UNCLE TOM WILL BE HERE SATURDAY

In the early part of 1950 Aunt Effie sold the timber off the Company Farm to a big lumber company out of Memphis, Tennessee. In the early part of September the first of the men and equipment commenced to arrive. They started to work setting the sawmill up about 300 yards northwest from our barn and horse lot. I found all the activity exciting, but at the same time felt uncomfortable with the idea of them cutting down all the trees. I watched as family after family arrived in old cars and riding on the back of flat bed trucks. They went to work putting up tents and constructing wooden floors. Laughter rang out as the kids ran through the camp screaming like banshees and jumping in the air like wild deer. Once the tents were up, outhouses were built and water pumps were driven into the ground. Clotheslines went up and were strung from freshly driven posts. It looked like something out of the old west movies I’d watched. The men looked rough and rowdy, and the women with them looked every bit their equal.

Now, the General didn't believe in wearing shorts. She sure didn't hold with no drinking. Dancing was out as it was a sure way to tempt a man into sinning. Needless to say, when she saw this robust bunch coming in, she was not happy about it. We were given strict orders to stay out of the sawmill camp. My passing into my fourteenth year was giving me a whole new interest in life. Cotton was growing to the north of our house in long quarter-mile rows. The temptation to know what was going on in that camp was too much. I couldn't stay away. I’d wait until nightfall and then I’d revert to being one of my Cherokee ancestors. I’d strip to the waist, crawl alongside the tents and gather some much-needed information. I was sure there was something going on in there that I needed to know. I loved listening to the noise the children made and watching the women flirt with their men. I could feel the energy pulsating from inside the camp. The idea I was hidden, and that they didn’t know I was there, was very exciting to me. I was on one of my reconnaissance mission one evening about 8:00 P.M. when I heard something that caught my ear. Now, a Mr. Bud Copeland occupied the first tent just inside the compound. He had four fellers sitting at the table with him and he was talking in a very low tone. “Yeah, dudes, the Uncle Tom will be in here on Saturday and maybe we can finally get something to drink.” I was not a man of the world, but I knew he wasn't talking about no soda pop.

There was a thicket behind our house that covered forty acres. The road coming to our house ran around the edge of the thicket a quarter mile on two sides. Inside of the thicket lived an extended family of foxes. Seems they just couldn’t ever get enough to eat. They raided the General's chicken house on a regular basis. When Ol’ Pal and I were on the front porch we’d face the woods. The chicken house was in back of the house, but if there was a commotion we could be there in a second. I guess them ol’ fox figured that out, as they would frequently send a family member walking by in front of us to get our attention. Now, when Ol’ Pal would see this guy strolling by, he’d take off after him, hell bent for leather, and try to catch him. While he was giving chase, them rascals would send in one of their fast runners to pick up lunch.

Well, I'd had enough of that. I didn't like them ol’ foxes making a fool out of my ol’ buddy. My 410 was not sufficient firepower against such varmints, so I borrowed My Daddy's old 12-gauge shotgun. It had a homemade stock; God only knows how old it was. The breech was marked with the word Essex. No one I’ve ever known has ever heard of this company. It also had an extra long barrel for reaching out there to bring home the bacon. My Daddy said it was accurate up to a quarter of a mile. I had me some number four buckshot too. I was ready for them thieving rascals. Well, that Saturday, following my overhearing that an Uncle Tom was coming, I was on the front porch waiting to see if I could get a glimpse of this feller. Suddenly, here comes that ol’ fox decoy trotting along just as pretty as you please. He looked over and smiles at us. Ol’ Pal went out of his mind, and away he goes over the fence after him. That ol’ boy started trotting off spinning his tail like a screw on a motorboat. Ol’ Pal, hot on his trail, disappeared into the woods. I knew now, what was happening. I grabbed that old shotgun and fairly flew to the chicken pen. Sure enough, there they were. One inside chasing the hens and two on guard.

Once they saw me, they took off for the thicket. The ol’ boy in the coop was not so fast. He dashed out behind them about thirty seconds late. I was running behind them as fast as I could. Without slowing down, I brought the shotgun up against my shoulder, but I was moving to fast to hold it real tight. BOOM! I LET HER FLY. The repercussion was so great that it knocked me completely around and down on the ground and the gun went flying out of my hands. That’s when I heard, “WHOA, HORSE, WHOA.” A loud voice said, “DID YOU GET'EM, BOY? DID YOU GET'EM?” followed by a big belly laugh. I looked up and there sat this ol’ man about sixty years old in this black buggy. He was shirtless and had on a pair of bib-overalls. He looked to me like he weighed about 300 pounds and I guessed him to be about 5 feet 8 inches tall. He had breasts that hung down like I imagined a woman would have. He sat there in this freshly painted buggy, with the reins to the horse about chest high, pulling back and laughing hysterically. I noticed the wheels were painted a bright red. The seat was a nice black, leather cushion with a high back. He had on an old tattered yeller straw hat that looked as if the weevils had been at it. In front of him, and to his left, sat an ol’ black-faced dog. He was an arrogant ol’ thing and wouldn’t even look at me. Just sat up there looking off into the distance. I noticed he was tied by a heavy three-foot chain that was securely fastened to the front kick-board. The poor ol’ horse pulling the carriage looked to be somewhere around twenty years old and was as poor as a snake. He was a red roan and not much bigger than a Shetland Pony.

Now, that old gun knocking me down was about the funniest thing this old man had ever seen, I reckon. He had another good laugh, once he saw I was all right. “Sorry boy, don’t mean to be laughing at you. Folks call me Uncle Tom, Uncle Tom Kersey. I’ll be ricking slabs for the mill some,” he said, as he relaxed the reins to the ol’ horse. I noticed in the back of the buggy were several five-gallon glass containers, several pieces of copper tubing, and some things covered up that apparently weren’t for viewing. It all looked pretty suspicious to me. Ol’ dog still hadn’t paid me no mind. I noticed his face was black but his coat was white covered with little black spots. He looked like he was in about the same condition as that old red horse. “Why ain't that old dog a running like other dogs?" I asked. Uncle Tom looked me up and down and didn't feel obliged to answer, “I'll tell you one day boy, but right now, I got to get going on over there and get set up,” he said. The sawmill crew had seen him by now, and they were all waving and cheering.

Now, there is a lot that goes into sawmilling. Trees are cut then skidded. They are then put to the saw. The first pass of the saw cuts off the bark and a little of the wood called a slab. Slabs aren’t worth much as lumber, but they are good for building hog pens, patching and of course firewood. The sawmill had a contract giving the sawmill workers permission to live on the Company Farm until all the timber was harvested. This included Uncle Tom, since he was going to be stacking slabs, or ricking, as he called it. He never did get around to it, as far as I know, but that was the plan. The most important thing was he had a job and that gave him permission to be there right along with everyone else.

I guess Uncle Tom needed a place kind of set part from the others with his rig and all. That Sunday a dozen or so of the sawmillers took off and went about three miles into the woods with him. I followed along close behind, but stayed out of sight. I located myself under a bush about three hundred feet away from the action. I waited and listened. The cussing, passing around of the whiskey bottle, and the loud unceasing laughter of Uncle Tom thrilled me. I watched as they built him a shack, a corral and a little barn for that old sorry horse. The location was about a mile from the river. I found out later that Uncle Tom liked to keep a hook in the water just in case some old catfish got hungry. Anyway, the men built a little place in the back of the barn and completely closed it in. I watched as they stored the bottles and mysterious things from under the tarp in there. I had sneaked away from Ol’ Pal that morning but he finally sniffed me out and threatened to give my hiding place away. I decided it was time to head for the house.

The following Monday, I took my gun and headed into the woods to hunt. I found it necessary to pass by the shack on my hunting expedition. Uncle Tom had a little fire going in the hidden shed and smoke was rolling up through the trees. Ol’ Pal went right into his camp looking for that ol’ stuck up dog, I guess. I saw the ol’ dog standing in the doorway of the new shanty as I drew near. He started putting up a yodel of warning you could have heard for ten miles. Uncle Tom came out of the shed and gave a big laugh. “Well, here is the fox hunter. How are you, boy?” he asked. I knew he was using my Granddaddy's recipe. I didn't care. I didn't like no danged ol’ government men myself. He started walking toward the little shack as I came closer. “Come on in here and us set a spell,” he invited. It had been a brisk morning. I got a cozy feeling as I stepped inside. An old wood stove was burning with a rich hickory smell. Coffee had been brewed and gave off a rich aroma. Uncle Tom was puffing on his pipe, that further added to the homey feeling of the ol’ shack. The furniture was all hand made. The eating table was built out of some old cull hickory wood. The bed was an old mattress on top of a wooden platform Uncle Tom had constructed in the corner. This was my idea of how to live. Near the river, so you could fish everyday, squirrels all around and no one to bother you. That tin roof would be great when it rained. I just love the sound of rain on a tin roof. Uncle Tom knew I was on to his secret, but he never mentioned it in all the years that I knew him and neither did I.

I noticed the old stuck up dog moved kind of slow. Then I saw why he was riding in the buggy and not walking last Saturday. He had a front leg missing. Now, a back leg is one thing, but to maneuver without a front one is a whole other thing. “What happened to that ol’ dog's leg?” I asked. “A dammed ol’ boar hog bit it off, boy,” he answered, and looked at that ol’ dog like it was his kid or something. “Damn near got me too. I was marking this ol’ pig's ear when this ol’ boar came a tearing at me. Ol’ Ahab here, threw himself between me and that ol’ hog. I think that ol’ boar must’ve weighed well over three hundred pounds. He saved my life that day; he’d a killed me shore, boy. I never even saw him coming. I figure Ol’ Ahab here deserves to be looked after for what he done did for me, and I aim to see to it. Why, he ain't no ordinary dog, no more,” he explained. Ahab came over a little closer and laid his head on my knee. Uncle Tom sucked on his pipe and watched us. “You must be all right boy, if Old Ahab likes you.” Uncle Tom said and threw back his head and gave that big belly laugh. “Old Ahab knows a lot about folks boy,” he added, and laughed again. I was beginning to like these two. We sat quietly enjoying each other’s company for a while. Uncle Tom puffed his pipe and I rubbed Ol” Ahab’s head.

After a while I broke the silence. “Why you call him Ahab, Uncle Tom?” I asked. "Well, when I was a boy, my daddy mistreated me. He never would let me go to school none. I learned to read on my own when I was about 16. The first book I ever read all the way through was Moby Dick. Took me more’n two years. Well, when that old boar bit off this ol’ dog's leg, I thought he was a gonna die. When he recovered, didn't seem like the same ol’ dog to me. Then I remembered that book, and that one-legged feller looking for that ol’ white whale, so I just started calling him Ahab. He seems to like it too. Look at’em.” he chuckled. He sure did look content alright. I figured that ol’ dog might be missing a leg, but he sure had a lot of heart.

Uncle Tom was truly the most colorful character of my growing up years. He wasn’t in good health and didn’t receive any kind of pension. He’d never paid taxes, so he wasn't eligible for Social Security. Being too proud to beg, he did what he could. He fished, hunted, sold a little homebrew, picked a little cotton and tried to survive. His storytelling was of an art form. His laugh was infectious and his love for life was contagious. I never saw him act violently in anyway, but I instinctively knew he was a brave old man. I never saw him threaten anyone with that big old knife he used to clean out his fingernails with, but them sawmillers treated him with a great deal of respect. I knew that somewhere along the way, he had earned it. With these fellers respect wasn’t just given. They were Arkansas men, independent, and not a people to be trifled with. I’d, on occasion, seen them fly at each other like wild boars. It would send chills up my back to see these men beat each other until someone lay unconscious.

One day Uncle Tom and I got to talking about his daddy.

“That ol’ man was the meanest man I ever saw,” he said.

“What do you mean Uncle Tom?” I asked, although later on I was sorry that I did.

“Well, that old man would whip us for no reason at all. One time he told me to head off this ol’ wild horse. I tried to, but he just ran right out over the top of me. The old man got so mad that day he almost beat me to death. He’d whip everybody in the family some days just ‘cause he was mad about something we didn’t know anything about. There wasn’t a day passed that he didn’t beat somebody for something. That ol’ man worked us in the fields like mules. We didn’t get enough to eat, much less get any money,” he explained and got kind of a hurt look on his face. It pained me to hear about how he’d suffered, but I listened quietly, to embarrassed to speak. “My mommy died when I was twelve and after that the beatings got worse,” he continued and then hesitated a few minutes. I thought that was the end of the story, but it wasn’t. “It finally all stopped when I turned sixteen. I was in the barn stable one-day, when he came in all mad about something. He had a bridle in his hand and tried to hit me with the steel bit. But he missed, and I grabbed, and jerked it out of his hand. I could tell by how easy I’d gotten it away from him that I was stronger than he was. It shames me to tell you boy, but I gave him a good whooping that day. He got some of what he’d a been a giving us all them years. You know he’d married a woman about five years older than myself after Mommy died. It wasn’t no time a tall until he was a beating on her like he was the rest of us.”

Uncle Tom said after that whipping he gave that ol’ mean daddy of his he wasn't scared of him no more. “I went into the house and told my step mom, If he hits you again, I'll give him some more of the same. I then packed up my clothes to leave. ‘Wait a minute and I'll go with you,’ she said, and we left together and later got married. We were married thirty years before she died. I guess I married my own mother,” he said. Giving me a glance, I knew he felt liked he had told me more than he really had intended to. I knew he was hiding deep emotional pain from all those beatings. We sat quietly, each with our own thoughts. Ahab licked me and I petted his head.

Uncle Tom told me about one time when he was a kid and almost died. Now, in rural Arkansas, there is a plant we call poke. In the spring, we pick it, cook it and call it poke salat (much like turnip greens). In the late fall, a little bunch of berries similar to a cluster of grapes appear. “When I was about four years old, my mommy left me under the cotton wagon while she was a picking cotton. I came up on these pokeberries. Now, I thought they were grapes, so I ate one. I didn't like’em, but I knew I liked grapes, so I ate them anyway. Damn near killed me,” he chuckled. Every time he told me that story, we’d laugh and laugh. He’d say, “Let that be a lesson to you boy. Sometimes thing ain't always what they seem.”

Uncle Tom, Ol’ Ahab, Ol’ Pal, and I went a fishing one day. Uncle Tom had this old raft he had made out of poles. He had it hid out on a big marsh lake in the middle of the woods. We hiked back there to where he had it covered up with brush and got her launched. We looked until we found twenty nice size pieces of wood, mostly cypress stumps. Then we tied on baited hooks and rafted out to the middle of the lake and kicked them off. The rest of the day, we spent chasing runaway pieces of wood. Barking, laughing and fishing that’s what old men, dogs, and boys do together.

When it’s real quiet and I’m alone, and if I listen real close, I can still hear, “DID YOU GET'EM BOY! DID YOU GET'EM.” What joy you brought to me old friend. What great times we had.