 
DAVID SHATH SQUARE Chapter Two
THE ONLY PERSON not impressed with Jeb's bravado was my father. He sat on one of the hard bench seats and continued to read Thomas Hardy short stories.
My father was always reading a book. It was a sore point between him and Jeb because my grandfather said too much booklearning turned a man into a prissy snob with no appreciation for the common folk. My father argued the opposite. He said all great writers find inspiration in everyday people. He said some of Thomas Hardy's strongest characters were drawn from working-class people in rural England.
That didn't sit well with my grandfather who countered with his own argument about F. Scott Fitzgerald. "Why, that clown made a career out of ass kissing the rich and famous. Never wrote a book that wasn't filled with snobs, drunks, and perverts."
Their argument never seemed to get resolved. It became vehement when the subject of my name got into the conversation. My grandfather wanted me to be called Zacharia after a person in the bible because it was one of the few books he considered worthwhile for a man to read, although he did allow Zane Grey and Louis L'Amour were fine authors. My father was adamant I should be called Hardy, in memory of his beloved Thomas Hardy. The outcome was my father called me Hardy, while my grandfather, having a stubborn streak, referred to me as Zach.
My grandfather also complained that for a boy of l6 I had a vocabularly as big as Webster's dictionary. I never noticed some of the words I used were kind of advanced for my age. After he pointed it out, I made an assiduous attempt to break the habit but it was no use -- my father's home schooling had worked its magic, or instilled its poison, depending on your point of view.
I could tell another argument was brewing. My grandfather was put off because my father was pretending not to notice his showdown with the moose. If there was one thing aside from too much book learning my grandfather couldn't abide, it was to be ignored.
He sauntered over to the bench where my father sat reading and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Well, Judas, my son," he began. "As usual you have your intellectual nose wedged between the pages of a book. Tell me, what can be learned about real life from a book? Wouldn't you prefer to experience it firsthand?" My grandfather only referred to my father as Judas when he wanted to start an argument. Otherwise he was called Jude -- Jude Thomas Ezekiel Stricker.
My father didn't respond to the jibe immediately, but he did put down his book, a sign that he wasn't prepared for an argument. Otherwise he would have continued to read, which would have goaded Jeb further. To buy more time before answering, he removed his reading glasses and scanned the tamarack bog for a moment. He was gifted with the long sight of a marksman, but he couldn't read a book without lenses as thick as plate glass. As he searched the bog with his keen eyes, a smile began to form on his serene face. He seemed to be enjoying a private joke.
"If I were you Jeb," he suddenly said to my grandfather, "I'd stop crowing and prepare to abandon this jitney. If I'm not mistaken a lot of trouble is headed our way right this minute." With that, my father grabbed me around the shoulders and together we jumped off the jitney.
We hit the gravel and rolled down the embankment until we came to rest in the tamarack bog on the opposite side of the jitney to the moose. As we stood up, wet and reeking of swamp water, we could hear cursing from the men still on the jitney. "Holy Mary and all the apostles," I heard my grandfather cry, "abandon ship, boys, before that crazy moose kills all of us." The air above us was filled with leaping bodies as men jumped from the jitney, hit the embankment, and rolled into the bog.
I climbed back up the slope to get a look at what was going on. By peeking under the jitney, I could see the moose charging through the bog on the other side of the track toward the jitney like a jousting steed. That crazy son of a bitch was determined to knock it off the tracks and roll it down our side of the embankment. Just before the moose broadsided the jitney, someone grabbed my ankle and pulled me back down the embankment.
The impact of antler on steel lifted the wheels on one side of the jitney off the track. The rolling stock must have weighed tons but the moose, with its antlers hooked into the undercarriage, kept heaving like a weightlifter, until the entire mass teetered on one set of wheels. It was quite a show of strength for a puny moose -- we were all so awed by the sight that when the moose succeeded in toppling the jitney we were taken by surprise. Suddenly several tons of steel came crashing down the embankment straight at us.
Men scattered in all directions; a few unlucky ones stuck in the muddy bog stood and watched as the steel carcass tumbled toward them. The jitney hit the bog like a bad diver belly flopping, raising a wave of stagnant water and marsh gas that soaked every man within 20 yards. Men close to the jitney were nearly drowned by the force of the wave. I could hear them gagging as they tried to clear their lungs of the putrid water.
Amid the confusion, I heard my father calling my name. We had run in opposite directions in the desperate seconds before the jitney slammed into the bog. I called back to assure him I was okay. But I was worried about my grandfather because he was an old man and, although he would never admit it, not quite so agile as he used to be.
I walked back toward the jitney which had begun to settle in the bog like a torpedoed ship. Fortunately, the men in its direct path had been saved by the force of the wave which had tossed them free of the steel carcass when it hit the bog. By the time I arrived, they had waded back to the embankment and sat huddled on the gravel, thankful to be alive.
But Lee Chang was in a state of panic. He ran along the gravel berm shouting "Mr. Jeb, Mr. Jeb. I no find him."
My father, who was the only one with his wits about him, did a quick headcount and, sure enough, my grandfather was the one man missing.
Suddenly we heard Lee Chang yell. He was pointing to my grandfather, who clung to the side of the submerging jitney. Lee Chang waded chest deep into the bog and wrapped his arms around my grandfather's chest. He attempted to lift him away from the sinking platform but his effort was unsuccessful. Somehow my grandfather's right foot had become wedged between the undercarriage and the jitney's rear wheels. As Lee Chang held on to my grandfather, the steel platform continued to sink into the soft mud bottom of the swamp.
By this time several men, including my father, had waded into the bog to help Lee Chang. They hooked their arms under my grandfather's armpits and attempted to lift him clear of the submerging jitney. But no matter how hard they heaved, his foot remained stuck.
"Christ Almighty," I heard him curse, "if you boys keep yanking on me my right leg is going to stretch a foot longer than the left one. I'll have to get Swede Hansen to whittle me a wood peg just so I can walk plumb to the ground."
I'm not sure if my grandfather realized how desperate his plight was, or if he was trying to sound brave so as not to panic himself and rest of us. But at the mention of Swede Hansen, the local carpenter, my father seemed to get an idea and he waded back to the embankment where I had been ordered to wait.
"Listen, Hardy," he said, placing a hand on my shoulder, "Swede Hansen's place is about a mile down the track. I want you to run there as fast as you can and get him to lend you a saw."
As I turned to go my father said, "Remember to ask for a crosscut saw. It's got to be very sharp. And get him to douse it with his homebrew. Be sure to get a pint of it for Jeb. He's going to need it."
Copyright © 1998 David Square/Log Cabin Chronicles/8.97 |
