My Road To Rotary

Chapter 23

Our Front Porch

GRANDFATHER'S LIFE lacked the inspiration of fellowship and he thereby suffered a great loss; fellowship would have enriched and sweetened his life. However, grandfather must have had certain resources within himself. He never spoke of being lonesome. During the summer days, he spent some of his idle hours out of doors wherever he could be most comfortable. The front porch was a favorite resort during the morning hours and he preferred to sit on the porch floor with his back against the house. Why he never kept a comfortable chair on the porch, I do not know. Probably it would have seemed too much of an indulgence; he preferred to sit on the south edge of the floor of the porch. Sometimes his left foot was on the ground and sometimes it was stretched out along side its lifelong partner on the porch but whatever variations there might be in the matter of posture, the spot where he sat down was always the same; he was never known to sit on the north edge of the front porch. I wouldn't have believed my own eyes if I ever had found him sitting there.

How closely grandmother was tied to her home duties is evidenced by the fact that during the eighty years of her life in Wallingford, she never found time to visit the "Cascades," one of the sights of interest located less than two miles distant from the house in which she was born.

Knitting stockings and other garments to protect her grandson against the rigors of New England winters, was grandmother's relaxation from her more arduous tasks. While she was more given to talking than grandfather, she could not have been said to be talkative.

She said little of her forebears but I do remember hearing of an Uncle Bucklin, who, like Joseph of old, during a period of famine divided his corn with those in need. When a friend advised him to save his corn for the use of himself and his family, he said, 'No, if everyone else is to starve, we might as well starve with them."

While I was still a child grandmother's half-brother Bill came back from the West in the last stages of consumption and as the doctor would not permit him to smoke, he went to Webster's store where village loafers gathered evenings and smoked their pipes until the air was blue; great-uncle Bill derived much satisfaction out of thus having outwitted the doctor but his victory was but temporary. A bed was soon placed in the south parlor where grandmother nursed him. One morning in great agitation she called Mr. Harvey Congdon who lifted the bedclothes on the bed of great-uncle Bill, thrust his hand beneath them, then turned to grandmother and whispered the words, "Yes, he is dead."

The front porch played very little part in our lives, although on especially pleasant evenings in summer, grandmother would draw her chair out and sit there rocking and viewing the parade of villagers walking or driving past our house. Sometimes cows were driven home from pastures along the village street by the children of our neighbors.

Whenever grandmother did sit on the porch, I usually sat on the marble step leading up to it because I knew it was to be a period of relaxation; it meant that she had cast aside household cares for the time being. An evening on the front porch was as exciting to grandmother as a trip to Europe would be to some folks I have known. With a crocheted shawl thrown round her shoulders to protect her frail body against the evening chill, she rocked slowly in her cane-seated chair, talking quietly of times long since past and serenely viewing her garden of old-fashioned flowers planted by her own hands.

Once in a while a passing neighbor, seeing grandmother sitting on the front porch, would break his journey for a little chat with her and, on less frequent occasions, neighbors would make a planned call; neighborliness was at its best whenever grandmother sat on the front porch.

There were certain friends almost certain to call; they were the hummingbirds. In fact grandmother had extended them all a blanket invitation, written in the only language hummingbirds know, the language of long-petaled flowers.

Years before grandmother had planted a honeysuckle vine which twined itself around the two posts which supported the porch. The hummingbirds viewed the honeysuckle vines as exclusively their own, as indeed they were. Neither other birds nor bees could reach down deep enough into the flowers to extract the sweetness held in the long slender cups.

Grandmother and I spent many happy evenings on the front porch witnessing the comings, the feastings and the goings of the tiny, swift-winged hummingbirds and in noting their marvelous skill in flying backward and forward or from side to side, or standing stock-still in midair while they harvested the nectar from the honeysuckles.

The hummingbird that hung

Like a jewel up among

The tilted honeysuckle horns.

-James Whitcomb Riley.

One evening Mr. Joel Ainsworth called and grandmother had me bring him a comfortable chair from the parlor. Mr. Joel Ainsworth was a distant relative by marriage and one of our most respected citizens. In addition to his other activities, he operated a small farm back of his house on the highway. He raised vegetables sufficient for the use of his family and produced eggs and milk enough to supply his own needs and a small surplus to sell to neighbors. We were, at one time, among his milk customers. Mr. Ainsworth was also county surveyor and insurance agent; a very versatile gentleman indeed.

As soon as Mr. Ainsworth had seated himself, grandmother said, "I am always glad to see you, Joel, and particularly glad to see you at this time. I understand that you have been interesting yourself in the candidacy of Mr. James A. Garfield for President. I thought that I would like to get firsthand information as to how you stand on the question."

"Well, Pamela, nothing could give me greater pleasure than to let you know where I stand. I am interested in James A. Garfield because he seems to me to be another Abraham Lincoln, or as near like him as any man could be. Of course there never has been and there never will be another Abraham Lincoln. I have a notion, Pamela, that the best character builder is adversity; at least that is the school that some of our greatest Americans graduated from- the school of adversity. A man who can work himself up from nothing to a position of high honor is the man for me. James A. Garfield, like Abraham Lincoln, was born in a log cabin and he had to depend upon his own resources. He had a mother of splendid character who established his ideals. He did the rest."

After a pause, he continued, "Oh, I don't mean, Pamela, that it is impossible for a man born with a silver spoon in his mouth to rise to distinction but the man who has never known what it is to be waited on has the best chance," and at this point, Mr. Ainsworth tapped the floor very convincingly with his gold-headed cane.

"I quite agree with every word you have spoken, Joel," said grandmother. James A. Garfield had to work hard on his father's farm and he had nothing but strong hands, a courageous heart and good home teaching to pull him through. Then there's another thing. He had ambition, if he hadn't he never would have gone out into the world to fight the best of them. I like all of his experiences, walking the towpath, teaching school, studying law, working his way through college, going into politics. It seems to me that he expected even then to become President of the United States someday, and thank God, I believe he will. He is typically American, I believe."

Joel Ainsworth and grandmother shook hands with an extra strong grip when they parted that night and as for me, I felt that Mr. Ainsworth was going home far too soon.

From then on, I was for James A. Garfield. Maybe sometime, I might get a job on the towpath of the Erie Canal and, as stranger things had happened, I might even become the President of the United States instead of a locomotive engineer as I had planned.

Grandmother's journeys to the front porch were grand occasions, so delightful that I wished they might be extended indefinitely but she had duties to attend to and things beyond number to think about so, ninety-nine per cent of the time, we lived behind the front porch. Yes, in the rear of the north and south parlors. In other words, we were very much shut in; particularly so in the winter when snows hampered the movements of all except boys.

The passers-by were few and on bleak stormy days they dwindled down to the vanishing point. It seemed to me that it would have added something to our sense of comfort at least if we could have looked out from the warmth of our south parlor at the few hardy and courageous neighbors, who, in spite of biting winds and pelting sleet, struggled through the storm to the post-office or store. However, there was only one member of our family who was ever known to complain of loneliness and that one was the least circumscribed of all, a boy named Paul.

During my earliest years in Wallingford, Mr. Asa Webster's store and house were directly across the street from our house. His store was a gathering place for certain old gentlemen of the neighborhood, and not infrequently, three octogenarians, Mr. Webster, Judge Button and grandfather were to be seen on the porch of Webster's store chaffing on current events and bantering each other on their growing infirmities. Mr. Webster, however, did most of the talking. He spoke mainly of his own exploits of former years, how fast he could run and how high he could jump. He attributed his physical prowess to his strict regimen of daily exercises. It had been his custom to run a mile and split a cord of wood each morning to get up an appetite for breakfast. In those early days, when possessed of youthful vigor, he could spring so high into the air that he could easily crack his heels together three times during the interval of going up and coming down-at least, so Mr. Webster said.

When it was manifest that Mr. Webster was in a reminiscent mood, grandfather used to lean his long-backed chair against the store front hook his boot heels on the lower rung, grasp his long staff firmly in hand, ready for any emergency.

Judge Button, having spent many years on the bench where he had heard many strange tales, customarily cupped his ears and inclined his body gently toward Mr. Webster as if fearful that he might miss some essential part of the testimony.

It was customary for the Judge and grandfather to refrain from making comments during the course of such recitals. Coarse laughter and ribald remarks were conspicuous in their absence. Both auditors assumed the appearance of deep solemnity, in fact, they seemed lugubrious at times. So far as the writer knows, no formal code of correct practice had ever been adopted; there was no need of one; they all knew their respective parts and played them. In his heart of hearts, both Judge Button and grandfather knew that Mr. Asa Webster was not only an infernal liar but that he was also proud of the fact.

The nearest approach to a comeback that I remember was when Mr. Webster in a burst of pride, after relating one of his great exploits, challenged grandfather to walk him a race to Clarendon, three miles distant, and return. Grandfather accepted the challenge.

Grandfather was very close mouthed about his coming marathon with Asa Webster; even grandmother had no intimation of the great event; everything, with one exception, went on as usual, the exception being that grandfather began to indulge in long, daily walks. Grandmother, later on, recalled the fact that grandfather seemed to be undergoing quite a change in his habits; instead of his usual afternoon siestas on the front porch, he began to take long walks in the country. Whenever grandfather took these long walks, he took his staff with him. It was too long to be called a cane but somehow it suited his needs; perhaps he viewed it as something in the nature of a companion. In any event, during the days preceding the marathon, grandfather hiked many a mile in company with his staff.

It was very unusual for grandfather to make changes in his daily program and grandmother was at a loss to know how it had come about. She knew however that grandfather would mention the matter whenever he thought it necessary to do so.

All we ever heard of the events of the race was what dribbled through by way of Mrs. Button and her daughter Ellen. From that source we learned that the marathon had taken place. The two octogenarians started out to round the church in Clarendon. The Judge, in the meantime, sat on the porch of Mr. Webster's store and acted as timekeeper and referee. It was agreed, so it seems, that each contestant had to continue to the end regardless of whether he was winning or losing.

It also leaked out that grandfather started out slowly but with measured step; Mr. Webster was well in the lead; his step was springy and his spirit exultant. Eventually he began to hear grandfather coming with measured step from behind. This was very harrowing to the nerves of Mr. Webster. According to the underground report, grandfather rounded the church first and met Mr. Webster as grandfather was on his return to Wallingford.

Grandfather spoke not a word but Mr. Webster shouted to his speeding opponent these words, "You don't seem to care much about good company, Harris."

When Mr. Webster returned, grandfather and the Judge were waiting for him on the porch. The Judge took a look at his watch but made no announcement; both he and grandfather looked very solemn indeed; solemn as two great owls.

Grandfather said, apologetically, "I'm afraid I tired you all out, Webster. I should have stopped to visit with you but I just happened to think that my hens were out and I was afraid they might be scratching in the Judge's garden."

Gone were Mr. Asa Webster's anecdotes of his great athletic accomplishments. No longer did he amaze his auditors with yarns of his bone crunching encounters with bears and tigers. Grandfather and the Judge came to the sad conclusion that they had, so to speak, killed the goose that laid the golden egg; Mr. Asa Webster never was himself again.

In course of time, Mr. Justin Batcheller, one of the partners of the Batcheller Fork Company, wanted to build a fine home on the ground then occupied by Mr. Webster's store and house, and, thinking that the price might be boosted if the name of the prospective purchaser became known, he asked grandfather to make the purchase for him. Grandfather complied, buying the property in his own name for three thousand dollars. The house and store were moved elsewhere and a fine residence built in their place. When grandmother realized what had happened, she said, "Why, Pa Harris, look what you have done; you have cheated yourself out of the only loafing place you have ever known." And so he had; he never found another.