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Tuesday June 12, 2007 Edition
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Local Country Characters I Have Known

Tuesday June 12, 2007

By Larry Johnson

    It would seem that we are fast losing not only our rural landscape but something nearly as precious---our rural character. Unfortunately, perhaps we’ve already lost it. Growing up on a farm in Weybridge during the 40s and 50s, I remember with increasing nostalgia the colorful people who enriched our lives by virtue of their very existence and the fact that they sometimes honored us with their presence.

     One early character who still demands my respect was the “Governor”, a hobo who arrived at our place every spring from his winter sojourn in the deep south. He never varied his arrival by more than a day or two. He was not only a man of the road but a man of the seasons. He hated winter, so he plied his trade in more southern climes from November until May.

     I was very young during the Governor’s involvement in our lives. I remember him because of his stories. Mother always set a plate at the table for him, and he would, for a short time, be part of our family---a very special and honored guest. He was a polite and gentle soul, a true Knight of the Road, and his trade, if it can be described as such, was that of a story teller, a raconteur with a million tales of travel and romance.

     He more than paid for his room and board with stories of faraway places. In those days, anyplace south of Bennington was a foreign country. It was with great anticipation that we awaited the arrival of the Governor. His name, I can only assume, was a sign of respect, given to him by those of us who held him in high regard.

     One spring the Governor did not arrive, and the following spring was the same. We eventually realized that something special had died and gone out of our lives.

     At the risk of exposing a non-existent gender bias, most of the characters of my fast retreating youth, those seemingly golden days, were men. Now I’ve never understood why most rural “characters” were male, but presume it had something to do with the perceived gentility of the fairer sex. However, there were a couple of women, as I recall, who should be mentioned. I don’t remember their names, and that is probably just as well, but I vividly remember them by deed and reputation. A Mrs. G, I will call her, lived in a dilapidated house next to a church. Mrs. G had the annoying habit---annoying to the parishioners, that is, of that particular church---of sitting on her rickety porch  during the Sunday sermon and drinking  beer and smoking cigarettes. One Sunday morning, Mrs. G plummeted through her porch floor, while sitting in her rocker, and when this accident was realized by the good parishioners of the church, they rushed over to save her. Mrs. G, refusing the missionary spirit of the moment, began cursing them and throwing beer bottles at the congregation as soon as they were within range. To say the least, her defensive actions had a dampening effect on the missionary spirit of the moment.

     Mrs. J, on the other hand, didn’t live anywhere near a church, and that, I’m sure, was just fine with her. She was a hog-killer by profession and, as you might guess, had an overly- exercised vocabulary that would have shamed a pirate. I remember Mrs. J., primarily, by the one solitary act of kindness that she showed me on the single occasion that I was allowed in her presence. She came to slaughter our hogs, late one autumn, and she brought me a solid black, beagle   puppy from a new litter and gave it to me. I never quite thought of her the same way after that, and believe that Mrs. J. had a tender spot somewhere deep within her fire-hardened female soul.

     John Carpenter was a man of impeccable character and presence. Undoubtedly, if the opportunity had ever arisen, he would have been presentable in almost any social setting. In fact, Johnny as he was affectionately called, had an implied social itinerary that would have embarrassed a Washington, D.C. diplomat. He just showed up for meals and was always invited to stay. Johnny scheduled his visits just prior to mealtime, and, of course, in those days anyone who happened to be at your house at dinner or supper time, was invited to sit at the table and share your meal. Unfortunately, Johnny had none of the traveled sophistication of the Governor. He had probably never driven his Model-T Ford further than Middlebury or Vergennes. What he lacked in worldliness, however, he made up for in polite conversation and harmless gossip. He would tell innocuous stories about the neighbors; Johnny’s function was that of a modern day town crier. He carried news and this made him an important and valuable dinner guest. Johnny always showed up at our house at  dinner time on the last Sunday of the month. We knew he was going to be there and this understanding was factored into my mother’s  noonday dinner preparations. Only once did Johnny’s presence seem awkward, and that was when an aunt on my father’s side was visiting and Johnny developed an instant crush on her. He became tongue tied and was unable to dispense the gossip that was expected of him. However, it was not a permanent condition and his status was left undamaged.

     There were other characters who earned their place in society and our hearts with talents and skills unusual for the time and place. Fred B. “The Tractor Guy” was not least among them. Fred had a Farmall Tractor that he used as a car. He drove it everywhere---to Middlebury, Vergennes and maybe even as far as Burlington, for all I know. Fred was a poet, and he seldom passed our house on his tractor without stopping and reciting one or two of his  newest poems.

     There was a deliciously dark rumor that Fred had once owned a banana plantation in Cuba  at the turn of the century, right after the Spanish American War. It was also rumored, of course, that he had had to leave Cuba because of some kind of love-duel that he had been involved in. But Fred’s past, as far as we were concerned, was a mystery that he never felt the need to talk about; and his neighbors, my family included, considered Fred an honest and reliable gentleman, with a few harmless idiosyncrasies.

     “Buck the Bicycle Man” was a character unequalled, and had a natural artistic talent to match. Buck claimed to be of Indian descent. He was tall, muscular and when I became aware of him, was probably somewhere in his mid-forties. He rode a bicycle towed by a husky dog. He was a painter and a metal sculptor and made his living painting murals of farm scenes on barns.
He and his dog would live on a farm until he had finished his painting and  then they would bicycle off to their next job. Buck had a little box on the back  of his bicycle, that held his artist’s tools, and had a warning written on it that said: DANGER DYNAMITE. This, he claimed, prevented him from being run over by one of those “new fangled automobiles.” The dog’s job, he told me, was to help him up the hills. Otherwise he just ran along side.

  Johnny K. was a “townie”, a title we reserved for anyone living within the confines of a village.

 Johnny’s claim to fame was by virtue of the fact that he dragged a long string behind him. The purpose of the string was unknown but I suspect that it was to entice little kids to step on it. Whenever this happened, Johnny would chase them  and they would scream. Whenever the opportunity materialized, I was one of those little kids. It was great sport and I firmly believe that Johnny enjoyed  it as much as we did. Johnny may have been the town character,  but he was not the town fool. There were others who held that title and I’ll let them remain anonymous. One afternoon Johnny was wandering down Main Street, dragging his string, when some summer school students passed by. One of them spotted Johnny and his string and remarked to his companion that Middlebury certainly had some strange people wandering around in it. Johnny heard the remark and, quick-witted that he was, replied, “You bet, but most of them are gone by the end of summer.”

     Frank L. was formally unschooled and could neither read or write, but he had a respectable vocation  that earned him a living wage. He was a ditch digger. His jobs included graves, septic systems or anything else that needed to be excavated. He was a hard worker who never let his drinking habits interfere with his job. On his off-hours, however, Frank could often be found in front of the Campus Theater on Main Street. He often slept in the back of the theater in exchange for sweeping up and for setting up the marquee with the latest movie. Since Frank was illiterate, this made for some interesting titles.  For a quarter, or whatever he could negotiate, Frank would sing some of the songs that he had written. Money from this endeavor, I suspect, helped to support his habit. This suspicion was reinforced by the fact that most of his songs were drinking related. I remember one of the verses in particular. It went something like this:

          “I drove my Model-T Ford to Brandon and I parked in front of the
            Liquor store. I drove My Model-T Ford to Brandon and I parked in
            Front of the liquor store…”

     That’s all I remember, I’m afraid. But I remember Frank and I remember all the other characters that have enriched my life over the past 65 years. I thank them, one and all, for the color and character that they’ve added to my life.

 


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