The Memory of Old Jack, page 1
Table of Contents
WENDELL BERRY
Title Page
Dedication
Author’s Note
One: Light
Two: Ben
Three: Ruth
Four: Will Wells
Five: Hunger
Six : Rose
Seven : Through the Valley
Eight: Exile
Nine: Return
Ten : Mat
Eleven : Here We Leave Him to His Rest
Twelve: Wheeler
Epilogue
Copyright Page
WENDELL BERRY
The Collected Stories
Jayber Crow
The Memory of Old Jack
A Place on Earth
Three Novellas
Also by Wendell Berry
FICTION
The Discovery of Kentucky
Fidelity
Nathan Coulter
A Place on Earth
Remembering
Two More Stories of the Port William Membership
Watch with Me
The Wild Birds
A World Lost
POETRY
The Broken Ground
Clearing
Collected Poems: 1957-1982
The Country of Marriage
Entries
Farming: A Hand Book
Findings
Openings
A Part
Sabbaths
Sayings and Doings
The Selected Poems
A Timbered Choir
Traveling at Home (with prose)
The Wheel
ESSAYS
Another Turn of the Crank
A Continuous Harmony
The Gift of Good Land
Harlan Hubbard: Life and Work
The Hidden Wound
Home Economics
Recollected Essays: 1965-1980
Sex, Economy, Freedom & Community
Standing by Words
The Unforseen Wilderness
The Unsettling of America
What Are People For?
I made this book
for my father,
its true source,
in gratitude
and in celebration
Author’s Note
When I began to write about the people of the imagined community of Port William in 1955, I had no idea that I would still be writing about them in 1999. I had no plan, and I still don’t.
Having had no plan, I have made “errors” of genealogy and geography that I haven’t been aware of until readers (more alert and responsible than I am) have pointed them out to me.
In this new edition of The Memory of Old Jack, I have made some changes to correct those errors, and some changes merely to improve my editing.
Nothing of substance has been changed. Neither in this book nor in my thoughts have I qualified my loyalty to this old man and his hard-earned, beautiful knowledge.
One: Light
Since before sunup Old Jack has been standing at the edge of the hotel porch, gazing out into the empty street of the town of Port William, and now the sun has risen and covered him from head to foot with light. But not yet with warmth, and in spite of his heavy sheepskin coat he has grown cold. He pays that no mind. When he came out and stopped there at the top of the steps, mindful of the way the weight of his body is taking him, he propped it carefully with his cane and, in the way that has lately grown upon him, left it.
From the barn whose vaned cupola was visible over the house roof against the pale sky, Mat Feltner was calling his cows. Old Jack listened with an eagerness that carried him away from himself; for all his consciousness of where he was, he might have been asleep and dreaming. Mat waited, and called again. And then from the quieting of Mat’s voice, Old Jack knew that the cows had come near and that Mat could see them moving up deliberative and shadowy out of the mists and the thinning darkness. And then he heard the barn doors slide open.
Except for the crowing now and then of roosters, the little town and its outskirts were quiet. Old Jack’s mind was with Mat there in the barn, stirring about the lives of animals. He knew the solitude that Mat had entered at the beginning of every workday since his son was killed in the war. He knew the stiffness and pain that the tobacco cutting had placed in Mat’s back and shoulders and hands. He was aware of the deep somnolence of the hayricks in the loft of the barn.
The old man stood on the porch in the chill whitening of the dawn, empty of himself as a public statue, while all in him that had kept most alive lived in the waking barn with Mat. And he has continued to stand there while the cries of roosters have flared and flared again across the ridges, and the daylight and then the sunlight have come. He has heard the waking of other farms, the summoning of stock from the pastures, the occasional bawling of a cow. He has heard the tractors start, the wagons lumbering to the fields.
Though tractors draw them now, not horses and mules, the sound of the wagons going out is the same as always. Now there is the alien commotion of iron and fire, but within it or under it there is the old rattling and pounding of the empty wagon beds against the bolsters, hurrying out over the rough farm roads in the cool of the morning. As he listened there passed and passed again across the gaze of his memory a good team of mules that he bought as three-year-olds from Graham Foresee in the September of 1888.
They were a team of black, mealy-nosed mare mules with plenty of size and depth of body with a lot of lift in their motion, matched well every way. Beck and Kate. As though the reins are in his hands and he stands again on the rattling wagon, they are carrying him to the field. The sun is just coming up. It is the fall of the year. The mules are in good flesh, the hair glossy on them, and they are fresh from the night. They step together in the harness with an eager lightness that for a moment shortens his breath.
They were the first team of their quality that he ever owned. They were, maybe, an extravagance. He bought them because he needed a team, no question about that. But he bought as carefully as he did, and paid the price he paid, in a kind of celebration of himself. He had owned his place then—or owned the debt his father had left on it—for three years. And though he had not yet cleared the farm of debt, he was clearing it. He was going to clear it. There was no longer any doubt in him about his ability to do that. It had become plain to him that he was equal to what would be required of him and to what he would require of himself.
And so he bought the mules. He hunted until he found a pair that he could look at and use with the satisfaction of fulfilled judgment, and he paid what was necessary He went on horseback to get them one Saturday evening after work, and led them home in the dark of the night. He missed a dance to go get them, and when something reminded him of it two or three days later he added that to the price.
The next day he could not stay away from the barn. He led the team out after breakfast and groomed them and stood them together in the barn lot. On his own ground they still looked well to him. They suited him.
In the afternoon he brought them out again and hitched them in the driveway of the barn and busied himself repairing and adjusting a set of harness for them. Though he is at the end now, looking back at the beginning, the pleasure of that work and what it anticipated comes to him again and fills his mind.
He is sitting in the doorway of the harness room, the wide front entrance of the barn standing open at his left so that he can look out across the barn lot at the back of the old house standing gray among its trees. His knife, a punch, and several thongs of rawhide lie on the bench beside him. A breeze draws through the driveway. Used as he is to the expansive labor of the fields, he is enjoying the smallness and neatness of this task.
He hears a horse’s shod hoof strike rock and looks up to see Ben Feltner coming around the house on a gray mare; Mat, Ben’s five-year-old son, is coming along behind him on a pony Ben is married to Nancy the only one of Jack’s sisters who was still at home when he was born and who in the years after their mother died gave him most of his upbringing. It was Nancy who encouraged Jack to buy their home place, and Ben who went on his note at the bank. A large, gentle man with the beard and eyes of a patriarch though he is not yet fifty Ben Feltner is a widely respected farmer and citizen. He has a provident, retentive mind, the exacting judgment of a stockman, a brief, dry wit.
If Nancy was Jack’s mother after his real mother died when he was five, it could be said that both after and for a good many years before the death of his real father when Jack was eighteen, Ben stood before him as a father. That was never a declared relationship. Jack was too old and too proud by the time of his father’s death to accept openly a paternal authority that he had not been born under, and Ben was not the sort to give advice that had not been asked for. But Ben was the man Jack watched and listened to and checked his judgment against. There were times when Jack would outline a problem, as if hypothetically and Ben would say carefully what he thought “a fellow” ought to do in such a circumstance.
Since he signed Jack’s note for the purchase of the farm, Ben has said simply nothing at all about it. The visits he has made to Jack’s place have been casual, to the point of whatever business brought him, never taking him farther than the barn. But Jack has known that he has been watched, and he has had the feeling during the last several months that he is being watched with approval. All this is characteristic of Ben, who understands the enthusiasms that pertain to beginnings, and who has therefore, in his offhand way, deferred judgment
For a while they pass the time of day there in front of the barn. Jack leads out the new team of mules, and they look at them and talk about them. But Ben does not get off his horse. He has come at last, Jack realizes, to see for himself. He was getting ready to go look up his stock, Jack says. Do they want to come along? He saddles his horse and they ride together, the two men followed by the boy on the pony out the ridge behind the barn. Letting the horses loaf along through the bright, hot afternoon, they ride over all the fields, examining the condition of the ground, the crops, the pasture, the stock, the fences and buildings. Though Jack speaks of what he has done and is doing and what he hopes to do, Ben says little. Occasionally he asks a question or speaks to his mare or points something out to Mat. At times they ride along in silence. But Jack is aware that within the shadow of his hat brim Ben’s eyes are seeing and considering everything.
They stop to let Mat have a swim in a little pool walled up in Jack’s grandfather’s time to catch the outflow of a spring. Jack and Ben hitch the horses and come and sit on the broad, moss-edged capstones of the wall in the shade of a huge sycamore. There comes upon them a deep pleasure in the leisurely afternoon. After Mat has dried himself in the sun and dressed and come to sit between them on the wall, they stay on, watching the little fish that live in the pool and the dragonflies that hover over it. Outside the shade of the old tree the afternoon burns bright on the slopes of the pasture.
As the day cools toward sundown they ride back to the barn. Jack dismounts at the door and speaks a few jocular parting words to Mat. And then he turns to Ben, whose eyes—pleased, and in their distant way perhaps amused—are looking at him now. “Jack, my boy, you’re doing all right.” He touches the mare then and turns her, Mat following, and starts home. Jack watches them out of sight.
Though he stands leaning on his cane on the porch of the hotel in Port William, looking out into the first cool morning of September, 1952, he is not there. He is four miles and sixty-four years away in the time when he had music in him and he was light. From the height of that time his mind comes down to him, a bird to the head of a statue, and another day of his old age lights the street. The chill has gone deep in him now. He will go down to Jasper Lathrop’s store, where, though it is too early in the season yet to expect a fire, some of yesterday’s warmth will have been held overnight. Smiting the edge of the porch sharply with his cane as if to set hard reality on the alert, taking careful sight on the stone steps, he lets himself heavily down.
Two: Ben
When Mat Feltner walked out into his front pasture in the course of his morning chores, he saw Old Jack standing on the hotel porch like the monument of some historical personage. It was still gray then, and he could only dimly make out the figure of the old man within the shadow of the porch roof.
Later, bringing the milk to the house, he looks again, and then he stands and looks, for Old Jack is still there as before, the dawn having come upon him.
Mat’s grandson, Andy Catlett, who has been feeding and watering the hogs, comes quietly into the yard and stands beside him.
“How’s the boy?” Mat says. And then, remembering that this is Andy’s last day to be there—tomorrow he will be going away to school—Mat reaches his arm around the boy’s shoulders and hugs him. They stand so for another moment, silently looking at Old Jack, who is looking away.
“Well,” Mat says, as if to end a conversation of some length, “let’s go eat breakfast.”
They go in and strain the milk and wash, and come back to the kitchen.
Sitting down at the table, Mat frowns and shakes his head.
“What’s the matter?” Margaret asks.
Mat, who does not know that he has given any sign, looks up at his wife and smiles. “Nothing,” he says. And then, knowing she will not believe that, he says, “Uncle Jack. He’s been standing over there since before daylight. Just like he’s bolted to the porch.”
Margaret only nods. Mat lifts his coffee cup; she fills it and sits down.
Old Jack has become a worry to them. In the last several weeks his mind seems to have begun to fail. They have been watching him with some anxiety, they and the others of the community who care about him, for fear that in one of those spells when he seems to go away from himself he will fall and be hurt or will be hit by a car. They have all found him at the various stations of his rounds, just standing, as poignantly vacant as an empty house. And they have watched him, those who care about him, because they feel that he is going away from them, going into the past that now holds nearly all of him. And they yearn toward him, knowing that they will be changed when he is gone.
Mat suddenly laughs. “Burley Coulter was saying the other day that Uncle Jack’s turning into a statue. That’s going to be his metamorphosis. One day he’ll just stop the way he does and never start again. The birds’ll roost on him.”
Margaret concedes a smile to Burley’s fantasy But she changes the subject. “Mat, we ought to bring him here. It’s time. If we don’t, we’ll be sorry”
“I’d be sorrier to have imposed something on him he didn’t like,” Mat says. “I’m not going to do it, Margaret. He’d feel a burden to us. He’d feel dependent and useless, and I don’t want to do that to him. He’ll be happier staying where he is, paying his own way If he gets to where he can’t do for himself—which I hope he won’t—then we’ll bring him here.”
He speaks more strongly than he feels, for what he has in the back of his mind, what he is not willing to say is that he is going to put off for as long as possible the extra work that the old man’s needs would make for Margaret, whose health is no longer good. Not that what he has said is not true.
“Besides,” he says, “he wouldn’t come.”
And that is true. He would not. He would not allow himself to be meddled with.
“When he needs help, we’ll help him,” Mat says.
That is what he owes. That is what Old Jack has always given him— not help that he did not need but always exactly the help he has needed. Mat is sixty-nine years old. Since before he remembers, Jack has been there to be depended on. When Mat was born, Jack was already such a man as few men ever become. He has been faithful all those years. It is a faith that Mat has reciprocated in full. But Jack’s faith has been the precedent and model. All his life Mat has had Jack before him, as standard and example, teacher and taskmaster and companion, friend and comforter. When Jack is gone, then Mat will be the oldest of that fellowship of friends and kin of which Old Jack has been for so long the center. He feels the impending exposure of that—nobody standing then between him and the grave. He feels a heavy portent in the imminent breaking of that strand of memory reaching back into the Civil War, on the end of which Old Jack now keeps so tenuous a hold.
“When he needs it, we’ll help him. When he don’t, we won’t. Ain’t that what you’d want?”
“Well,” Margaret says. “Hunt him up directly, and see about him, and tell him to come to dinner.”
“I’m going to. Now see how far ahead of you I was?”
They laugh. He has quoted his hired hand, Lightning Berlew, who, when given an instruction, always says, “Well, I expect I’m just a little bit ahead of you,” and when he has carried it out, usually not very satisfactorily, “Now see how far ahead of you I was?”
Mat gets up and puts on his hat.
“Andy” he says, “take my truck and go help Burley and Jarrat unload what they’ve got on the wagons.” As he leaves, he tips his hat to Margaret.
He goes through the chicken yard gate and across the chicken yard and, by another gate, into the barn lot. The sun is bright now. The river valley is filled with a white billow of fog that trails out into the draws of the upland, growing transparent at its edges.
Lightning is coming up through the pasture from his house, taking his time, and Mat stands to wait for him. Lightning walks, as usual, with his hat brim pulled so low over his eyes that he has to tilt his head far back in order to see; this gives him the vaguely wandering look of a sleepwalker.
