Leaves Of Autumn

Over the past two miles the road had grown progressively narrower and more difficult to navigate.  Deep ruts created by a heavy truck in some previous period of flooding jerked the wheels of the car this way and that, and large rocks half submerged in the clay-like soil shook the small passenger car viciously as it crossed over them.

The lane ended abruptly in the yard of a two story, dilapidated farm house, badly in need of paint and repair.  One of the windows on the second level had been replaced by a large piece of cardboard.  Several of the steps leading to the house were broken, and one of the pillars supporting the roof over the front porch was missing. The overhang sagged dangerously. The home was surrounded by fields of corn almost eight feet tall. A small creek meandered through the northeast corner.

I turned off the ignition and got out of the car.  For the first time I became aware of the man sitting in a rocking chair on the shady side of the veranda. He had a tattered straw hat pulled low over his forehead, and was wearing an old, faded pair of overalls.  Under this was a grimy set of long-johns with sleeves coming half-way down his arms. It wasn’t his attire that caught my attention, though, but the double-barreled shotgun lying across his lap.

“State your purpose, Sonny, or turn around and skittle out of here,” he shouted.  The muzzle of the shotgun shifted slightly as he spoke so that it was pointing more or less in my direction.

I was quick to answer.  “Hello.  My name’s Stanley Houston.  I’m looking for a gentleman named Joe - I don’t know his last name. I was interested in the Indian massacre of settlers that occurred here in 1869.  You know, the one they have that monument for in town.  I wanted to learn a little more about the Alderdice family, and that couple that came over from Germany - what was their name - Weichel? Fellow working at the gas station told me that someone he called ‘Old Joe’ who lived out this way was the one I ought to talk with.  Said Old Joe knew all about it.”

“Indian massacre, you say.”  I thought his voice softened just a little.  “What are you, a writer?”

“No. Well, maybe. I guess I’ve given some thought to writing a book about the attack. Haven’t decided for sure.  That’s why I was looking for someone who might know a little about it.”

The old man studied me carefully before replying.

“I guess I know as much as anyone about those days. Always kinda enjoy talking about them with someone who’s really interested.  Matter of fact, I’ve been kinda waiting around just to tell the whole thing to someone who might put it to print.”  He definitely had a friendlier tone to his voice. “Come on up here so’s I can see you better.”

At close range I noted that his face was badly wrinkled. Furrows that reminded me of a plowed field covered his forehead and cheeks. He had a day old white stubble beard and heavy white eyebrows.  It was impossible to determine his age, but I could see why they referred to him as ‘Old’ Joe in town.

“Sit down,” he said, pointing to a rickety straight chair with a cloth pad on the seat.  “Tell me about yourself.”

For the next fifteen minutes we talked about the weather, the corn crop and my interest in the Indian attack. I was getting impatient to turn the conversation to the raid itself, but the old man seemed to be in no hurry. During the course of our talk he bent forward in his chair and laid the shotgun gently on the deck of the porch.

Finally he said, “So you want to know the story of the massacre, do you? Well, I guess I’m the best one you could have come to.  I remember it as if it had happened only yesterday.”