“It’s nearly Thanksgiving, John,” I said to my friend, commonly known as ‘Old John’.
“Yup. We’ll have more families come out visitin’.”
Old John was kneeling before a small grave, where a few green sprouts thrust their way up through a covering of sun-faded scallop shells. The marker read "Mary Scott."
“You’re getting weeds, Mary,” he said, reaching out a bony hand to pull up the sprouts.
“I know, Johnny,” Mary’s voice said. “If people grew like weeds, they’d be tripping over each other.”
Old John chuckled. “Always the philosopher, Mary.”
Although John wasn’t aware of them, I was Two teenagers hid in the bushes across the road that paralleled where we were. One poked the other in the ribs and whispered, grinning, “Look at that old coot! He’s actually talking to ‘em!”
“Yeah,” the other whispered back. “He’s a real nut case!”
They just didn’t understand. That wasn’t surprising.
Old John moved to another grave whose worn concrete headstone read “Matthew Cromley”. Red tomato pulp was splattered on it.
“Damn those kids!” Old John said with bitterness. “No respect, Matt; no respect at all!”
“That’s always been the way with kids,” Matthew’s cracked voice said. “Kids know it all; old-timers are for the buzzards, they think.”
“You got that right, Matt.” He shook his head. “Still, when we was kids, we wouldn’t dare desecrate a graveyard.” He began pulling pieces of pulp off the headstone.
“Because we knew our parents would skin us alive if we did!” Matthew responded, a smile in his voice.
Old John chuckled. “You got that right!” He paused, and added, “But it ain’t like that today.”
“No; today’s liberal society is different from what we grew up with.”
The old man sat motionless.
“What’s wrong, John? You seem worried.”
“They’re planning on paving our road!”
“What? Way out here in the boonies?”
“That’s the trouble, Matt; we aren’t in the boondocks any more; the county is growing, and folks are building closer and closer. Fact is, they want to pave the road ‘cause a developer wants to put in a housing development. There’ll be kids all over the place!”
“Is there nothing you can do?”
“I’ve called the County Commission, but they won’t pay me any attention. All they see is more taxpayers moving in.”
“. . .Call my son. I understand he’s a successful banker.”
Old John snorted. “More than just ‘successful’, Matt; his bank is the biggest in the county!”
“Then they should listen to him! When you talk to him, John, call him Spud; that’s what I called him when he was a little boy.”
“Yes! I’ll get ‘Spud’ on the telephone.” He stood and looked around. The church sat at the end of the graveyard, where it had always been; weathered, unpainted wooden planks overlapped each other, two windows in the wall faced the graves. It had a wood shingle roof, with a cross at the peak, over the front door. Inside was the old piano that, when he was a child, Johnny would sneak in and try to play. The piano was at the front beside the podium; rows of wooden pews, polished by long years of sliding parishioners, faced forward.
Old John thought the church had been built before there was a town nearby.
At the other end of the graveyard was his house, the house his grandfather had built. His grandfather had been a preacher, and his father after him. John, however, had not followed in their footsteps; he said he didn’t feel ‘called’ and, instead, became a carpenter. After deliberation, the church committee decided to allow him to live on in the family house.
Even when he was working as a carpenter, he took time every day to straighten up the graveyard, something he had started as a child. When he retired, it became his main occupation.
His house was also unpainted wood with a shingle roof. Some improvements had been made over the years: A window air conditioner kept his bedroom comfortable on hot nights, and a gas furnace provided heat in the wintertime. There was also a telephone and Old John went to his house to use it. Before entering the house, he paused and looked out over my many mounds and gravestones. “Thanks,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” I responded, and Old John nodded at me.
‘Awake.’ ‘Aware.’ ‘Ego.’ ‘Consciousness.’ These are all terms I have assimilated over the centuries.
I am one of the oldest graveyards around here. Over two hundred and fifty years ago, I started as a family graveyard. Maybe it was the attention I – we – received that brought awareness. First it was the original family, who always took care of the mounds and markers. Later, a church was built on the property, and their families took equal responsibility. As more and more people were added, I slowly became conscious of myself. For over seventy years, Old John has taken care of me, and I appreciate it. Ever since he was small, ‘Little Johnny’, he took it for granted that he could talk to us, to me, and easily accepted it.
He got the bank on the phone and asked for Mr Cromley, adding, “Tell him I want to talk to Spud.” He explained no further.
It worked; in a minute, ‘Spud’ Cromley’s voice asked, “Who is this? How’d you know to ask for me by that name?”
“This is John Cobbe. I live out by the old country church. Your dad told me about the nickname.”
“Mr Cobbe!” the banker said, his voice warming up. “Sure, I remember you. I’ve met you when I went out to the cemetery to see how Dad’s doing. What can I do for you?”
Old John remembered the banker coming out to the graveyard at least twice a year, bringing flowers, and standing by his father’s grave in prayer. “Mr Cromley, there’s a threat to the graveyard.”
“What do you mean?” the banker asked, concern in his voice. I could hear it, through John.
“The county wants to pave our road, and allow a subdivision to be built nearby. The developer, Aces Up, has already bought the land and has a sign up and wants the road paved. Even now, kids drive by and throw things into our place; today, a ripe tomato was smashed against your father’s marker. It’ll be much worse if the road is paved and a subdivision is near. I’ve spoken with the county, but all they can see is making taxpayers happy.”
Cromley voice was tinged with worry. “That road has been dirt forever,” he said. “I know the county would like to see more people moving in and paying taxes, but – surely there’s someplace else.” He paused. “Let me think on it, Mr Cobbe. Maybe I can come up with something.”
That night, after he had been asleep for a while, Old John was startled into wakefulness by the banging of the church piano. He quickly got out of bed, turned on a light, and went to the door in time to hear laughter and the slamming of a car door, following by the sounds of the car racing away.
“Those damned kids!” he snarled.
With amusement, I said, “Settle down, John; you used to do the same thing!”
“Yes, but not so loudly. . . . Well, okay, okay. I’ll settle down.”
The next day, Cromley called. “I did some checking, Mr Cobbe. Turns out the church owns the property on both sides of the road. It ends, you know, at your house. Talked with some of the deacons and suggested the road be listed as ‘private’, and closed. They agreed.”
“That’s great! I’ll buy some lumber and build a gate. We can have a lock on it, with all church members having a copy of the key. How far down does the property go?”
“It starts about a hundred feet before the church. I located an old survey you can use.”
“I’ll get right on it! . . .But if that subdivision goes in, kids will still walk up to the church. We can call it ‘private property’ all we want to, but we can’t keep ‘em out.”
“I’m working on that, too,” the banker said. “Might be able to do something.”
“You’ve already done a lot!”
I could hear a smile in the banker’s voice when he added, “I’ve certainly made Aberdeen mad. He owns Aces Up and found out what I was doing. Threatened to pull his money out of my bank, but I reminded him we held the loan on his property. Over two million dollars. He told me the property didn’t mean a dime to him if he couldn’t build on it; I said he’d still owe the two mil. He sputtered, but settled down.”
That night, a pickup truck coasted to a stop on the dirt road, not far from Old John’s house. “Got the stuff, Greg?” the driver asked his passenger.
“In this bag,” Greg answered, then continued hesitantly, “Bud, I ain’t too sure about this. It might kill the old man!”
“If he’s dead, he won’t give us no trouble.”
“Yes, but. . . .”
“He’s just an old busybody,” Bud went on. “You got two kids, Greg. They’ve still got a lotta life ahead of ‘em. This old geezer has had his. If he keeps on, he’ll ruin our work. That’s why the boss is paying us ten grand apiece to take care of him, ten grand that can help you raise your kids. Now, grab your bag and let’s get moving. All his lights are out. It’s after midnight, so he’s probably sound asleep.”
Greg was still reluctant, but he got the bag and stepped out of the pickup cab. His hand went to an empty shirt pocked. “Wish I still smoked. I could use a drag right now.”
“Yeah,” Bud said. “And an ash could set off that dynamite, then all your troubles would be over!”
Greg sighed and shook his head. “All right, all right; what’re we gonna do?”
“We’re gonna make it look his furnace blew up,” Bud explained softly. “That way, we won’t get into trouble. That dynamite will do the trick.”
Old John’s house was open around the foundations – nothing but cement blocks that held up the cross-timbers supporting the floor. Bud led Greg to a place halfway down the side of the old house. “The furnace is under here,” he whispered. “Gimme the bag and I’ll slide under and set it all up.”
Silently, Greg handed the bag to him. He fidgeted, but finally Bud came back out. “It’s ready; let’s go.”
That was when I trembled the ground..
“What’s that?” Greg hissed.
“Musta been a train going by; nothing to worry about,” Bud reassured him.
Greg swallowed, then asked, “How’s the fuse set up?”
“Electric timer. Come on!”
I reached out and pushed the ground again; the electric power pole fell, with a shower of sparks.
“That was no train!” Greg said, fear in his voice.
“Let’s get outta here!” Bud told him.
“But the electricity is off! Your timer –“
“–Is battery-operated! Come on!” Battery operated! I reached out and drained the power from the batteries.
A headstone slid under Greg’s feet and tripped him. “I didn’t know that cemetery was this close!” he said, getting shakily to his feet.
He was breathing hard.
“Come on!” Bud urged, running to the dirt road. Greg followed, wiping sweat from his forehead . I shook the ground again, and they shuddered. They got in the truck and Bud put the ignition key in. When he first turned it, the starter drug because I had drained the timer batteries, but then, lazily, it began to turn the engine over.
Despite the fact that he was going in reverse, Bud burned rubber getting out of there. “Soon as we get outta here, I’m buying cigarettes!” Greg said.
When he awoke the next morning, Old John dressed quickly and came outside. He saw the felled power pole and looked my way. “Something happened last night.”.
“Yes, Johnny, and you’ve got to get busy. Two men placed a bomb by your furnace. Call the police, and have them send a bomb squad to remove it. I’ll be willing to bet they can trace it back to Aces Up. If they do, that’ll kill the development.”
Old John went to the phone. “Johnny, you’ll have to call the power company, too.”
After finishing the calls, he came back outside.
Every headstone was in place. All was peaceful, satisfactory and quiet. It was going to be a good Thanksgiving.
