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Authors: Mark de Castrique
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leg, although I have been able to walk the length of the backyard chute without touching the handrails.
Father dropped Mother and me as close to the center of the square as possible and then went to park the car behind Mr. Wolfe’s monuments. Mr. Wolfe and my father often work together serving burial needs for families. My father says Mr. Wolfe will probably have to give up the business since none of his children are following in his footsteps. His youngest son Tom is eighteen and studying at the University of North Carolina. Before he went away to school, Tom and I used to talk when I’d come with my father to look at monuments. Tom wants to write plays. Mr. Wolfe shakes his head and says there’s more money to be made in writing epitaphs on tombstones. But writing stories seems to me to be a wonderful thing as even my journal gives me pleasure in putting words on paper.
Because we arrived at the square early, we claimed seats at the base of the monument to Governor Vance. It’s a smaller version of the one in Washington D.C. for President Washington.
Pack Square filled rapidly. The mood was jubilant, given the treaty signed in Paris only days ago. A banner proclaiming “Welcome Home” had been hoisted over the entrance to the courthouse. Although none of the soldiers in Europe at the signing of the treaty could have returned this quickly, anticipation of victorious homecomings was on everyone’s mind.
In the square, veterans strolled in the uniforms of their wars. I saw cars with the windshield sign “Men in Service Welcome to Ride” unloading passengers at the edge of the square. I suspected some of the soldiers were from the Kenilworth Inn—a fancy hotel above Biltmore Village that was taken over by the military and renamed “General Hospital 12.” Men walked through the crowd in uniforms from the Spanish-American War and there was a scattering of blue and gray from the War Between The States, or as Mr. Galloway calls it The War of Northern Aggression. These elderly men may have fought on different sides of the Mason-Dixon Line, but they saluted each other in a union of pride that their grandchildren had won The Great War.
Father found us before the band began to play and the dignitaries further warmed the summer air with their long-winded speeches. No matter. I enjoyed every minute.
We returned home late in the afternoon and discovered Elijah and his mule waiting at our backdoor. He removed his leather hat from his head and nodded to Mother and me. “Afternoon, Mrs. Youngblood. Henderson.” He turned to my father. “May I trouble you for a word?”
Father gave a quick look to my mother and something unspoken flowed between them.
“Mr. Elijah, would you like to come inside?” Mother asked. “We have some sassafras in the ice box that’s nice and cool.”
“No, ma’am. I’d best keep an eye on Junebug.” Elijah cupped his hand over the muzzle of his mule. “But don’t you stand out here in the sun on my account.”
We were in the shade, but Mother understood Elijah had man talk on his mind. I wanted to hear what Elijah had to say so I fixed my eyes on him so hard that I saw nothing else.
My father said, “Henderson,” in that way that meant I was to follow Mother into the house.
“The boy won’t bother me none and what I got to ask won’t pose no mind to one who’s endured the likes he has.”
Father said nothing, and I raised myself as high on my crutches as I could to be part of the man talk.
Elijah put his hat back on his head. “I need some burying help.”
Now I did pull my eyes off Elijah because I had to see Father. Asheville had Griffins, a Negro funeral home just like they had Negro churches so that everybody kept to their own kind. I’d never seen a burying done any other way.
Father pursed his lips at the very idea. “What kind of help?”
“My uncle Hannable passed over in Cincinnati. He’d gone there from East St. Louis.” Elijah added that comment as if it
Father dropped Mother and me as close to the center of the square as possible and then went to park the car behind Mr. Wolfe’s monuments. Mr. Wolfe and my father often work together serving burial needs for families. My father says Mr. Wolfe will probably have to give up the business since none of his children are following in his footsteps. His youngest son Tom is eighteen and studying at the University of North Carolina. Before he went away to school, Tom and I used to talk when I’d come with my father to look at monuments. Tom wants to write plays. Mr. Wolfe shakes his head and says there’s more money to be made in writing epitaphs on tombstones. But writing stories seems to me to be a wonderful thing as even my journal gives me pleasure in putting words on paper.
Because we arrived at the square early, we claimed seats at the base of the monument to Governor Vance. It’s a smaller version of the one in Washington D.C. for President Washington.
Pack Square filled rapidly. The mood was jubilant, given the treaty signed in Paris only days ago. A banner proclaiming “Welcome Home” had been hoisted over the entrance to the courthouse. Although none of the soldiers in Europe at the signing of the treaty could have returned this quickly, anticipation of victorious homecomings was on everyone’s mind.
In the square, veterans strolled in the uniforms of their wars. I saw cars with the windshield sign “Men in Service Welcome to Ride” unloading passengers at the edge of the square. I suspected some of the soldiers were from the Kenilworth Inn—a fancy hotel above Biltmore Village that was taken over by the military and renamed “General Hospital 12.” Men walked through the crowd in uniforms from the Spanish-American War and there was a scattering of blue and gray from the War Between The States, or as Mr. Galloway calls it The War of Northern Aggression. These elderly men may have fought on different sides of the Mason-Dixon Line, but they saluted each other in a union of pride that their grandchildren had won The Great War.
Father found us before the band began to play and the dignitaries further warmed the summer air with their long-winded speeches. No matter. I enjoyed every minute.
We returned home late in the afternoon and discovered Elijah and his mule waiting at our backdoor. He removed his leather hat from his head and nodded to Mother and me. “Afternoon, Mrs. Youngblood. Henderson.” He turned to my father. “May I trouble you for a word?”
Father gave a quick look to my mother and something unspoken flowed between them.
“Mr. Elijah, would you like to come inside?” Mother asked. “We have some sassafras in the ice box that’s nice and cool.”
“No, ma’am. I’d best keep an eye on Junebug.” Elijah cupped his hand over the muzzle of his mule. “But don’t you stand out here in the sun on my account.”
We were in the shade, but Mother understood Elijah had man talk on his mind. I wanted to hear what Elijah had to say so I fixed my eyes on him so hard that I saw nothing else.
My father said, “Henderson,” in that way that meant I was to follow Mother into the house.
“The boy won’t bother me none and what I got to ask won’t pose no mind to one who’s endured the likes he has.”
Father said nothing, and I raised myself as high on my crutches as I could to be part of the man talk.
Elijah put his hat back on his head. “I need some burying help.”
Now I did pull my eyes off Elijah because I had to see Father. Asheville had Griffins, a Negro funeral home just like they had Negro churches so that everybody kept to their own kind. I’d never seen a burying done any other way.
Father pursed his lips at the very idea. “What kind of help?”
“My uncle Hannable passed over in Cincinnati. He’d gone there from East St. Louis.” Elijah added that comment as if it
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