Bre’r Washington’s Consolation
Saturday night my wife died,
Sunday she was buried,
Monday was my kotin’ day
And Chewsday I got married.
Whenever I heard the old man singing I knew he was in a reminiscent mood and so I put down my book and went out to the barn, where he was building a pen to put the fattening Berkshires in. For a month these slick rascals had been running in the ten-acre lot planted in corn and, at the “lay-by plowing,” sown in peas, all for their especial benefit. The corn had nearly ripened and the peas were in the pod; and now, day after day they had wallowed in the water of the ten-acre field branch or torn down the tempting corn stalks or eaten the juicy peas till their tails had taken on the two-ring curl of contentment and they had grown too fat to run in so large a lot.
“An’ now dey must be put in de parlor,” said the old man as he proceeded to build their pen, “an’ fed on poun’ cake an’ punkins. Fust er good dry pen, bilt on er solid blue lime-rock, ef you so forechewnate es to lib in Middle Tennessee, an’ ef you don’t lib heah,” he half soliloquized, “jes’ bild it in sum mud hole an’ be dun wid it, fur you ain’t gwi’ fatten your horgs no-how ef youn don’t lib in Tennessee,” he said, with a sly wink. “Den, arter you gits the pen bilt bring up a load ob yaller punkins to sharpen up dey appletights an’ start ’em off right; den plenty ob dis year’s cohn wid er sour-meal mash ebry now and den to keep ’em eatin’ good, an’ den, chile, ’long erbout Krismas time jes’ sot your mouf fur spairribs an’ sawsages—e—yum, yum, yum”—and he wiped the corner of his mouth suspiciously.
“Ole Naper cum to my house
I thout he cum to see me,
But when I cum to find him out,
He’s ’swade my wife to leave me.”
he sang again. “I’ll tell you, suh,” he laughed, “I can’t see what fatnin’ horgs hes got to do with marryin’, but dat’s what de aixpectashuns ob dis horg-pen remin’s me ob ennyway—’bout de time I was kotin’ Unk Peter’s widder, way back in fifty-fo’,” he added reflectively, “an’ de hard time I had gettin’ enny konsolashun from dat ar ’oman. I tell you, suh, it ain’t easy to git enny konsolashun from er widder—not nigh es easy es it am frum er gal. Huh!” he ejaculated, derisively. “Folks say it am an’ dat all widders jes’ watchin’ out fur er chance to git marrid ergin, but you jes’ try onct to git er widder to say ‘yas’—she’ll jes’ play erroun’ an’ play erroun’ de hook, and fus’ thing you know she’s off, an’ dar you looks an lo!—dun swallered de bait yo’se’f,” he said.
“Befo’ my wife died,” said the old man, as he ran his thumb down his hatchet-blade, “I uster think I’d nuvver wanter git marrid enny mo’, an’ I had de mos’ dispizerble contemplashuns fur dese ole fools dat go rippin’ erroun’, dyein’ dey ha’r an’ writin’ poltry to de moon befo’ dey fus’ wife’s feet git cold good! Hit’s all right fur er young man to do dat—he jes’ nacherly jucy an’ he can’t help hisself. But dese ole fools whut de hot sun ob matremony dun dried up, an’ de trials of chillun-raisin’ dun tuck de foolishnes’ outen ’em an’ monkey-shines ob mudder-in-law dun kill ’em in de home-stretch—I tell you, suh, when I see such men as dese, dat has passed fur forty-odd years as sober, senserbul men in de kommunity whar dey libs, all at onct begin to git gay an’ boyish ergin, er snortin’ in evally an’ er clothin’ dey neck wid thunder, an’ er hollerin’ kerhonk, kerhonk, kerhonk to de captins, an’ de shoutin’, an’ er gwine ’round wantin’ to fight de man-in-de-moon ’kase he happen to peep into dey lady-lub’s winder, it jes’ makes me wanter go ’round de barn an’ hug sum ole gray mule fur konsolashun!
“Wheneber er ole man’s lub begins to take on er secon’ growth, it am den dat de anguls in heaben prepares to shed dey tears. Why, suh, I’ve seed ole fellers hab rumertisn an’ hart-failure so bad dey cudn’t creep to dey fus’ wife’s fun’ral, but de naixt time I’d see ’em, Gord bless you soul, honey, dey be runnin’ erroun’ at sum pickernick, fetchin’ water frum de spring ebery five minutes fur sum sixteen-year-ole gal, cuttin’ watermillions fur her, an’ tryin’ to meander off in de shady woods and pull up all de hart’s-ease dat grows in er ten-acre woods lot! De rumertizn all gohn, ter-be-sho’, and de hart-failure dun turned into head failure, bless de Lawd.
“Dat’s whut I thout, suh,” he continued, “but bless yo’ soul, honey, my wife hadn’t bin dead er week befo’ I got up one mornin’ an’ all onbeknownst to myself I foun’ myself blackin’ my shoes! Cudn’t hep it to sabe my life, suh—jes’ had to do it. De naixt day, suh, ’tirely unbeknownst to de state ob my naturality, I kotch myself in de act ob puttin’ h’ar-oil on my hair, cinnermun-draps on my handkerchief, an’ pullin’ off de eel-skin gyarters I dun bin wearin’ forty years fur de rumertizn. No mo’ rumertiz fur me; er man nurver hes rumertizn arter his wife dies—least-wise,” he whispered, knowingly, “not twell he marries erggin an’ den he hes it so bad he can’t cut stove-wood fur her,” he laughed.
“In er week diszeese tuck me so komplementry, boss, I ’gun ter roach up de ole muel, fix up de buggy, an’ whitewash de cabin. Dese am allers de fus’ simptums, suh. I’ve knowed sum ole fellers to make dey house go widout paint fur forty years, but jes’ es soon es dey wife dies, jes’ watch ’em an’ see ef de fus’ thing dey don’t do am to paint up dat ole house lak dey tryin’ to ketch er angul—huh! better had er painted it er leetle fur de fus’ po angul arter dey fooled her into it!
“But de simptums come on me, suh, thick an’ fast, an’ fore goodness, suh, by Sunday I had it so bad it broke out in spots all ober me, wid gradual risin’ ob de temperchewin’ dryness in de region ob de salvashun glands, an’ complete p’ralersis ob de pizzerrinctum ob de sense-bumps! Gord, boss, I was mighty nigh insenserbul!
“It all seemed lak er dream to me, an’ I can’t tell ’zactly whut I did do. I seemed ter be walkin’ in er gyarden whar golden roses bloomed on peppermint candy vines, an’ coon-dorgs wid diamon’ eyes wuz treein’ solid silver ’possums up in de ’simmon trees!
“I tell you, boss, I wanted to marry! An’ de fus’ thing I knowed, me an’ dat ole muel was gwine in a peert trot up de road t’words de cabin ob Sister Calline Jones, Unk Peter Jones’ widder. I felt sorter mean, an’ I disremember sayin’ to myself: ‘Heah, you go, Wash, arter all yore good revolushuns, de biggest fool in de ban’ waggin.’ As I rid off, I seed dat old mischeevus Mistis ob mine, Miss Charlotte, God bless her!—an’ she called out to me kinder mad-lak, an’ sed: ‘Unkle Wash, I think it’s a shame you ain’t put on moanin’ for Aunt Peggy.’ The way you are dressed, ennybody’d think you are gwine to er ball!’
“‘Lor’ bless your sweet soul, Miss Charlotte,’ sez I, ‘don’t hab ter put on moanin’ lak de white folks; it am already dar, an’ mo’ dan skin deep, too,’ I sez. ‘I bin moanin’ for Peggy eber sense I marrid ’er,’ I sed, ‘an’ now is my time for rejicement, Miss Charlotte, an’ I gwineter rejice. Sides dat,’ I sed, ‘whilst I’m moanin’, all my things gwine to rack, an’ de chillun’s got nobody to take keer ob ’em an’ sumpin’ nuther sho’ gwinter happen, Miss Charlotte.’
“Miss Charlotte bleege to laf, an’ old Marster he spoke up an’ say, ‘Let ’im erlone, Charlotte. Can’t you see de ole fool has got it? Go on, you ole idjut,’ he sed to me, ‘an’ marry sumbody an’ git back heah termorrer wid enuf sense in yo’ haid to run er straight furrer fer de fall plowin’.’ An’ wid dat I lit out.
“Now, Unk Pete an’ me, suh,” he explained, “belong to de same church—de Candle Light—an’ to de same lodge—de Ainshunt an’ Honorbul Order ob de Bow-legged Sons of de Black Cat—an’ ’course I ain’ gwi’ marry his widder now an’ spile sum moral observashun, so I jes’ stopped at his cabin to git his consent fur me to marry his widder.
“Get his consent?” I asked. “Why how could you get his consent if he was dead?”
“Who sed he was dead?” said the old darky, quickly. “I nurver sed so; I sed she was his widder!”
I tried to explain to him that a man couldn’t have a widow unless he were dead, but this only made him throw back his head and laugh heartily.
“Wal, wal, wal, white folks got such curious ways of thinkin’. Who’d urver thout it? You see,” he said very solemnly and impressively, “It was dis way: Unk Peter wus gittin’ ole, an’ went off contrawise to de doctrine an’ marrid dis young ’oman. Furst thing he know, he waked up sum mohnin’ an’ find hisself de father ob ten chilouns, sum ob ’em hisn an’ sum ob ’em hern, by her fus’ husban’, an’ dar he wus gittin’ so ole he cudn’t s’port ’em. So up he jumps an’ at de naixt meetin’ ob de church he runs fer de offis ob Patriark ob Santerfercashun, which, ’kordin’ to de doctrine ob Hollerness, marrid ’im to de church. ’Course arter Unk Pete gits santerfercashun an’ marrid to de church, he cudn’t hab enny uder wife, so he hafter put Sis Calline an’ de chilluns aside, which made all ob dem de widders ob de church. Don’t you ketch on to de doctrine, suh?”
I told him I had caught.
The old man was silent as if in deep thought. Then he said: “I wus young den, an’ bleeved eberything erbout de church an’ de doctrine I eber heurd, smelt or dreamed, but I am older now, an’ I’ve cum to de pinted konklushun dat when er man or er woman gets santerfercashun; one or two things done happen to ’em: Either de flahs ob youth dun played out in de bilers ob dar natral swashun—de ole Adam in ’em jes’ peg out from ole aige—or else dey am layin’ low, Brer ’Possum, fur de slickes’ game dat eber wus played. I’ve kinder notis’d we all nacherly gits better es we gits older, ennyway, an’ when we gits so ole we can’t sin no mo’, we mighty nigh good-fur-nuffin’. An’ dars whar de patr’arks ob ole had it on to de res’ ob us,” said the old man knowingly. “Jes’ let de good Marster let me lib heah erbout seben hundred years longer, an’ jes’ watch me sot back an’ view unconserned de fleetin’ vanerties ob dis life.
“Brer Peter wus in deep prayer when I rid up to his cabin, an’ arter he ris up from his knees he blessed on de top ob my observashun, gib me de grip ob Ainshunt an’ Honorbul Order ob de Bow-legged Sons ob de Black Cat, an’ ’lowed he’d lak ter tak off my sandals an’ wash my feet; but I tole ’im I jes’ wash ’em ’bout er month befo’ an’ didn’t hab no time fur foolishness; dat I cum to dis cabin fur konsolashun an’ den I jus’ got offen dat muel an’ plowed a straight furrer ob facts down de row ob his head: ‘Brer Peter,’ sez I, ‘de doctrine ob our church teach us it am not good fur er man wid er dozen chilluns to lib erlone on one side ob er plantashun, an’ er nice, seekin’ lookin’ widder ’oman wid ten mo’ to lib erlone on de yudder side. In union dar am strength, in numbers dar am prosperity, an’ in Duteromety dar am happiness. Brer Peter, I wants ter marry Sister Calline,’ sez I. ‘She am yo’ widder an’ de widder ob de church, but you know yourself she ain’t had no sho’ ’tall—jes’ ha’f a marrid life an’ er house full ob chilluns—ten ob ’em, all needin’ sum lubbin’ father’s gidin’ arm, wid er hickory attachment, whilst my twelve or fifteen all need de spirtool ker ob er good muther ercompament. De cotton pickin’ seezen am ’most on us, an’ if I kin jine our forces I’ll hab er lead-pipe cinch on de cotton crap ob Tennessee to say nuthin’ ’bout de fo’teenth ’mendment to de skule law fixin’ de pro ratter ob all householders raisin’ twenty or mo’ widin de skule aige.
“I tell you, suh, Brer Peter tuck the thing mighty hard, mighty hard. He didn’t wanter do dat thing ’tall. But arter he dun prayed ober it, he cum out wid er new light in his eye, an’ he put his hand on my head an’ bless me an’ say, ‘Brer Washington, I’ve prayed ober it. It am de will ob de Lord. Lite on dat muel an’ seek your konsolashun. Go in an’ receive de sanshun ob her reten-shun an’ de kompliment ob her adorin’.’ And he kinder wink his off eye an’ sed, ‘Go in an’ win, fur you am de Samson ob lub fightin’ de Phillustines ob matrermony; but when you cum to git konsolashun from er widder’—an’ dar he wink hes eye ergin—‘use de same weepun dat Samson used an’ victory am yourn.’
“But when I got to de widder’s cabin an’ tole her—great Scott, suh! she tuck it terribul hard. She didn’t wan’ marry ’tall. Leastwise she made me b’leeve it. Hit’s jes’ es I tole you, suh; you hafter wrastle might swift fur konsolashun when you goes to marry a widder.
“‘Brer Washington,’ she sez, ‘dis am so suddent, so suddent! Don’t you think you’d be satisfied ef I’d continue in de sisterly relashuns ob de church wid you?’
“‘Sister Calline,’ sez I, sorter detarmined lak, ‘I’ve had ten ebry day sisters all my life en sum seben hundred Sunday ones. What I now wants am one wife!’
“Oh, I tell you, suh, you gotter shoot mighty klose fur konsolashun when you wants ter marry a widder!
“We kept it up for hours, she argyfyin’ an’ me argyfyin’, she prayin’ an’ me prayin’. I tell you, Boss, she wus er speedy filly, an’ she had no noshun ob quittin’. We went round de fus’ quarter ob de last mile nose and nose—argyment ergin argyment, prayer ergin prayer. I thout sho’ she had me distanced onct when she fotch out de scriptures on me an’ turned to de twenty-second chapter ob Exerdust an’ sed: ‘Brer Washington, read fur yo’self: “Thou shalt not afflict any widder or fatherless chile.”’ But I turned over to Timerthy, de fifth chapter an’ de third verse, an’ sez I, ‘Sister Calline, whut you read am Ole Testament. It am anshunt histery. Heah am de New Testament, heah am de new doctrine: “Honor widders dat am widders, indeed.”’ Oh, I tell you, Boss,” laughed the old man, “I sho’ hung onto de sulky wheels ob her contenshun wid de wings ob my orthorteries—you gotter hab sum speed lef’ fur de home stretch ef you wants ter beat er widder home!
“An’ so we went, ’round an’ ’round, wheel ergin wheel, an both drivin’ fur life, she quotin’ scriptures and argyfyin’ an’ me comin’ back wid Numbers an’ Duterrumetics—an’ sumtimes things dat wus Reverlashuns to her! At de half I got her tired, at de three-quarters she quit an’ jes’ befo’ she got to de wire she gib up wid er tired, tangled break, an’ sed:
“Brer Washington, it am de Lord’s will.”
“Oh, I tell you, suh, you got er use a mighty keen switch ob beseechment in de race ef you wanter lead er widder down de home stretch!
“But goodness grashus!” he said, as if suddenly remembering something. “I’d better be buildin’ dis pen or we won’t hab enny sawseges fur Kristmus,” and he began to saw energetically.
“Hold on,” I said, “You never told me whether you married the widow or not.”
He looked at me in undisguised astonishment—“Law, law, law,” he said, “white folks got such curis ideas. In course I did—marrid her dat night an’ tuck ’er home de naixt day; ain’t I bin tellin’ you whut er hard time I had gettin’ konsolashun frum dat ar ’oman?”
He sawed vigorously away for awhile, but I could see he wished to tell something else. Finally I said:
“Well, go on, I’m waiting.”
He turned around quickly, laid down his saw, laughed, and said: “How de wurl did you know dar was ennything else? Bless my life, suh, but de very look ob er white man am er search warrant to de nigger’s soul. Ef you bleegter hab it, heah it am,” he said, as he looked slyly around: “I hadn’t been married to dat ’oman but two years befo’ I had to run fur er offis, too.
“What office?” I asked.
He grinned sheepishly.
“Patriark ob de Santerfercashun,” he said, “I beat Unk Peter fur dat offis, an’ got eben wid ’im at his own game.
“Lemme tell you, chile,” he added, impressively, “two years ob konsolashun frum er widder will make a dead man or a Patriark outen ’most ennybody,” and he resumed his sawing with a vigor.