CrackerBoy

Prologue - August 8, 1881

I remember mama crying as she wrapped Old Father in blankets on the bench by the door. He was stretched out flat, and it was strange because she was wrapping the blankets all over his face.

I sat up in bed and said, “Mama, don’t put that over his eyes. He can’t see!”

Mama kind of jumped, then she turned her head towards me. “I didn’t know you were awake, son. It’s all right. Old Father will sleep forever now. He won’t wake up and be afraid.”

She had tears running out of her eyes, long drips that ran down her chin and then all over the front of her dress and apron. Her clothes were sopping wet, and she didn’t even seem to notice.

I hopped out of my little nest and ran to help her. Maybe I could wipe her face or something.

“No, son,” she said. “Get your clothes on like a big boy. You’re five now. You can dress yourself.”

So I grabbed my overhauls, pulled them right up over my long johns, snatched my flannel shirt off the back of the rocker and stuck my arms in it by throwing it on the floor upside down and diving in, like she taught me. Shoes, I couldn’t do up the buttons yet, so I yanked on a pair of her old leather boots. They flopped a little, but not much. I had big feet for my age.

“Okay, I’m ready. What should I do now?”

Mama looked straight at me, tears still flooding out of her eyes. “You’re my big helper, aren’t you? We’ll put Old Father to sleep in his mountain. We’ll take him in the cart. Can you hitch Betsy?”

That scared me. I’d never hitched the big black mare by myself. But I needed to be brave for mama. “Sure, Mama,” I said. And I ducked through the door by the fireplace into the shed. It was cold and I could see my breath in the air. I wished I had my heavy jacket.

I stretched tall to get Betsy’s bridle off the peg. She pricked up her ears when she saw me. I grabbed an apple from the barrel and slipped the bridle over her head when she bent to nuzzle my hand. I’d seen Old Father do that lots of times. I led her out to the cart and guided her backwards between the braces. She stood there like a lump while I ran back and forth getting her harnessed.

I dashed back into the cabin. “All ready, Mama. Now what?”

“Get your jacket on. I’ll take his head and shoulders,” said Mama. “You get between his legs and grab him just below the knees. Think you can do that?”

I hurried to put on my heavy jacket. I darted to the bench and turned around, backing up just like Betsy. I picked up Old Father’s moccasined feet first, then wiggled a little until I was holding him like Mama said, just below the knees. I was surprised how heavy he was. Him being so skinny, legs like a bird’s almost, I thought he’d be easy to carry. But he wasn’t.

Mama wiped her tears with her apron. Then she picked up Old Father’s shoulders, cradling his head in one arm to keep it from lolling. We inched out step by step to the cart, slid Old Father’s body onto the cart bed, and slotted the backboard in so he wouldn’t slip out. I clambered into the front seat. Mama stepped up, lifting her long skirts so they wouldn’t get caught under her boots.

Mama knew the way. I guess Old Father took her there before he got sick. Maybe they’d walked up. Anyway, she drove fast, clicking her tongue at Betsy, urging her to pull hard over the slippery pine needles that littered the trail up the mountain behind the cabin.

We drove almost to the top. Then she turned off the path and around to a little cave I never knew was there.

We carried Old Father into the cave. Mama turned his face to the west and laid some of his favorite things on the ground beside him -- his clay pipe and tobacco pouch, his drinking bowl -- Mama broke that -- and a wicked knife with a carved handle I’d like to have kept for myself, but Mama slapped my hand away. Then she slipped his medicine bag from his neck. It was small, and furry, and brown. I shivered as I watched her put that dead man’s pouch around her own neck.

“Why did you take his medicine bag, Mama?” I asked.

“He told me all about it and wanted me to have it. Said he wouldn’t need it any more.”

“What’s in it?”

“I’ll talk to you about it later,” Mama said. “Right now, I have to sing the song he taught me for his going away time.”

Then Mama sang, a sad song about circles and stars and birds and things. I wasn’t able to help her much with that, just hummed along because I didn’t know the words.

After the singing, we rolled some big rocks in front of Old Father‘s cave, then filled up all the gaps and cracks with lots of little stones until you couldn’t tell he was in there.

“That’s fine,” said Mama with a sigh. “No animals can get at him now. Come on, son, let’s go home. Time to pack.”

“Pack? Are we going somewhere?”

Mama smiled then, a watery kind of smile, and put her hand under my chin. As I gazed into her bright, blue eyes, the same color as mine, I saw them start to sparkle like sunshine on the water in the lake.

“Home, that’s where. We’re going home to Tunkhannock!”