Grandpa Newman and Alma (Sid)

Sidewalk, Gleaner's Hall, Toto, Indiana

Warning:
The general reader is apt to skip Prologues, Introductions, and Epilogues. Who can blame them? The stuff is most often boring. In the following cases I am certain that I will not disappoint. The various apparatuses will be boring. However the story is so poorly written that the general reader will not be able to make any sense of it without the help of the extra stuff. (The astute reader is strongly encouraged to skip everything including this warning if they are able to go back in time.)

Prologue
The literary pursuit called Prose generally has a a requirement of “making sense”. True geniuses of Prose, like Joyce, may earn, or be tolerated, an exemption. Poetry, on the back of that hand, has a requirement of “making feelings”. Of course the very greatest literature does both. As for that which is to follow, the general reader will have to decide. It shouldn't be difficult.

Introduction:
Doubt has been expressed regarding the family story that my Grandfather Newman played the fiddle at the Gleaner's Hall in Toto. I had an informant in this matter, i.e. Herbert Collins AKA Bicycle Pete or Bicycle Mike. Herbert was born in the house directly South of “The Big Store” albeit long before “The Big Store”. Bicycle Mike informed me on several occasions that he remembered my father playing fiddle in the Gleaner's Hall. For sure my father never played the fiddle. Bicycle Pete was quite old and perhaps crazy so I assume he was simply confusing generations.

Grandfather Newman died long before I was born. Therefore nothing I can say about him is based upon my memory. I did know that a certain oak tree was 20 yards west of the old Newman house. It was the time of the Great Depression and he was a small immigrant dirt farmer. At the time of our story he had only a few years left to live. My Mother, Alma, was a young girl. The Introduction must end here or it would exceed the story in length. That is only allowed for Beowulf.
 
The Prose/Poetry Story

Scattering at a distance through the crooked gaps of the old storm scarred oak and then the nearby clinging pod-laden trumpet vine, the late afternoon summer's flickering shadows played a serious board game on the gray, worn porch, a magic box competition of changing botanical studies in sliding shadow silhouettes, jumping in and out of focus. A hesitant, rare and most welcome mild breeze softy teased freshly shaved cheeks. Newman looked away from the sun and while closing his eyes deliberately inhaled, gently but surely taking the air, the breeze, in, where it caressed and was caressed, a secret lover. Unconsciously embracing another, an old, familiar and constant lover, a worn-out fiddle-case, he turned to the shadow dancing. He thought, “Inconstant breeze! Andante. Allegretto. Lento. Vivace. Con moto. I shall look at these beautiful shadows with a special concentration. I will decide to remember them, to try to remember them always. I wonder if you concentrate, I wonder if you concentrate in a special way, I wonder if you could remember. I wonder if I could remember these shadows always.”

The bunkhouse blocking the just setting sun, the glowing light coming from everywhere and nowhere, half the world glowing, half the world in a dimly lit red shadow, the air was filled. Alma was looking at the deep voices and laughs of the shadowy field hands outside the bunkhouse. Behind her the dancing sounds of the crowd in the Gleaner Hall, loud farm folks shaking off the weary dust of yet another hard week. The voices and laughter spinning and twisting, rising and falling. She smiled as she heard her father start tuning the fiddle and the voices decrescendo. Then a steady crescendo: the clip, clip, clip of a trotting horse coming up the road. Then the stretching complaint of a screened door spring and the clap of wood as Mrs. Hewlett came out to see the horse and rider catch the last rays of the sun. It was the young and beautiful and wealthy Mrs. Kline. No sound now came from the bunkhouse, the Kline Farm bunkhouse. Mrs. Kline was posting, rising perfectly to the rise and fall of the red glowing trotting horse. Alma thought, “How wonderful! I wish so very, very much that I could be like Mrs. Kline with a beautiful slender glowing horse, and beautiful boots softly folded at the ankles, toes up and heels down rising so elegant and confident and tall. And people looking up at me with my wonderful riding pants that are made just for me. And my soft and silky riding blouse, open at the neck a little more than mother allows my sisters. And the lovely scarf and the men at the bunkhouse becoming silent. And Mrs. Hewlett coming outside to watch me ride by. And little girls from poor families looking up at me and thinking, “How wonderful!” I'm am going to remember this moment forever. I am going to make a special effort to always, always, always remember this.”
 
Epilogue
Many years later. Alma and Sidney went to Chicago to buy for the store. On the way home they stopped to see Joan's new horse. Alma watched her daughter-in-law posting the trot across the arena and Sidney secretly and closely watched Alma's reaction. He was quite curious. This German dressage horse cost more than any car Alma ever owned. Sidney was expecting Alma to be dismissive and regard the situation as frivolous. He thought that reaction would have been typical. Sidney was surprised and quite pleased as Alma began to shine with pride. She was obviously quite proud and happy. Sidney saw that look, that look of memories surfacing. Alma told Sidney the story, but even less than the Prose/Poetry story we have at hand.


Post-Epilogue
Many years later than many years later, actually last week, Sidney was coming out of the bakery after his usual morning donut, coffee and chess defeat and was somewhat despondently staring at the ground. An artsy arrangement of weeds was poking through the cracks in the concrete. Sidney thought, “I will decide to remember this pretty crack in the sidewalk. I will try to remember it always. I wonder if I concentrate. I wonder if I concentrate in a special way, I wonder if I could remember this crack in the sidewalk always.”

Afterword:
Farm widow Ruth Kline retired to Knox and died in the 1970's. After her death, Sidney and Joan were shown her Knox home when househunting. The concrete floor of Kline Farms' Bunkhouse survives in Toto behind the "Drapery" Store. The Gleaners Hall survives in 90% of its original condition. Herbert Collins is dead.