A visit With Saul

The other day, I asked Daddy about this memory that I have. He shook his head and said, “I never understood why you’re always diggin’ up the past, son!”

Here’s what I know. As far back as I can remember, I had heard the adults in my family talk about my father’s second cousin, Saul. Saul had moved to the Cleveland area to work in a factory. His mother had begged him not to go up there. She said he belonged down here in Kentucky with his family, not up there with strangers. Saul moved anyway. He was doing well. He made plenty of money and would send a check home every month.

Saul’s story wouldn’t have a happy ending. He was weekend whisky drinker. He’d been drinking one Saturday night when he tried to beat a locomotive at a railroad crossing. The train had hit his Oldsmobile and Saul was killed instantly. It seemed like every time somebody in my family crossed a railroad track that Saul’s name was invoked. Whenever my little brother, James, and I were anywhere near a railroad track, one of my parents would say, “Remember Saul”

I don’t remember all that much about the incident that I questioned my father about recently. I know that it was the summer between first and second grade. I remember we driving out in the country in the red Nova that Daddy drove back then. We were on a gravel road.

“Lookit over there,” Daddy had said from the driver’s seat, “They’re diggin’ up that graveyard. Probably ‘cause it floods all the time. Thye’re gonna move them people to another graveyard, I’ll bet.”

James and I looked and saw that there were men and excavation equipment hard at work.

“Some of our kinfolks are buried over there,” Daddy informed us.

I remember driving a bit farther and Dad pulling off on the side of the road. There was a creek and a swinging bridge that went across.

“C’mon, boys!” Daddy said.

He clambered out of the car and jogged across the swinging bridge. James skipped behind him. Swinging bridges have always scared me and I walked slowly, like I was making my way across a frozen lake.

We finally got to the other side where there was a two story house. At one point, it had probably been a nice place, but by this point, it was run down. It could have used a paint job and a new roof, We followed our father onto the porch where he knocked on the door.

“Hey, Hazel!” Daddy hollered, in that way that men from Eastern Kentucky have of announcing their presence. “You home?”

After a few seconds, the front door opened. It was answered by a tiny, frail woman who looked at least a hundred years old. Her face lit up when she saw my father.

“Why, Willie Bush! How in the world are you? I ain’t seen you in a coon’s age, boy! Is these your young’uns?”

“Yes ma’am-Warren and James. It shore is good to see you!”

“Same here! You probably seen that they are movin’ some of the family to a new restin’ place. That old graveyard served it’s purpose for many years, but it’s so bad to flood, you know. They’re movin’ them all to the church cemetery over on Scalded Dog.”

Scalded Dog is the name of a hollow there in Caudill County. We have some weird names for places here.

“Why don’t you three come in?” she asked, opening the screen door and stepping aside. “Saul is in here and I know he’d love to see you once again.”

We walked in. It was a hot day and the house wasn’t air conditioned, but somehow, I felt a chill. The only Saul I knew about was my father’s cousin, a dead man!

We stepped into the living room of the house. There, in the corner, a hospital bed was set up. In the bed, laid a large man, not fat, but what I’ve always called “husky”. The type of man you would see playing middle linebacker in football. He was several years older than Daddy, but not nearly as old as the lady who had answered the door. His white hair was in a crew cut. When he spotted my father, he smiled and held out his big, work calloused hand.

“Willie boy!” he greeted Daddy.

“Howdy, Saul!” Daddy said and shook Saul’s hand.

I stood back and held onto James’s arm. If we were seeing a ghost, I wanted to protect my baby brother!

“How ya been, Willie boy?” Saul asked. His voice was that of an Appalachian trying to hide his accent. Like somebody would do if he moved North and wanted to fit in.

“Gittin’ by, brother,” Daddy replied.

“Them your kids?” Saul asked.

“Yep, Warren is the oldest and James is the little’n.”

Just seeing Saul looking my direction gave me another chill.

“Fine lookin’ boys, Willie!” Saul said. After that, he had a coughing fit. Daddy looked really worried as he slapped Saul on the back. After a few seconds, the coughing stopped.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Saul said. “Ain’t been worth a dime since…well, you know.”

Daddy patted Saul on the back.

“It’s okay. Dang, it’s good to see you again, Saul! I miss goin’ fishin’ with you!”

“I ain’t caught a catfish in probably ten years. You still get to go much since you’re a married man?”

“Not as much as I want to,” Daddy admitted. “Hunt more than fish. I took the boys coon huntin’ last year.”

“Got dogs?”

“Yessir, a bluetick and a redbone. Two of the best!”

“Good for you, Willie boy!”

He was gasping now. I had a friend at school who had asthma and it sounded like Saul did, too. It seemed like having a conversation was wearing Saul down.

The old lady seemed to sense that, too. She walked in and laid a gentle hand on Daddy’s arm.

“Willie, I hate to do this, but it might be a good time to leave. He wears out so easy these days!”

Daddy looked like he could burst into tears, but he nodded. He put his hand on Sauls’ forehead.

“I can’t tell you how good it is to see you again, old hoss.” Daddy said softly, his voice on the verge of breaking.

“Same here, Willie boy. God only knows when I’ll see you again!” Then, he had another coughing fit.

The old lady came, took Daddy’s arm, and led us back out to the front porch.

“I do thank you for stoppin’ by, Willie. You always meant the world to him, you know.

With tears streaming down his face, Daddy said, “Same here.”

And we crossed the bridge, got back into the Nova, and drove home.

I wanted to ask if we had just encountered a ghost. But, somehow, I just couldn’t work up the nerve to do that.

“Who was those people?” was what I asked instead.

“Look, them was some people that I hardly ever get to see,” Daddy told me. Then he added, ”And your Mommy don’t need to know about that, okay?”

“Yessir,” James and I replied meekly.

Years later, I remembered the incident and I did ask Mommy. She looked confused and shook her head. I think I was a teenager when I asked.

Finding an old photo of Dad, James, and me last week triggered the memory again. I was over at the folks’ house for dinner last week and asked Daddy about it. He doesn’t want to talk about it. I don’t know who or what we encountered that day.

I reckon I never will.