tim.

—And if you don’t mind tell Jamie to set me a place for dinner tomorrow if you have room.

—I’ll do it. Thanks again.

She pulled back into the street and headed toward the college. She knew she had to talk to George. They were going to have to figure some way to keep this baby away from the boarding house and get her out of town, today, unless George just wanted to let the state take custody of her. She doubted that was the case.

~~~

George trotted out to the car and got in. Sophie drove as she told him what had happened.

—It’s your call George. You’re her daddy.

George was nervous. —I better go tell the boss I need to take the rest of the day off. He’ll let me do that I’m sure.

She took him back to the library and George spoke to his boss and then they drove into the countryside on the east side of town.

~~~

—We’ll do whatever you want George. We can even get you out of the state if we need to. We can be in Tennessee or South Carolina or even Georgia by this afternoon.

Sophie had the baby on the seat between them. George looked at her. His guts were churning.

—They’re not gonna take this baby if I can help it. She’s never been mistreated, she’s never gone hungry. Look at her — look how fat she is! And she sure doesn’t lack for company. Everybody at the house holds her and feeds her, and all the girls there change her diapers. I even saw Vinny change her diaper the other day.

—George, sometimes people that work for the government get too much power and they start liking it and it drives’em. Then they start believing they’re right. And that’s when we start having trouble.

Sophie pulled up to the gas pump at a country gas station and the owner came out and pumped gas, checked her oil, and cleaned her windshield. She paid and pulled back onto the road and kept driving.

—It’s your call George. The tank’s full and the road’s wide open. I’m sure that woman is still waiting at the sheriff’s office. Or we can go back to the house if you want to fight it here in Asheville or Murphy.

He sat quietly for a minute or two as they continued along a country road. He clearly didn’t know what to do, but he had decided that he was going to keep his baby. The decision was made. He must focus now on how best to do that. The solution came as a complete shock to him.

Sophie pulled over onto a wide shoulder and stopped. She turned toward George.

—George, it’s early in the day. We can be in Spartanburg in three hours. I’ve got a solution that will be good for this baby, and it will be good for you and me.

—What’s that?

—We’ll get married.

Silence…

—Married? He was stunned. He looked at her with his mouth hanging open.

—Yeah. My grandma and grandpa met on Monday and got married that Thursday. You and I have known each other a whole lot longer than that. And this baby will be our baby, and she’ll have a daddy and a mama, and that should take the steam out of the social services people trying to take her. We’d make about as normal a couple as anybody could ask for. You’re thirty-two and I’m twenty-nine. You’ve got a good job and I’ve got a good business. The house is paid for. I think they’d lose interest in trying to get her real quick if we’re married. And even if they do keep coming after the baby, I don’t believe there is a judge in the state that would allow it if we’re married. And all I’ve heard so far is that there’s an authorization. Nobody’s said anything yet about an order from a judge commanding anyone to take the baby.

—Married? What about love?

—I already love this baby!

—No, I mean me.

—You know what, George? You’re a good man, you’re honest and hard-working, and even though you’re highly educated you’re not hifalutin. I’ve known you for years now. I really like you. I’m not sure there’s a whole lot of difference between liking and loving. Right now liking is good enough for me. Do you like me?

—Of course I like you. What am I supposed to say — No I don’t like you? Look how you’ve taken care of my baby over the last few weeks. But I’m having a hard time processing this. Half the bachelors in town would like to be sittin’ here right now listenin’ to you propose to’em, and how do I feel? I feel like I’m about to pass out! I’m losing my breath!

—Don’t do that. We can turn around and go straight back home if that’s what you want.

—I didn’t say that. I just don’t know what to say. Are you talking about this afternoon?

—Yes. We can be there in three hours, and in South Carolina we can get a marriage license and get married the same day. I think we can be in and out of the courthouse in less than an hour.

—I can’t believe this.

—Do you want me to turn around?

—I didn’t say that. I’m just having a hard time getting my head around this.

—I understand. The fact is, though, the authorities in Murphy are trying to take this baby, and this would throw up a barrier that I think would stop them. And I think it may have some nice side effects. That would include you and me spending the rest of our lives together.

He almost smiled. —You really like me? He was incredulous.

—I really like you.

He stared into the nearby woods. Maybe there was something to this notion that liking is more important than loving. He had seen couples who loved each other but who clearly didn’t like each other. He had never thought about that before now, but it was clear that there was little happiness in those marriages. And he really did like Sophie. She had been good to him, had respected him, from the moment he had moved into her boarding house. She had a good heart. She was not afflicted with the racism that permeated society, and he had never heard her say anything that would indicate that she thought herself to be superior to others. That was something he admired.

He turned back to her. —You know I’m half Cherokee, right?

—You know I’m half wildcat, right?

He chuckled. —I’m beginning to see that. You know, don’tcha, that half the single guys in Asheville would give their eye teeth to be where I am right now?

—I have absolutely no interest in any of them. The only man I’m interested in is you.

—And that’s because of my baby?

—That’s a big part of it, yes. But I’ll say it again, I really like you, and that’s special for me.

—Should I still ma’am you and call you Miss Sophie?

She laughed. —No.

He looked down the road. —And you figure it’s about three hours from here?

—I know it is.

—And what happens when we walk out of the courthouse?

—You’ll be my husband. I’ll be your wife. Use your imagination.

His head was spinning and his chest was pounding. He couldn’t believe his ears.

—Let’s go.