The Other Nineteenth Century (22 page)
Read The Other Nineteenth Century Online
Authors: Avram Davidson
(In case it may seem that I am reading too much into a single phrase, I will have to admit, albeit a trifle sheepishly, that there is after all the evidence of the sketches—rough though they are.)
All this is familiar enough, I am sure. But what follows next certainly is not. The men now have on something vaguely resembling blacksmiths’ leather aprons, reaching from just below the tiepin to just below the knee, and slashed in a very curious manner, and evidently decorated with very curious designs here and there.—This, you will recall, over their formal clothing!—And, what is more, and is more unusual: the men are evidently dancing!
Here we have eight or ten men, in early middle age and vigorous maturity, dressed (first) as though for an inauguration, let us say, and (secondly) as though for some sort of a fancy-dress ball—they are ranged in two ranks, and they are moving in their places, running in place, flinging their hands up in unison, flinging their legs up in unison—
Is this some sort of exercise? Something like the sitting-up exercises or the use of the “medicine ball,” then so popular, both of them? If so, then why the curious combination of costume? In fact, why
either
element of the costume? Perhaps they were just having some fun? But the expression on their faces belies that, belies that entirely. Their faces are absolutely serious, their faces are in dead earnest. Not a ripple of either embarrassment or amusement stirs those stiff countenances by a hair. Slightly they lower their heads in unison, and each one lifts to each side of his head at the temples a
hand with all fingers closed-in except the index finger, which points straight up; simultaneously they lift their feet so that the trousers move up and disclose the high-buttoned, highly polished shoes, lift their legs so that the knees are almost up to,
are
up to the line of the hips: they are prancing—there is no other word for it: they are prancing in place; then they toss their heads, keeping their hands in the same relative position and the same gesture—
either
element of the costume? Perhaps they were just having some fun? But the expression on their faces belies that, belies that entirely. Their faces are absolutely serious, their faces are in dead earnest. Not a ripple of either embarrassment or amusement stirs those stiff countenances by a hair. Slightly they lower their heads in unison, and each one lifts to each side of his head at the temples a
hand with all fingers closed-in except the index finger, which points straight up; simultaneously they lift their feet so that the trousers move up and disclose the high-buttoned, highly polished shoes, lift their legs so that the knees are almost up to,
are
up to the line of the hips: they are prancing—there is no other word for it: they are prancing in place; then they toss their heads, keeping their hands in the same relative position and the same gesture—
Imagine, if you can, a chorus line. And now imagine that the same principle of movement in absolute unison applies, although of course an absolutely different sort of movement, and that instead of young women the line of dancers consists, as I have said, of mature men, the type which one would unhesitatingly describe as the leaders of their communities. They do not smile. They dance. They dance, they dance, they
dance
.
dance
.
And, always as they dance, they gesture. They move their hands to a horizontal position and they pass their hands ever so swiftly across their throats. And now the pace of the dance becomes somewhat swifter. The gestures become more and more bizarre … the gestures become almost shockingly so … .
Does the expression on the faces change? Not exactly. Yet there is a change—The angle of the faces changes slightly:
No!
It is the angle of their vision which changes. They are looking up, somewhat to the right (to their own left, that is) and above. They are looking up, yet, as it were, covertly. And now for the first time those secure and certain faces begin to show another emotion. Here and there sweat appears on the smooth-shaven line of a jaw. Here and there a mouth opens and does not close. The marks, one would say, of exertion? Of physical fatigue … nothing more? No. One would be wrong. One would be very wrong.
No!
It is the angle of their vision which changes. They are looking up, somewhat to the right (to their own left, that is) and above. They are looking up, yet, as it were, covertly. And now for the first time those secure and certain faces begin to show another emotion. Here and there sweat appears on the smooth-shaven line of a jaw. Here and there a mouth opens and does not close. The marks, one would say, of exertion? Of physical fatigue … nothing more? No. One would be wrong. One would be very wrong.
Now as they dance, their hands out, palms down, their heads bowed as in submission, still those eyes turn up, turn up as though seeking something which they fear to find. And here and there, watching closely, one observes a leg tremble, an arm jerk somewhat from its rigid position.
And Ira, watching, feels the glasses tremble in his own hands,
and, although he cannot say why, he feels faint, he himself, not even present at this scene!—feels sickened.
and, although he cannot say why, he feels faint, he himself, not even present at this scene!—feels sickened.
He leaves. The glasses drop away, he lets them fall. He gets up and he stumbles away.
Well, what to
make
of it all? The likeliest explanation is that a tooclose application to an impossible endeavor (I refer to the scientific experiment on which he had been working) resulted in loss of sleep, probably; in loss of appetite, probably; certainly to neglect of sound principles of health. With the result that he, Ira,
probably
—well, that is certainly too strong. One cannot say, probably. Let us say that it would not be at all surprising had he suffered from an acute form of eyestrain and that as the result of this he simply
saw things which were not there.
What is certain is that the experiment and the observations were not continued. They were certainly dropped for good. And yet, so strong was the impression left upon his mind that, as we have seen, almost at the last days of his life, he returned again to the perusal of the notes he had made of them.
make
of it all? The likeliest explanation is that a tooclose application to an impossible endeavor (I refer to the scientific experiment on which he had been working) resulted in loss of sleep, probably; in loss of appetite, probably; certainly to neglect of sound principles of health. With the result that he, Ira,
probably
—well, that is certainly too strong. One cannot say, probably. Let us say that it would not be at all surprising had he suffered from an acute form of eyestrain and that as the result of this he simply
saw things which were not there.
What is certain is that the experiment and the observations were not continued. They were certainly dropped for good. And yet, so strong was the impression left upon his mind that, as we have seen, almost at the last days of his life, he returned again to the perusal of the notes he had made of them.
One thing I suppose I should say in conclusion. My brother had made mention of my own personal hobby. (I can call it no more than that.) He refers to it, not very seriously, as my “researches into interesting sidelights on the history of the provincial city of Garfield.” It is after all our native city, our own home town; if it is of no great interest to the professional historian, why need it escape the fond attentions of the amateur?
Ira had made one or two noted references (I mean only that he had noted them down) to “Sen. A.,” and I have said I am certain that this refers to Senator Magnus Abercrumbie. I am afraid that Senator Abercrumbie has not yet found his true niche in our country’s history. He died a disappointed man, certainly. He had perhaps lived into another era, one which was not suited to his hopes. His programs for what he called “The American People’s Charter” were certainly not nationally popular in that period of firm faith in an expanding economy free of all governmental trammels. It is doubtful that, even had he lived, he would have succeeded in getting more
than a fraction of his Charter into actual legislation. He had made many enemies. Still, who can really say? He was incorruptible. He was convinced. He was eloquent. We cannot forget the shock of his as-yet-unexplained death—in itself and by its manner so doubly shocking to the agricultural and working classes at the time. Nor should we forget the ripples of unease which spread throughout moral and religious circles later in that same year when it was learned that quite a number of our most prominent citizens, under the guise of acting on behalf of the Securities Registration Committee of the Fiduciary Trust Company, were actually meeting to worship the Devil, in a room hired for that purpose in the Garfield Building, between three and four in the afternoon on alternate Wednesdays (July and August excepted).
than a fraction of his Charter into actual legislation. He had made many enemies. Still, who can really say? He was incorruptible. He was convinced. He was eloquent. We cannot forget the shock of his as-yet-unexplained death—in itself and by its manner so doubly shocking to the agricultural and working classes at the time. Nor should we forget the ripples of unease which spread throughout moral and religious circles later in that same year when it was learned that quite a number of our most prominent citizens, under the guise of acting on behalf of the Securities Registration Committee of the Fiduciary Trust Company, were actually meeting to worship the Devil, in a room hired for that purpose in the Garfield Building, between three and four in the afternoon on alternate Wednesdays (July and August excepted).
This tale is a curiosity … curiouser and curiouser. Where does the real-world autobiography end and the fantasy begin, or does it? Certainly the family names are real, at least some of them. The Davidson family temper, the family “luck,” the family fascination with archaic oddities, all real. Computer expert Jeremy Knight is real; the Knights were dear family friends. But what is this mysterious dance, where does it come from?
—
Grania Davis
Grania Davis
Breakfast one day at the Sutters. Ellis looked up. “Say, do we have an Uncle Zachary?” he asked. Sound dies away, save for Samuel at an egg in its shell and Lewis clattering a coffee-spoon. Louise Sutter, their mother, slightly clears her throat. “Uncle Zachary had a weakness of the chest and his doctors thought he should go and live in the West where the air is dry. Samuel, don’t fiddle. Lewis.” If Ellis observes the difference between
Uncle Zachary has
and
Uncle Zachary had.
Ellis does not say so.
Uncle Zachary has
and
Uncle Zachary had.
Ellis does not say so.
“Sidney Coolidge claims,” is what Ellis next says.
“Sidney
Cool
idge!”—his sister Lucinda—“dirty-mouthed boy. Dirty-faced, too,” she says.
Cool
idge!”—his sister Lucinda—“dirty-mouthed boy. Dirty-faced, too,” she says.
Ellis emphatically agrees. “Dirty in lots of other places, too, say, you wouldn’t believe—” His brother Lewis advises him to finish his fish-cake. His brother Samuel wants to know why they don’t more often have bacon for breakfast, and Uncle Abel Sawyer, as though he had been waiting for the chance, says that bacon is
fourteen
cents
a pound!
Farmers never had it so good, Uncle Sawyer says. Aunt Effie (Sutter) Sawyer, pouring skim milk over something arid called Breakfast Food, declares, “The less pig, the more pie.” Aunt Harriet Sutter looks at her nephews with perhaps something like foreboding. Perhaps not. What she says is not overheard. Aunt Sarah Sutter is
looking at her plate. And the discussion as to what Aunt Effie Sawyer’s saying means causes Uncle Zachary and Sidney Coolidge to be forgotten.
fourteen
cents
a pound!
Farmers never had it so good, Uncle Sawyer says. Aunt Effie (Sutter) Sawyer, pouring skim milk over something arid called Breakfast Food, declares, “The less pig, the more pie.” Aunt Harriet Sutter looks at her nephews with perhaps something like foreboding. Perhaps not. What she says is not overheard. Aunt Sarah Sutter is
looking at her plate. And the discussion as to what Aunt Effie Sawyer’s saying means causes Uncle Zachary and Sidney Coolidge to be forgotten.
Agnes brings in the pie. The real and not the proverbial one. There is always pie. And always Agnes. Not always the same ones, of course.
Aunt Sarah eats well enough. And, as usual, she is silent.
Aunt Sarah is usually in the same chair in the library and doesn’t talk much, but saying this is not to describe a woman in rusty black with massive hands on ivory-headed walking-stick: no. Sarah is really quite slender, has been becomingly grey-haired since memory runs, wears something quite too chic to be called a pants-suit: and besides, pants-suits are yet to be invented. It is called
Aunt
Sarah’s house-costume
and she does not wear it out of doors. Usually the costume is grey, sometimes it has a small black checked pattern. Sarah reads a lot. There is no television in the world, the radio yet has earphones, and would it still had. If one asks, and few do, “What are you reading, Sarah?” one is quietly and quickly told the name of the author. Never the title. Once in a long while someone ventures to ask, “What’s it about?” Really, what is Emerson, for example,
about?
A brief and level stare, and her eyes return to her book. Sarah does not suffer fools gladly.
Aunt
Sarah’s house-costume
and she does not wear it out of doors. Usually the costume is grey, sometimes it has a small black checked pattern. Sarah reads a lot. There is no television in the world, the radio yet has earphones, and would it still had. If one asks, and few do, “What are you reading, Sarah?” one is quietly and quickly told the name of the author. Never the title. Once in a long while someone ventures to ask, “What’s it about?” Really, what is Emerson, for example,
about?
A brief and level stare, and her eyes return to her book. Sarah does not suffer fools gladly.
Once, at least, Aunt Sarah tries to revive the pleasant old-fashioned custom of reading aloud to the family circle. Her choice is Longfellow’s lovely poem The
Aftermath
.
Aftermath
.
When the summer fields are mown,
When the birds are fledged and flown,
And the dry leaves strew the path;
When the birds are fledged and flown,
And the dry leaves strew the path;
With the falling of the snow,
With the cawing of the crow,
Once again the fields we mow
And gather in the aftermath.
With the cawing of the crow,
Once again the fields we mow
And gather in the aftermath.
Not the sweet, new grass with flowers
Is this harvesting of ours;
Not the upland clover bloom;
Is this harvesting of ours;
Not the upland clover bloom;
But the rowan mixed with weeds,
Tangled tufts from marsh and meads,
Where the poppy drops its seeds,
In the silence and the gloom.
Tangled tufts from marsh and meads,
Where the poppy drops its seeds,
In the silence and the gloom.
The very brief silence at the poem’s end is not broken by a murmur of pleasure; but by an alto, a tenor, and a baritone, guffaw. A voice says, “How well he knows—!” Says? Sneers?
Directly after this short poem comes by far a longer, beginning,
Should you ask me, whence these stories?
Nobody asks her, nobody at all. Aunt Sarah quietly closes the book. And—publicly, at least—never opens it again. The custom is not revived.
Should you ask me, whence these stories?
Nobody asks her, nobody at all. Aunt Sarah quietly closes the book. And—publicly, at least—never opens it again. The custom is not revived.
She reads, too, things unpublished. Family histories, letters, journals, diaries: these things she reads downstairs in the library.
Aunt Sarah knows all about, for instance, the question of the twenty-two and a half acres of good meadow-land on which the good fortunes of the Sutter family (
of the County of Berne in the Switzers Land)
are founded. Well, the good fortunes of one part of the Sutter family. Some say that land is rightfully the property of another part of that family. It is more than twenty-two and a half acres, some say. A bit more, some say, a good bit more. Ill feelings are often caused in families by the division of property. Or by its non-division.
of the County of Berne in the Switzers Land)
are founded. Well, the good fortunes of one part of the Sutter family. Some say that land is rightfully the property of another part of that family. It is more than twenty-two and a half acres, some say. A bit more, some say, a good bit more. Ill feelings are often caused in families by the division of property. Or by its non-division.
Upstairs or down Aunt Sarah plays solitaire, or sets out what is understood to be the Tarot.
Mostly she is silent. One tends to leave her alone.
Sutter sisters and daughters are quiet and almost plain: very well, then:
plain
. Sutter brothers and sons are something else, and although there are older Sutter women at home, there are no older Sutter men. Wars consume them, they go to far-off places and do not return and neither do they write. There are in these days only
three young Sutter brothers at home, and then there are none. Of the older set, Gerald is generally understood to be somewhere very far off where he wears a burnoose or a turban and perhaps it is not true that a foreign ruler places a price upon his head. Kingston’s name is on a cross in France in a place of many crosses row on row. Woodruff’s name is not, although he, too, goes to France and never returns. Unless his mother’s belief, seldom expressed aloud, is true. And that it is Woodruff Sutter who is buried in the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
plain
. Sutter brothers and sons are something else, and although there are older Sutter women at home, there are no older Sutter men. Wars consume them, they go to far-off places and do not return and neither do they write. There are in these days only
three young Sutter brothers at home, and then there are none. Of the older set, Gerald is generally understood to be somewhere very far off where he wears a burnoose or a turban and perhaps it is not true that a foreign ruler places a price upon his head. Kingston’s name is on a cross in France in a place of many crosses row on row. Woodruff’s name is not, although he, too, goes to France and never returns. Unless his mother’s belief, seldom expressed aloud, is true. And that it is Woodruff Sutter who is buried in the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
And if the older brothers do leave some memories of unfortunate incidents at home, surely their heroic deeds abroad, one year apart, redeem them. And more. And more.
Valiant and courageous (official). Reckless and suicidal in bravery
(unofficial)
. Come on, you sons of bitches, do you want to live forever? .
.. echoes … echoes … dying, dying, dying … .
Valiant and courageous (official). Reckless and suicidal in bravery
(unofficial)
. Come on, you sons of bitches, do you want to live forever? .
.. echoes … echoes … dying, dying, dying … .
The younger set of this generation of young men Sutters at home consists of Lewis, Ellis, and Samuel, boys of great charm and rascal beauty and of, one hears, increasingly devilish behavior. So the Headmaster of Afton says (this last phrase). For a while they are away at school or college; one by one (again and again) are expelled … run off … invited not to return from vacation … suspended … dismissed … . Uncle Sawyer, the non-Sutter who actually runs the business, thinks it is time they settle down and learn something about running it themselves. So one hears. Uncle Sawyer is perhaps an optimist.
They all live together in a large, an immense, wooden house overlooking a river with an American Indian name, the river which (with all its rights) is sometimes described as “a wholly-owned subsidiary of the Sutter family.” Its waters are imponded by a series of dams and by each dam is a dirty brick building wherein wool from far and wide is washed … spun … woven … made into rugs and blankets said to wear like iron: these both perhaps more sought after formerly than presently.
The water, thus collected, washes and scours the wool and carries
away the effluents of everything from sheep-dung to caustic soda and solute suint or wool-sweat and overwashes of stinking dyestuffs: it is long since the alewife or the shad were found in these streams. The Sutter Corporation collects the waters in its pens and ponds, releases them at times and between times to turn its wheels and fill its vats and, of later days, kindle its electricity. And if the river, restive, overflows its pent-up backwaters, converting tillable fields or sites for houses into sog and bog, nourishing on others’ lands instead of hay or potatoes the coarse and uncommercial cat-tail, the rank and profitless goldenrod and purple milkweed, and the frail, pale wild white rose which cannot be cut and sold: why, what is this to the Corporation? nothing and less than nothing; let the former freeholders, if they will, take the Pauper’s Oath and receive fifty cents a day viaticum and forfeit their suffrage:
root, hog, or die
is a saying worthy of the saints, and
pecunia
non
olet,
of the sages.
away the effluents of everything from sheep-dung to caustic soda and solute suint or wool-sweat and overwashes of stinking dyestuffs: it is long since the alewife or the shad were found in these streams. The Sutter Corporation collects the waters in its pens and ponds, releases them at times and between times to turn its wheels and fill its vats and, of later days, kindle its electricity. And if the river, restive, overflows its pent-up backwaters, converting tillable fields or sites for houses into sog and bog, nourishing on others’ lands instead of hay or potatoes the coarse and uncommercial cat-tail, the rank and profitless goldenrod and purple milkweed, and the frail, pale wild white rose which cannot be cut and sold: why, what is this to the Corporation? nothing and less than nothing; let the former freeholders, if they will, take the Pauper’s Oath and receive fifty cents a day viaticum and forfeit their suffrage:
root, hog, or die
is a saying worthy of the saints, and
pecunia
non
olet,
of the sages.
Cousin Chester Boswell lives in a small house the other side of the Village green. This, and shares in the Sutter Corporation, constitute the larger part of his patrimony. Well … anyway, a
large
part. And a large part consists of an intense interest in local and familial history, and he shares this with Aunt Sarah. They also share a cousin Waldo Sutter who lives in an even smaller house by a smaller river which has yet to know its place, unlike Waldo Sutter, who does not choose to get around much. Very rarely does Someone ask, “What does Waldo Sutter do?” and the answer is that
He
minds his own business. A … well … not exactly a message and not exactly a present but Something of Interest has come from him. As it has about once a year. Bridey has come in bearing a large brown paper bag, made in the days before paper bags were made by machinery. It is thick and heavy. And it is old. She says, “Waldo Sutter sends John Kelly with this to drop off if he’s coming this way.” And adds, “Waldo wants the bag back. And could you let him have a little kerosene in a bottle.” The words and deeds are invariable. So is Aunt Sarah’s nod as she empties the contents into a shallow wicker basket and hands over the bag. Bridey takes it and goes out.
large
part. And a large part consists of an intense interest in local and familial history, and he shares this with Aunt Sarah. They also share a cousin Waldo Sutter who lives in an even smaller house by a smaller river which has yet to know its place, unlike Waldo Sutter, who does not choose to get around much. Very rarely does Someone ask, “What does Waldo Sutter do?” and the answer is that
He
minds his own business. A … well … not exactly a message and not exactly a present but Something of Interest has come from him. As it has about once a year. Bridey has come in bearing a large brown paper bag, made in the days before paper bags were made by machinery. It is thick and heavy. And it is old. She says, “Waldo Sutter sends John Kelly with this to drop off if he’s coming this way.” And adds, “Waldo wants the bag back. And could you let him have a little kerosene in a bottle.” The words and deeds are invariable. So is Aunt Sarah’s nod as she empties the contents into a shallow wicker basket and hands over the bag. Bridey takes it and goes out.
Invariably, too, the bag (and now the basket) contains some old papers and an old book, which they all know the cousin (not a first cousin and not even a second) has had delivered at the back door. There is no other reason in the world why he would have been coming “this way,” but John Kelly is Waldo Sutter’s (only) tenant and no longer employable at the mill. Not for money or any other consideration would their conjoint cousin dispose of any books or papers to a historical society or a college library, a dealer, or collector; but month by month as they work their way out of the disintegrating boxes in his closely packed little house (it smells strongly of many things and the rare callers are perhaps grateful for the kerosene) he drops them in the old brown paper bag, its smell now too faint than to more than guess if it had once contained say fresh whole nutmegs or macouboy snuff or pigtail twist chewing tobacco. Candied ginger. Something for old man Waldo Sutter to smell now and then besides his rancid socks. And once a year he sends these fragments to the large house which he himself never enters by the back door or the front.
Bridey or Agnes or Katie is even now handing over the kerosene in a gallon-jug as per instructions … a
full
gallon jug. And giving Old Man Kelly a doughnut. Or a piece of johnnycake.
full
gallon jug. And giving Old Man Kelly a doughnut. Or a piece of johnnycake.
“Well, what have we here?” asks Chester Boswell. Lame, pensioned. Part of the patrimony. A patriot, Chester, even if
he
is not left for dead two days at Chickamauga; but merely breaks his leg in camp at Tampa before he can get to Cuba; Chester Boswell never hears the bugle-call at Kettle Hill, the bone has not healed well and there is always talk that it will have to be re-broken and re-set. When Chester Boswell comes to visit the large house—which is fairly often—he stays put for the whole day. “What have we
here?”
He adds, “This time.”
he
is not left for dead two days at Chickamauga; but merely breaks his leg in camp at Tampa before he can get to Cuba; Chester Boswell never hears the bugle-call at Kettle Hill, the bone has not healed well and there is always talk that it will have to be re-broken and re-set. When Chester Boswell comes to visit the large house—which is fairly often—he stays put for the whole day. “What have we
here?”
He adds, “This time.”
Here, and Chester handles it ver-ry carefully, is a sadly broken old book, pages worn and foxed and stained with candle-grease (to Old Sutter, kerosene is a modern invention). He points the title out to his cousin Sarah.
Wonders of the Invisible World / by the Rev
d
M
r
Cotton Mather, they exchange glances, she turns some soiled leaves, indicates with a finger the marginal notations; they nod. Out of the book slips a piece of flowered wallpaper, evidently trimmed with a knife. “Waste not, want not,” Chester Boswell says. “Use it up. Wear it out. Make it do. Or do without.” Part of the wisdom of their fathers. On the back of the wallpaper something is written with a lead-pencil made in the days when lead-pencils had lead in them and not graphite. He and she bend their heads to read. Kin
deamons
marry? “That’s Crossley’s writing.—Crossley’s kind of question, too.” The next question leaps across a vast sea of supposition. Is
the divorc leagle?
Crossley’s spelling is not meticulous. But it is clear. How are
thes leagal and ill liegal children told apart?
How indeed; like someone better-known, Crossley Sutter does not stop for an answer: in smaller letters writes
prepar y
e
The feast. Beneath that begins a list
Wonders of the Invisible World / by the Rev
d
M
r
Cotton Mather, they exchange glances, she turns some soiled leaves, indicates with a finger the marginal notations; they nod. Out of the book slips a piece of flowered wallpaper, evidently trimmed with a knife. “Waste not, want not,” Chester Boswell says. “Use it up. Wear it out. Make it do. Or do without.” Part of the wisdom of their fathers. On the back of the wallpaper something is written with a lead-pencil made in the days when lead-pencils had lead in them and not graphite. He and she bend their heads to read. Kin
deamons
marry? “That’s Crossley’s writing.—Crossley’s kind of question, too.” The next question leaps across a vast sea of supposition. Is
the divorc leagle?
Crossley’s spelling is not meticulous. But it is clear. How are
thes leagal and ill liegal children told apart?
How indeed; like someone better-known, Crossley Sutter does not stop for an answer: in smaller letters writes
prepar y
e
The feast. Beneath that begins a list
frsh
Porke
Porke
Samp
“When is the last time
I
ate samp?” asks Chester Boswell. “Boy,” he answers. “Makes a rougher mush than regular hominy grits. Well. Taste and scent? No argument. Eh? Sal?” Aunt Sarah’s part of the conversation is made chiefly by little motions of her mouth and brows. Though now and then she gestures. Slightly. Feast? Slattern hog and half-cracked corn? Crossley Sutter, their great-grandfather’s half-brother, has not been known as a delicate eater. Has not been
delicate
. Lines from his will are long repeated by generations of children when adults are not present.
To my Bastard son Nathaneal five pounds. To my basterd Son Slatheal Five pounds. To my imprudent dauhgther Prudence born in christain wedlock but most UnGreatful slutt Three cents and a buckit of ashes.
I
ate samp?” asks Chester Boswell. “Boy,” he answers. “Makes a rougher mush than regular hominy grits. Well. Taste and scent? No argument. Eh? Sal?” Aunt Sarah’s part of the conversation is made chiefly by little motions of her mouth and brows. Though now and then she gestures. Slightly. Feast? Slattern hog and half-cracked corn? Crossley Sutter, their great-grandfather’s half-brother, has not been known as a delicate eater. Has not been
delicate
. Lines from his will are long repeated by generations of children when adults are not present.
To my Bastard son Nathaneal five pounds. To my basterd Son Slatheal Five pounds. To my imprudent dauhgther Prudence born in christain wedlock but most UnGreatful slutt Three cents and a buckit of ashes.
Still …
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