The Lord of Cat Bow--Excerpts

Yes, there were thirty-one of us; at least that was at the last count. But, the sign only began to tell the story.

Grampy lived on a farm, as all grandfathers should, complete with cows, horses, pigs, turkeys, and one stubborn and exasperating donkey named Janie. Janie was quite a donkey. She had the audacity to lie down and go to sleep every time we hitched her up to the cart for a ride. Even Grampy, who lived and died by the old New England proverb, When the going gets tough, the tough get going, found the old gal more than a match for his wits. Janie’s breeding was impeccable and her code of ethics unmistakably mulish. Dad swore that she was the first cousin of one of those jackasses that he had pushed up and down the Rockies during boot camp, as a preamble to the war.

For myself, I never could understand what a former bigwig in the Republican party was doing entertaining a donkey at Cat Bow Farm. The better angels of our nature, a Godfather once said. I reflected.... Whatever the case, we grandchildren fancied that an elephant would have been eminently more appropriate. But, even though we outnumbered the adults handsomely, a pure democracy was not the practice at the farm in those years. That issue, the Lord of Cat Bow and I would take up in time.

No, there was no getting around it. Janie was basically a hopeless case. How well I remember all those hours, sitting in the cart in front of the old barn, the reins slack in my hands, while I pleaded with Janie to get up. All to no avail. It always seemed to me that Janie was ungrateful and quite arrogant. After all, we fed her, and she had her own stall. I figured the least she could do was take us for a short ride around the barnyard. But no, a member of the loyal opposition, Janie had other ideas. And, at ten years old and eighty pounds, I couldn’t very well pick Janie up. So, we had to do without those rides.

Then, there was the hayloft—the scene of countless tomato fights, games of hide-and-go-seek, and of hay castles that always seemed to be in the state of caving in. We grandchildren must have taken at least a bale of hay to sleep with us every night in our hair and clothes—that, along with numerous cuts and scratches. But, these were all a part of those wonderful summer days when children were allowed to be children, and all the worries, responsibilities, and cares of life just had to wait a few years while we enjoyed ourselves.

Yes, those cuts and scratches were overlooked by everyone except Grandma Jane. She was Grampy’s second wife. Bea, his first, and Dad’s mother, had apparently died of pneumonia when Dad was away at war. Dad never spoke much about Bea’s death – except to say that he had plenty of time to think as he was flying back in a cargo plane from the war in the Pacific theater to attend, belatedly, his mother’s last rites here at home.

Grampy said even less. The little we heard came from a later account by a devoted secretary: When Mr. Weeks returned to the office after your grandmother’s death, Mrs. Murdock and I arose and stepped forward to greet him. Your grandfather didn’t say a word, she recollected. He just stood there silently in the middle of the office, head bowed, holding our hands. I breathed in. So it was.

What remained unspoken had found its way into a journal entry on the evening of Bea’s death. Today is the saddest day of my life. Grampy’s words were as straightforward and yet tender. . . , susceptible as the old lord, who suddenly found himself standing before a mystery pointed to in a verse by Whittier sent by a dear friend:

Yes, Grampy loved Bea dearly, and she had understood him well. They were a great couple; so I was told. I wasn’t around then, probably not even a thought. As a result, what was such an important event to Grampy and his six children never affected me directly.

I don’t remember much about Grandma Jane either—except that she fussed over our cuts and scratches. And also, she was a Southern lady—a charming belle from Nashville, Tennessee. That, in itself, would have been fine, if it hadn’t been that every time Grandma Jane greeted me, she would grab my cheek and purr, Hi, honey chil, how’s ma babe?

Luckily, in those days we kids weren’t allowed in the Big House very often, as it was. You know: Children are to be seen and not heard—all those formalities that lingered between the generations, biding their time until we grandchildren would grow up and set things straight. So we figured. In any case, I didn’t mind not being able to run in and out of the Big House whenever I wanted. The barn was not only more inviting, but more spacious still. And, if we got bored there, we always had the lake, fields, and mountains of our Northern Kingdom to engage our awakening curiosity and perpetual motion.

But, even though Grandma Jane had the rather irksome propensity to indulge herself at the expense of our cheeks, I managed to overlook that. For her arrival at Cat Bow meant five more grandchildren—and, more importantly, one my age, Wade. Yes, in the time it had taken to repeat the vows, another ten members were added to the clan, and an impromptu grafting on our staunch New England family tree was arranged, so as to accommodate the new kin from south of the Mason Dixon. The more the merrier, as far as I was concerned. With time, even Grandma Jane’s indulgences became a little easier to stomach.

Unfortunately, though, the new in-laws weren’t around very long. One day I was told that Grandma Jane was very sick. Dad explained to me that she had some new disease with a complicated German name, Alzhe..., that only a few people had ever gotten, and that Grandma Jane would probably never get better. I was only ten at the time, and, sadly enough, the worst thing about the whole deal was that my new pal, Wade, stopped coming up to the farm. I really liked Wade. After I got around his Southern accent and saw that he could throw the crab apples as well as the rest of us, Wade was accepted right off. Looking back, it all seemed so simple as kids.

Anyway, a little more of Grampy died as Grandma Jane’s condition got worse. The only time our Grandma came out of her room was when Grampy would wheel his “Jane,” her pale hands gripping her shawl, into the Pine Room during cocktail hour or into the dining room for a meal. But, Grandma Jane didn’t seem interested in eating, and eventually even those visits became less frequent. Finally, Grampy set up a new room in the north wing of the house for Grandma Jane, with a fancy hospital bed and nurses around the clock.

Your grandfather did not recognize illness; for him it was a weakness to be overcome, an old friend wrote after Grampy’s death. So it was. Before we would leave from a visit to the farm, Grampy would make Nat, Bea, Brad, and me go down the long hall with him and give Grandma Jane a kiss good-bye. Grampy felt strongly about us sticking together as a family and figured it made Grandma Jane feel better. But, I wasn’t sure. To tell the truth, I was a little scared. When I leaned over Grandma Jane’s bed and kissed her, she never said a word or even looked at me. She just stared off at the wall.

In time, Grandma Jane’s shadow faded away, too. The only bride to soundly outlive Grampy was Teenie (along with her miniature schnauzer, Tippy Toes), who, in Grampy’s latter years, brought to Cat Bow Farm from the West Coast a welcome California blend—along with another half-dozen game cousins. By that time, despite ourselves, we had become a pretty cosmopolitan clan, although our roots remained firmly set in the New Hampshire soil that had become a part of the family over the generations.

For some reason my most distinct memory of those years is a retiring nook in Grampy’s stately Governor Winthrop desk, which filled a quiet corner of the old Pine Room. Nestled within the nook was a small, gold-framed photograph. A sunbeam glanced over the shoulder of a kindly-looking, middle-aged lady, awakening traces of a smile on her pensive face and lighting up the shades of gray that had begun to touch her hair.

We called him Grampy. Grandmother, Grandma,...smaller than Teenie, I never knew what to call Bea; I never knew her as a mortal. Summer was passing on into autumn. Poised beneath the fleeting embrace of the old elm, Bea’s gaze rested silently on the camera. In the background, the field led up to the old farmhouse, before blending into the flanks of Mt. Orne that rose up—with a happy–sad melody—over our small universe:

No, Dad never talked much with us about his mother. It was only years later that I discovered that it wasn’t pneumonia that Bea actually died of. Though Grampy got her to the hospital in time, the oxygen tent didn’t work. Instead of getting air, his beloved Bea suffocated.

I also had much to reflect upon over the years, as that, too, was part of the sad reality of life that took a back seat to our exciting capers.

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HEADED TO THE FARM

As can be expected when you mix children and farms, we were late. Aside from our annual tug-of-war with Janie the donkey, our delay was due to the arrival that spring of seven new calves—which demanded the appropriate civilities on our part. Third cousins (a bit removed), we had to get duly acquainted with the newcomers and, consequently, neglected the hour. It wasn’t until the cows started to serenade the barnyard, in response to Bill’s arrival with the oats, that we realized, to our dismay, that it was “that time of the day.” Brushing off our pants and stuffing in our shirt-tails, we raced down the hill to the Big House. As we arrived at the front door, the chime from the old grandfather clock sounded the quarter hour. Pausing on the threshold, we took a deep breath and stepped sheepishly forth.

Entering the dining room, the conversation stopped, as all eyes (including the steady gaze of an admiral) turned to us. Slipping quietly into our seats between Mom, Dad, the Ramseys, and Grandma Jane, we were painfully aware that half the turkey was gone. The message was clear. Yet, no sooner had we got settled, than we were off again, as Grampy, despite the obvious, inquired if we had washed our hands and combed our hair. If the query had come from Mom and Dad, we might have stretched the truth, put up a fuss, or bargained a bit. But, with Grampy, we figured it would be better just to be quiet and do what he said. When we returned to our seats, our plates were full. Emitting hungry sighs of relief and casting a grateful glance at our host, we dug in.

Turning their attention back to one another, the adults picked up the thread of their discussion: “...De Tocqueville expressed it succinctly when he said, America is great because America is good. And if America ever ceases to be good, she will cease to be great.”

The conversation made the rounds along with the dinner. Admiral Ramsey shared Grampy’s love of history, and Mrs. Ramsey (who, earlier in her career, as Commander of the WAFS, had outranked her husband) shared our appreciation for the anecdotes and passages—some light-hearted, others less so—that were called forth.

“Listen up, children, I have something I want to read to you.” Laying down his fork and knife, Grampy pulled his glasses out of his shirt pocket, a sheet of paper out of his pant’s pocket, and, turning to us, inquired, “You’ve heard of Davy Crockett, haven’t you?”

Nat, Bea, Brad, and I nodded in unison.

“Well, he was not just an Indian fighter and frontiersman, he was also a Congressman, who had a lot to say about this country of ours.”

Grampy unfolded the sheet of paper, “This, children, is from a speech Congressman Crockett gave in the spring of 1830. The House of Representatives was considering a proposal to appropriate federal funds for the widow of a distinguished naval officer. As is often the case in such matters, the proposal had its resolute backers, who had just finished making a spate of impassioned speeches on behalf of the widow. The bill appeared on its way to being approved, when Congressman Crockett arose.” Grampy paused to take a good drink of water and adjusted his glasses:

“Gentlemen,” Crockett began, “I have as much respect for the memory of the deceased naval officer, and as much sympathy for the suffering of the living—if suffering there be—as any man in this House of Representatives. But, we must not permit our respect for the dead, or our sympathy for a part of the living, to lead us into an act of injustice to the balance of the living.

“I will not go into an argument to prove that Congress has no power to appropriate this money as an act of charity. Every member of this body knows that we do not. We have the right, as individuals, to give away as much of our OWN money as we please in charity, but as a member of Congress we have no right to appropriate even one dollar of the public money for such a purpose. Some eloquent and beautiful appeals have been made to us upon the grounds that this is a debt due to the deceased.”

Grampy paused, glanced around at us: Congressman Crockett continued: “Mr. Speaker, the deceased naval officer lived long after the close of the war; he was in office drawing his salary to the day of his death, and I have never heard that the government was in arrears to him.” Crockett fixed his gaze on his colleagues. Grampy read on, “Every man in this House of Representatives knows that this is not a debt. We can not, without the grossest corruption, appropriate this money upon the pretense that it is a payment of a debt. We have not the semblance of Constitutional authority to appropriate it as a charity.”

Grampy and Davy Crockett drew a breath: “Mr. Speaker,” Crockett said, turning toward the Speaker of the House, “I have said we have the right to give as much money of our own as we please. I am the poorest man on this floor. I can not vote for this bill, but I will give one week’s pay to the object, and if every member of this Congress will do the same, it will amount to more money for the widow than the bill proposes.”

Grampy laid the piece of paper down beside his plate and turned to Nat, Bea, Brad, and me, “How do you think his colleagues responded?”

Shrugs were passed down the row, until Bea, buoyed up by her blond ponytails and abounding spirit, spoke up expectantly, “They helped the poor lady?...”

Grampy shook his head, “No, not one Congressman took Crockett up on his offer.”

Easing his plate forward on the placemat, Admiral Ramsey turned to his host, “As early as 1790, Sinny, a professor of history from the University of Edinburgh named Tytler spoke in very clear terms about how a democracy can only exist, as a permanent form of government, until the voters discover that they can vote themselves largess out of the public treasury. From that moment on, the majority will vote for the candidate promising the most benefits, with the result that a democracy will always collapse from a loose fiscal policy and the burden of large public debt.”

Elbow on the table and chin resting in his hand, Grampy’s gaze was fixed on the admiral, before he nodded, “There is an expression, attributed to an old Chinese philosopher, that doesn’t seem to have become any less relevant over time: ‘From bondage into spiritual faith; from spiritual faith to physical power; from physical power to freedom; from freedom to wealth; from wealth to security; from security to complacence; from complacence to indifference; from indifference to weakness; from weakness to bondage.’”

Grandma Jane drew her shawl around her. Dad paused, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and looked up at his father, “This issue is beginning to come to a head with the civil rights demonstrations in the South. Now that Governor Wallace has defied the presidential order to desegregate Alabama’s schools and his National Guard has been federalized, we’ll see whether we really have a united states.”

The pause was longer before Grampy sat forward, “We have been given this democracy on a condition. That condition is vigilance, eternal vigilance.” My gaze lifted to the rude bridge that filled the frame above the fireplace behind Grampy. The spring river,... Grampy’s words flowed on, “What we do not understand is that if we don’t meet the condition, if we focus solely on our rights and ignore our responsibilities within our democratic system, then, as those who went before us realized, the loss of our freedoms is nothing less than the consequence of our crime and the punishment for our guilt.” An unfamiliar tone, earnest and more, touched Grampy’s voice. Grampy’s glance passed around the table; our eyes met: “These and many such worldly views would be considered ‘conservative’ by many people today. What the critics don’t often enough appreciate, however, is that what conservatives understand intuitively, often takes those of a more liberal cast of mind years to grasp.”

Dad picked up the thread, as Dora brought in the dessert plates and placed them in front of us. Mrs. Ramsey added a thoughtful strand to the conversation. Mom was quiet. I turned a questioning glance to her, before lowering it to the business at hand—bread pudding.

Dinner ended with a spree in the finger bowls, which, upon first encountering, we mistook for drinking water. Yes, much there was to discover. Rising from the table, the older folks gathered up their coffee cups and retired to pursue the problems of the world. Scooping up a pack of cards—milder distractions—we followed the grownups’ footsteps into the Pine Room, settling in on the large window seat sofa across the way.

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THE BLESSED BARN

It was a beautiful day, clear, crisp, and cool. The snowfall had been heavy the night before, and, except for the road that had been given a good plowing that morning, the farm was packed in for the winter.

Pausing in the driveway, my sights fell on the old elm that extended its snowy branches out into the morning, etching the blue winter sky. Farther up the driveway, the barn settled into the white hillside, its great sloping roof decked with a fresh blanket of snow. There was a distinct resemblance between the barn and the Big House. Aside from being the same color and sleeping roughly an equal number of inhabitants, both buildings, as noted, were almost identically constructed. In the center of the barn, rails connected the two wings, fencing in a paddock space that allowed Janie and her stall mates an opportunity to stretch their limbs in more favorable seasons. Exchanging snowballs and good-hearted jeers, Nat and I headed up the drive.

Our steps quickened as we approached the barn. Pausing in front of the large, sliding doors, Nat pulled from one side while I took a hold of the other. Together, we managed to budge the doors enough to slip through. The inside of the barn was a good deal warmer than the outside. As our eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, we glanced about. It was a beautiful barn, we fancied, built on a solid foundation of oak floor-boards. To our left, the near wing led down to the tool rooms, tractor stalls, and the quarters of Rob and Prince’s, the two towering work horses, whom we looked up to with great fondness and admiration. In front of us, along the left side of the barn, large grain closets and sawdust bins peeked out onto the main floor, which continued down to two more sliding doors at the far end.

To the right of the far doors, a ladder climbed up through a universe of glistening spider webs to the hayloft. Their nimble weavers had been busily at work through the night, casting out delicate patterns, which gleamed in the sunlight that filtered in through the large, loft window. To the left of the sliding doors, the second wing led down to the tack rooms and riding stalls. Janie shared her quarters with two fillies, Punch and Judy, who, in respect to outings, were considerably more forthcoming. Just to our right, a long wooden ladder hung horizontally along the inside of the barn wall, beginning at one door into the cow parlor and ending at the far end of the barn at the second door.

Hearing the scraping of shovels, we slid open the smaller doors into the cow parlor and were greeted by a sight and smell that was a near-inspiration. The Cat Bow herd, thirty Holsteins strong, lifted their great dreamlike heads to greet us as we stepped into their parlor, pausing to pay our respects to their progenitor, the old bull, Benjamin, who lumbered about, chewing his cud in a solid steel-barred pen of his own. Jim Mosher and Bill Rines added their friendly greetings, glancing up from between the stanchions where they were scraping up the souvenirs the herd had deposited the night before. Always eager to mix it up, Nat grabbed a shovel, while I stepped forward to survey the assemblage.

Cows are truly remarkable creatures. Along with laying claim to four stomachs and a tongue that can circumnavigate their nose, they also have the uncanny ability of making one feel utterly conspicuous. As I walked down the center aisle of the parlor, I felt as though I were the guest speaker at some stately convention. I definitely had the floor, as all eyes were upon me.

Many a time, when I was quite alone, I took advantage of my captive audience to brush up my public speaking. Mounting a bail of hay, I would acknowledge the old chairman (Benjamin) in the corner and, then, proceed to address my distinguished gathering. It was quite a feeling, standing there in the prime of my youth surrounded by over thirty tons of vociferous beef. Often I fancied myself as an impassioned statesman and, rising up on my tiptoes, would deliver stirring orations, ranging from the vicissitudes of childhood to the future of the dairy industry. As was the custom in those days, I was wont to open my deliveries with a lighthearted story befitting the occasion:

Daniel Webster had been invited to speak in Boston’s Faneuil Hall one July afternoon.

So I often began, casting my gaze across the herd:

It was a sultry day, and the young man, who was assigned to look after Mr. Webster’s needs, remembered everything—except, to his dismay, a refreshing drink for the great orator. Aware of Webster’s predilection for something strong to ignite his spirits, young master Broeksmit (my maternal great-grandfather) hurried about till he had ferreted up the remains of a bottle of whiskey and cool jug of cow milk.

I tipped my cap to the bovine assemblage.

By the time the young man got back to the platform, Mr. Webster had begun. Not wanting to distract the speaker, Broeksmit poured the whiskey into the jug of cow’s milk and set it down on the edge of the platform.

Other than an occasional shake of the head or swish of the tail, my audience appeared disaffected. Undismayed, I carried on:

About a half-hour into the speech, Webster was steaming. Casting his eyes around, he spied the jug of milk. Though not exactly what he had in mind, the orator took a breath and stepped to the side of the platform. Lifting the jug, he proceeded to take a healthy draught, then, wiping his lips, he paused for a moment... “My God, what a cow!” young Mr. Broeksmit heard the orator exclaim under his breath.

Daisy swished her tail.

Pleasantries aside, politics was another issue that was apt to come up, as I had thought long and hard on an anonymous text that I had happened upon in one of the alcoves of the Big House. The subject was the various “isms” of the day and the slant a pronounced one:

Socialism: 2 cows; give both to government; they give you the milk.
Communism: 2 cows; give both to government; government shoots you; keeps cows and milk.
Fascism: 2 cows; give milk to government.
Nazism: Government takes cows; leaves you holding bag.
New Dealism: Shoot one cow; milk the other; pour milk down the sink; apply for relief.
Fair Dealism: 2 cows; swap them for a political job in Washington and milk the public.

As was the custom at Cat Bow in those days, our free enterprise system had the last word

Capitalism: Sell one cow and buy a bull.

So it was!

Waving my arms, I launched forth on matters of state, until my rapt audience would lose the thread and proceed to moo me off my make-shift platform. A brief digression to the oat bin succeeded in winning once again the ladies’ good graces, and, walking up and down the aisles, I would dole out equal portions, while I inquired about their health and familial relations.

A number of the heifers, with whom I was on friendlier terms, allowed me to cozy up to them, after their appetizer, with a good neck rub. This barnyard ritual afforded another unique glimpse of these extraordinary creatures. In response to my ministrations, the gals would stretch their great necks out further and further, dilate their damp nostrils, and transfix me in their lugubrious stares. What universes I beheld in those bovine depths defied expression, but the symbiosis between man and beast was pretty near transcendental. Not infrequently, a good half-hour would be spent in such inclinations, me rubbing and Gertrude, Isabell, and Daisy rolling their lolling eyes.

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THE SIXTIES

In the sixties, my universe split open. The political arena took on a tragic face, as a president was shot, followed by the assassination of his brother, who had picked up the torch, and by the murder of the civil rights leader, who raised the call for non-violence—John Fitzgerald Kennedy, Robert Kennedy, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., One, two, three.

The internal bloodshed spread. Not long after Kennedy’s death, the country was at war. Against the advice of our former president and Supreme Allied Commander, Eisenhower, we set forth once again to make the world “safe for democracy”—fighting a Vietnamese people, who themselves had fought over the years for their independence against Communist China. Communism/Capitalism; Cows/bulls?...The finer points were never made clear to the American public. And so, the People, We, sent the flower of our youth away to a war in a distant land that was to claim the lives of thousands upon thousands of young Americans, who believed in a country that no longer seemed to believe in them. I was entering into the flush of my teenage years, and the growing pains were becoming acute.

My gaze rested on Mt. Orne, cast against a brisk unsettled sky, before lowering to the farmhouse and barn. Along its gently sloping roof, the last patches of snow relinquished their chilled grip on the passing season. In their place, buds began to sprout on the branches of the sister elms that framed the paddock. April, 1969. Somehow the “Day of the Lord” had fallen to the wayside over the passage of the years. A first, a second,...a third spring was once again upon us. The embers kindled and flamed.

It was a time for deep reflection, a time for evaluating who I was and how the shrinking universe of an old New England family fitted into the picture of a turbulent and rapidly changing modern land. The questions, the challenges were both many and directed, above all, to those who stood for the older order. I glanced over at Grampy. He paused in the circle in the middle of the driveway to greet Penny, Wildcat’s spirited successor—a retriever with a distinct golden hue. Jumping up on Grampy, Penny was eager to head off on her afternoon walk with her lord and master.

Grampy zipped up his jacket and turned toward the road. Our steps kept pace out of the driveway, our conversation falling behind. Spring—tentative, incipient—was in the air. The rays of sunshine loosed the fledgling song of the swallows that perched in the fluttering branches of the old elm. A sadness bloomed within me.

The great-grandfathers study war, so the grandfathers can study politics, so the fathers can study business, so the sons?...As the seasons carried us on through the sixties, President John Adams’ words took on for me an intensely personal tone. The sons? I had grown up and into life, finding myself something of a gray sheep in our family. Try as I might, I had trouble seeing the world in the black-and-white contrasts that the civil unrest had brought out in Dad, Grampy, and, it appeared, many others.

The critics of “the Establishment” were viewed as radical—without, I sensed, a real consideration of what that word actually meant. Power to the People! We Shall Overcome! Kill your Parents! Words, a song broke on the lips of many of my generation, rising at times into a choral dirge,...retreating once again beneath our breath: For it’s one, two, three, what are we fighting for? Don’t ask me I don’t give a damn. Next stop is Vietnam. For it’s five, six, seven, eight, open up those pearly gates. I ain’t got time to wonder why. Whoopee, I’m going to die! Vietnam, Cambodia, Kent State. Three, two, one....The fathers struck first, the sins being visited upon their sons. The critics of the Establishment? Were they not groping to get, finally, finally, to the radicalis, the root of the problem?

Yes–no. The shades of gray cast themselves upon me. I realized that it wasn’t that simple. The spring before, I had stepped out of line, the lines of protest and revolt. Like many other schools, Milton Academy had become embroiled in the sixties. The youthful energy that had previously gone into classes, sports, parties, and other extracurricular activities, went now into demonstrations. Warren Hall, Whig Hall had emptied. The students gathered, along with the more vocal teachers, in a long line in front of the school and headed for the cemetery to stage their protest. I, along with the others who were around, was drawn into the current. At the traffic light, we stopped. When it turned green again, and the current swept on, I found myself stepping out of line—watching my friends, classmates, schoolmates, and teachers march by, one after another, after another....

Why? What had happened? My thoughts turned to my parents. I was more fortunate than many of my classmates. I was a day student in a boarding school and had a family and home to return to each afternoon—a grandfather to visit on weekends and holidays throughout the year. They/he provided a staid, if increasingly precarious, balance to my own pained protestations—a blessing mixed and made more acute by the love that I struggled to keep alive for my father and grandfather during those years. Sinclair, Sinclair Jr., the sins of the fathers,...the sons?

Together–apart, Grampy and I walked on into a spring afternoon. My eyes followed the fence along the road. Buds gathered on flowers and bushes that rose out of the damp, quickening earth, releasing a fragrance, faint, into the air. Grampy’s thoughts were distant; mine pressing—memories of a business breakfast meeting that Dad had encouraged me to accompany him to a few weeks earlier—an opportunity for me, the next in line, to whet my appetite for the political process. Unexpectedly, painfully for both of us, it was the beginning of a rift that would grow with the months ahead.

The speaker was a young Congressman from New York named Kemp, who, last I knew, had made a name for himself on the football field. Surrounded by Boston’s business leaders, I listened, as once again the problems of our economy and society were laid out before us, followed, again—once again—by a neat set of solutions by the young, aspiring candidate. I found myself listening with an increasing discomfort, before finally raising my hand.

The speaker turned to me, “Yes?”

I took a breath, as a sudden tide of feelings rose up within me, “Congressman....” Dad’s foot pressed down on mine under the table. The room grew quiet. I looked from Dad back to the speaker. My heart beat loudly in my ears. I paused. They were waiting. I spoke, “Congressman, once upon a time, when our country was torn in a civil war, a president got down on his knees on the floor of the White House and prayed to a living God.”

I stopped. Beside me, Bill McCrellish mumbled under his breath. His words were inaudible; all I could make out was the tone of incredulousness.

The silence deepened. I groped for the unraveling thread and took a breath, “As we find ourselves in the middle of a civil rights uprising and war in Southeast Asia, and demonstrations on our campuses, can you say something, Congressman, about Truth, about Beauty and Goodness, ‘brotherhood from sea to shining sea’—and how these notions relate to the problems you’ve outlined?” The former quarterback paused, took the ball, faked left, right....

“Stuart!” I turned in the lobby. The voice was clearer, “I don’t believe you said that.” Bill came up to me, standing off alone out of bounds on the side.

I looked at him, “I thought at least you’d understand what I was trying to say.”

He shook his head, “I do. But Truth, Beauty, Goodness, good lord, man, you’re not in Athens. You don’t ask that kind of question in a gathering like this.”

“Brotherhood?...Why?”

He paused, “You don’t. The room was full of businessmen, politicians, and...”

“Human beings.” Our gazes met, “I know, Bill. But how can you sit through such gatherings year after year after year with all the promises and pep-talk about new solutions to our problems?”

“You don’t believe there are any solutions?”

“That’s not the issue for me.” I searched for words, “Congressman Kemp and many politicians today may know a lot, have plenty of position papers and programs, ‘solutions.’ But, how many have a feel, a real feeling for what the problems are that the people on the street, the majority of citizens in our country, are facing—the real issues? The main problem that seems to preoccupy many of our representatives is their reelection.”

Bill took a breath. I looked at him, “I realize I made a fool of myself. But, as our country settles into a slumber, isn’t anybody going to speak up about the real issues—the ‘top line?’”

“Stuart, the business of America is business.”

I took a deep breath, “I’m aware of that; I was raised on that phrase—along with the old fare of meat, potatoes, and vegetables. Business was what we talked about for years around the dinner table.” I looked at Bill, “But, no one ever told me what the business of business is.”

“It’s making a buck.”

“I don’t believe it.” A tone of anger stirred in my words. I glanced across the lobby at the group of business leaders, gathered around the Congressman, “That view is a lie that’s in danger of becoming true.”

Dad joined us. He looked at me silently. My foot was still sore. I breathed out, “Dad, I told you that you shouldn’t take me to these meetings. I’m not a businessman or politician....”

“Stuart, did you hear the Congressman’s response to your question?” I reflected. Dad spoke up, “He was honest. He said he isn’t a philosopher or poet.” Our gazes met. “Most of us aren’t. We’re too busy making a living.”

“And how about living?” I paused, looked at my father. “I don’t know if you can understand it, Dad, but I’m not just a Weeks anymore. I don’t listen to the facts, figures, and position papers alone, the ‘letter of the word’; I can’t. I listen, try to listen, for a sense of truth—the ‘spirit of the word.’”

“It’s not that simple, Stuart.”

I turned to Bill, nodded, “I realize that. But, we can also make it more complicated than it is—some people can, I guess. I can’t.” A heaviness settled over me. My glance returned to the Congressman, who started toward the door, “You all have been talking about how the speaker is ‘aggressive, ambitious and intelligent’; ‘He votes the way I do’; ‘Maybe he’s the man to call the plays for the nation. We need somebody to do it!’”

“That’s real life, Stuart.” An impatience gripped Dad’s voice.

Words surged on the tides of feeling that rose within me, “Maybe it is....Maybe Kemp is the person to call the plays. All the more power to him. I don’t know. But, one thing I do know is that those qualities you all have referred to—aggressiveness, ambition, even intelligence—they are not the essential qualities you emphasized when you referred to a Lincoln or Washington. You mentioned other traits, traits not so different from those I sputtered out earlier: courage, integrity, compassion, sacrifice, even love.”

I searched the faces of my father and older friend, “What’s happening to our country? Why aren’t those qualities mentioned anymore when we speak of who we want for our leaders? Why don’t those words fall first from our lips? Aggressiveness, ambition—these other attributes that we give such ample voice to, where are they leading us? Wars, riots, burning cities, uprisings...” I paused, caught my breath. Our glances met, “I asked the Congressman about Truth, Beauty, Goodness—brother and sisterhood. What I was trying to ask in my halting way was whether anyone still hears the words of the old prophet: ‘Without a vision, the people perish.’”

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THE ENDING

Winter came, and the roads led back again to America, Boston, Concord.

“Grampy has changed a good bit. Don’t be surprised, Stuart, if he doesn’t recognize you at first.” Dad’s words settled into my mind, as I pulled into the parking lot of Rivercrest Nursing Home and turned off the key. Off to my left, the banks of the Concord River rose up into the still winter afternoon.

Collecting my guitar from the back seat, I crossed the lot, brushed by a thin veil of snow, and followed the walkway into Rivercrest. At the front door, I was greeted once again by a nurse, who took my name and then led me down a long corridor of clean, white walls, interrupted by plants and bright, cheerful pictures. I followed silently.

Pausing at Grampy’s doorway, the nurse knocked and, then, nodding kindly, turned and headed back down the hall to the reception area. I listened a moment before stepping forward and slowly opening the door.

My eyes rested on an old man dressed in pajamas, with a familiar plaid bathrobe tied limply around his waist. He was sitting silently in a large chair in the corner of his room, his gaze drawn out the window. Beside him, vases of flowers bloomed on the sill. My glance lowered to the table in front of his chair. A single rose bent over a tray full of cold lunch.

“Grampy?...”

The old man didn’t move. My eyes followed his out the window and across the still white landscape, etched by the river. Placing my guitar by the bathroom door, I walked over to him and, taking a quiet breath, placed my hand on his shoulder. Slowly, Grampy turned and lifted his countenance—tender, susceptible, straightforward—to mine.

“Hello, Grampy.” I hesitated a moment, then, leaned over and gave him a warm kiss. He lifted his hand in a faint greeting and looked at me for a long moment before speaking quietly, “You’ve come back.”

I nodded, “Yes, it’s Christmas.”

“Christmas....” The word rumored on Grampy’s lips.

I took a package out of my coat pocket, “I haven’t yet tapped Captain John Weeks’ O-Be-Joyful spring, but I did manage to get my hands on some good German chocolate for you.” Grampy’s eyes searched mine questioningly, before lowering to the chocolate in my hand. “Something to sweeten your diet.” A pained smile touched Grampy’s face. I placed the box of chocolate in his hands. He stared at it absently, before letting it fall onto his tray. Grandma Jane passed through my mind. “I trust, Grampy, they’ve allowed you a couple of vices these days.”

Grampy gazed at me searchingly.

I reached a hand to him, “What do you say, Grampy?” His own greeting had become unfamiliar. I looked at him silently. The changes from our June visit were striking. Thin and wan, the color had withdrawn from Grampy’s cheeks, leaving his lips dry and chapped. As he turned his vision beyond me to the door, I glanced into his eyes, silent, listless. “How are you, Grampy?”

“Tired.” His voice was distant, his eyes heavy.

I nodded, as my sights fell on a commode. Beside it, a host of pills crowded Christmas cards on the bedside table. Above, on the wall, a stout cherub leaned back into its spruce wreath—a worn evergreen halo.

I pulled up a chair beside Grampy, “How are the angels?”

A searching look touched his face. I paused and then placed my hand on his in his lap. “Grampy...?” The word stirred memories. He listened. I searched his face, “Do you remember the story you used to tell me about the comely woman who walked into the White House one day and announced that she wanted to have a look at President Lincoln?” Our glances met. Grampy was silent. I continued, “Taken aback by the simplicity of the visitor’s request, Secretary Wells led her to the president’s office.” Grampy’s eyes lowered to my hand in his lap. I paused, went on, “The woman stood in the doorway, as Lincoln rose from his seat behind his desk. ‘What can I do for you, M’am?’ the president asked. The lady merely repeated her words, ‘I just wanted to have a look at you, Mr. President.’ Lincoln bowed kindly.” My eyes rested on Grampy, “‘When it comes to the business of looking at one another,’ the president nodded, ‘I must say that I have the distinct advantage.’”

I was silent. Grampy raised his gaze inquiringly into mine, touched suddenly by tears, “Did you read that passage I gave you in the Pine Room, Stuart?”

I wiped the tears, “Which one?”

“The one by Lincoln.”

“Yes....” I nodded, “Yes, Grampy, I read them all.”

“Good.” Grampy’s glance lowered to the tray of food and slender rose. The room was quiet. We sat by the window, searching for words, memories, hopes, a familiar melody—until a knock returned to the door. An orderly walked in, greeted me, and motioned that it was time for Grampy’s supper. Rising, I glanced at his plate and then, excusing myself, stepped back.

I took a short detour home through Concord Center, turning up Monument Street by the Colonial Inn and continuing out to the old North Bridge and Minute Man National Park—the destination, Grampy had recounted, of many a weekend outing, by horse and buggy, for homemade lessons in history during Grampy’s youth.

Pulling into the empty parking lot, I turned the engine off and made my way across the street. A full moon brightened the evening, casting shadows in and about the trees. At the top of the path, I paused. In front of me, framed by the still December evening, the rude wooden span of the old North Bridge reached across to the opposite bank of the river. On the far side, gathered up by a still enclosure of trees, the Minute Man statue, musket and plowshare in hand, in balance, kept its eternal vigil. My gaze rested once again on the scene, before I followed the Redcoats trail down through the snowy corridor of pines to the bridge. Beneath its arch, a moist patchwork of snow and ice forded the river. I lingered a moment at the rail of the bridge and, then, mounted its crusted planks.

At the center of the bridge, I paused, and looked down at the chilled blue-black waters that cut a corridor through the ice. Tucking my hands into my coat pockets, I raised my sights upstream. Memories of earlier seasons and of a child, young to the world, returned to mind. Following his steps down through the field behind his house, the boy paused at the bank of the river. For long moments he stood still, leaning into his reflections as the waters flowed by. An outer current was visible on the surface, a current, I had come to realize over the years, that flowed through my own family—business, politics, worldly affairs. I watched through the seasons of my youth. There was another current, below the surface, flowing in the opposite direction—another stream, less visible, but no less a part of our American life, Concorde. I stepped back. My gaze continued on upstream, beyond my vision, to the river’s crest and an old folks home, gently cast in the setting sun. Yes—the words welled up within me—yes, at the end the soul always returns to its source.

Afternoon passed on into evening. I turned, returned up the crusty path to the parking lot. Off to my right, the Old Manse, home of the Hawthornes and, before them, a family named Emerson, edged the winter field. 1775: a political revolution, the “shot heard round the world.” Fifty, seventy-five years later, the reverberations grew. My eyes rose to the upper corner bedroom of the Old Manse, the view looking out over the battlefield. An evolution, a call to cultural independence arose out of the small New England hamlet, in the form of an aspiring essay, “Nature.” And today, a twentieth century? I searched for words: involution, a turning in to those deeper tides that ebb and flow within us?

That evening, after a quiet supper, I slipped up to my room and sought out a passage in a book I had been reading by Odell Shepard, Pedlar’s Progress, on the life of a lesser-known Concordian and father of four little women, Amos Bronson Alcott. My visit to Grampy moved within me.

This book will be written out of the assured conviction that America has always been, is now, and throughout her coming centuries will continue to be, profoundly idealistic. That she has never been exclusively so, of course, I am aware; but neither, I think, has she ever been quite the crude, coarse and Mammon-minded country of the conventional interpretation.
     Founded upon a thought, grounded upon a book, lineally descended from ancient prophets and modern dreamers, she is at heart still passionately dreamful and prophetic, given to spiritual rebellions, to the never ending wars of intellectual independence, and to migrations of the mind that ignore horizons.
     The common mistake about her has been the headlong haste in which she has set her young strength to her preliminary task. Not her foreign critics alone, but even her sons and daughters have been too deafened, even deceived, by the uproar of her mere preparations. Too easily and too soon have they concluded that America delights in uproar for its own sake, that she foresees and desires no final goal, that she lives for purposeless activity alone.
     Although this is an error, it may become truth. Preoccupation with the means of living has for too long postponed our consideration of life’s ultimate values. Things unquestionably first in the order of time have already come, for too many of us, to seem first in the order of importance. There is a question how long we can safely continue to ignore the nobler half of our national memories and nature. So central and inherent an idealism as ours can never be wholly lost, indeed, but it can be, and already has been, distorted, deceived, and put to sinister uses. Little by little forgetting our birth in the spirit, more and more doubting the dream that has led us thus far on, we face even now the danger that always confronts a people who do not really know themselves....

I closed the book, as words rose up out of the gathering backdrop of silence: Are Gandhi, King, Thoreau,...Great-Granddad the exception, Grampy? Or, are they the rule—a picture of what we, the human being, truly are? Winter, spring, summer, autumn—and winter once again, longing on into spring. The tides welled up within me, breaking the surface, falling from my eyes, down, down, down, rippling gently on across the stream of time.

Christmas that winter lacked a good bit of its cheer. Instead of going north to Cat Bow, we gathered at Aunt Frannie’s and Uncle Woof’s home in Westwood, Mass. What had always been a joyous occasion was muted by Grampy’s absence. Halfway through the evening, we paused and drank a toast to our sire. Then, excusing ourselves, the party broke up, and the families headed home.

The rest of the vacation was equally restive. I had little desire to look up friends or partake in the Holiday festivities. Instead, I went to see Grampy twice more. But, with each visit his gaze was more distant, his reactions fainter. The intervals between our words lengthened, until only an ebbing silence connected us.

On my last visit, before heading back out on the road, Grampy and I sat silently by the window, together/apart, as the shades of dusk settled over the wintry landscape. And, then, I leaned over and picked up my guitar. Grampy lowered his eyes to the instrument, a glimmer of recognition kindling. “I found that last verse, Grampy, when I was on the road.” I drew my fingers across the strings:

All night, all day, angels watchin’ over me, my Lord.
All night, all day, angels watchin’ over me.

Grampy looked up. I sang on:

Day is dyin’ in the West,
Angels watchin’ over me, my Lord.
Sleep my child and take your rest,
Angels watchin’ over me.

All night, all day, angels watchin’ over me, my Lord.
All night, all day, angels watchin’ over me....

I paused, as the melody stirred on Grampy’s lips:

Children sleep, the moon is high,

I lowered my voice:

Angels watchin’ over me, my Lord
You’re safe and love is nigh,
Angels watchin’ over me.
All night, all day, angels watchin’ over me, my Lord.
All night, all day, angels watchin’ over me.

Grampy continued on, his voice silent, searching:

Now I lay me down to sleep,
Angels watchin’ over me, my Lord.
Pray the lord my soul to keep.
Angels watchin’ over me.

All night, all day, angels watchin’ over me, my Lord.
All night, all day, angels watchin’ over me.

If I die before I wake,

Grampy grappled with the words. My voice picked up, carrying his:

Angels watchin’ over me, my Lord.
Pray the Lord my soul to take.
Angels watchin’ over me.

All night, all day, angels watchin’ over me, my Lord.
All night, all day,...

Grampy paused abruptly and looked up at me: “Bea. Where’s Bea?” Our gazes met long and long, before a faint smile touched Grampy’s lips:

Angels watchin’ over me.

I breathed out, wiped my eyes, and carefully placed my guitar down on the floor. Grampy settled back into his chair. Drowsiness filled his eyes, until they slowly closed, and sleep came gently over him, drawing his vision within. I looked at my grandfather long and long. Then, as shadows darkened the room, I stood up, leaned over the rose, and gave him a kiss. At the door, I turned one last time and quietly bid my grandfather adieu.

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Excerpts from

The Lord of Cat Bow

by Stuart Weeks

THE BEGINNING
HEADED TO THE FARM
THE BLESSED BARN
THE SIXTIES
THE ENDING

THE BEGINNING

HEADED TO THE FARM

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Excerpts from

The Lord of Cat Bow

by Stuart Weeks

THE BEGINNING HEADED TO THE FARM THE BLESSED BARN THE SIXTIES THE ENDING

THE BEGINNING

HEADED TO THE FARM

Return to Hobblebush Home Page
Return to Lord of Cat Bow order page
Return to Hobblebush Catalog

THE BEGINNING
HEADED TO THE FARM
THE BLESSED BARN
THE SIXTIES
THE ENDING