The Caretaker's Gift, Chapter 1

By Mark Maloney © 2017

Seph

It was September 1962 in Marietta, Georgia. School had been in session for two weeks. A young boy of twelve stood on the sidewalk in front of a white frame and brick split-level house built on a hill. The house had a big yard, well placed shrubs, and a carefully planted assortment of fruit and decorative trees. There were crab apple, persimmon, black cherry, mimosa, dogwood, and red oak trees on the lot. A towering and beautiful magnolia tree dominated the driveway entrance.  The address was 402 Magnolia Hill.

The boy was wearing new navy blue chinos, a short-sleeve white shirt, and black leather shoes. On his right wrist a Timex told the time, six o'clock PM. The waning afternoon sun still clung to its midday heat.  There was not yet a hint of the dry coolness that would soon end the humid remains of the long Georgia summer. 

The heavy air was thick with the smells of the land and the layers of the air were held together as in a natural humidor. Beneath humid air lay the dark richness of the dirt still so much a part of the south back then. This was the base aroma of the old South even is small towns like Marietta. There was still a rural feel and look. The hardware stores sold everything from feed and barbed wire to guns, ammunition, chicks and rabbits.  Even the folks in Atlanta, a mercantile town weaned on commerce and eighteen long miles away, still savored the earth smells as a treasured memory, a talisman from a different time.

The chinos were new and bought for school. They were still stiff and hot. But the boy was used to the heat. Air conditioning in 1962 was rare and expensive, mostly reserved for movie theaters and department stores. Open windows, hand-held fans, and ice water were the standard remedies for summer heat. The black leather shoes were hot but they were bought a little big so they were not too bad. He usually got a new pair at the beginning of the school year and they would last through one or two visits to the shoe repair shop.

So there he stood. He had a look of self-importance, of expectancy. Clutched in his left hand was a manila cardboard folder. The folder was boldly labeled, "Journal-Constitution Fall Canvassing Contest - 1962". Taped to the outside of the folder was a four-week calendar ending on October 12th -- the day the Georgia State Fair opened. The boy who signed up the most new subscribers would win two free admission tickets and five dollars in quarters to spend at the Georgia State Fair at the Lakewood Fairgrounds in Atlanta. Five dollars!! That much money at a fair went a long way in 1962. It would be enough to ride every ride at least twice, see the side shows, eat whatever you wanted, and throw a pocketful of pennies at a the many games of chance that lined the midway. 

On his shirt pocket was pinned an ID tag the paper gave him. It said his name was Michael McDermott. Printed below his name in big, official letters was, "Atlanta Journal-Constitution". It was the first name badge he ever had and he was proud of it. He liked the way it looked in the mirror at home.

Manila folder in his hand, ID badge pinned to his breast pocket and white shirt tucked neatly into his new chinos , he was ready to go. All he had to do was knock on some doors and ask people to sign up for a trial subscription. If he got more signatures than anyone else, he would win. And he wanted to win. He wanted to win very much. He'd dreamed of going to the state fair since he first saw the colorful flyers and posters nailed to telephone poles around the small town every fall. The fair represented the world he was desperate to see when he grew up.  It would be his first true adventure.

The flyer announcing the canvassing drive for subscriptions came in the Sunday newspaper. It looked easy enough. In his eager imagination, he saw himself knocking on door after door with signatures flying to the list one after another. What could be easier? "I can win this!" he thought. 

The next day was Monday and after school he eagerly called the phone number, rode his bike to the local circulation office. It was next to the Greyhound bus station and just one block from the town square. The office was pretty bare except for a folding table, a couple of chairs, a telephone, a couple of piles of newspapers. The man in charge was named Mr. Moses. He was beanpole thin and wore newsprint-stained khaki trousers and a work-shirt to match. The ashtrays were filled with stubbed out Lucky Strike cigarette butts. He handed the boy a manila folder and drawled, "Ask 'em if they wunt a trial 'scription fo' a month. If they sign up fo' three month, the fust week is free and you git ten cent, " said Mr. Moses in a gravely voice.  "The sign-up sheet's in theah. Yuh need theah name and address. Don't take no money from 'em. We'll handle that. Print yo' name on the ID tag and weah that. That makes you 'fficial.  Bring me the sign-up sheet by the 11th of Octobah.  Any questions? No? Then good huntin', boy." 

Ready to go and full of boyish confidence, Michael left his house on Wednesday after school and walked purposely for two blocks. Several times he thought about walking up to first this door, then that door, but he just kept walking. This was his second after- supper canvassing walk. Last night's score --- zero! He had just walked around the neighborhood. For some reason, he couldn't seem to get started on this. He would do better tonight, he promised himself. He knew he could win this contest. It seemed so easy in his mind. He just needed to get the hang of this. 

Anxiously he thought about the grand prize for the #1 canvasser. There was a dirt track stock car race, stunt motorcycles, livestock, games of skill and chance, sideshows, and thrilling rides that seemed to rocket up into the night sky. The five-dollar prize was a fortune. It only cost a quarter to go to the movie in 1962. The matinee was only fifteen cents.

Daydreaming is ok, thought Michael but I want to win this contest. So I need to get going on this! He knew the early bird caught the worm and the early bird left yesterday!

Without thinking Michael walked up Magnolia Hill Street almost to the water tower at the top. When he got to the base of the tower, he thought, I don't think anyone lives at the water tower! Why did I walk all the way up here?  This adventure wasn't as easy as he had imagined.

Guess I'd better knock on some doors.... but he just could not quite do it. 

He kept on walking. He felt strange. He didn't know how to get started. What's wrong with me, he asked himself. This can't be that hard! Am I afraid?  Of what, he thought. Without actually saying it, he knew what it was. He was afraid of doing something wrong, of somebody slamming a door in his face, of everything about it. He was just a kid. 

Behind the water tower was a row of tall and weathered cedar trees. They served as stately sentries between the water tower and the rectory for St. Joseph's Catholic Church.  Both the rectory and the trees had been doing their duty since before the war. And around here, the “war” meant the civil war or preferably, the “war between the states”. The house and trees were antebellum, he said to himself. It meant "before the war". Anything antebellum was almost sacred where he lived. 

Maybe the pastor needs a trial subscription, Michael thought. I'll knock on their door and see what happens. I don’t see any cars though. Probably nobody home, but here goes.

The rectory was built on a prominent hilltop that commanded a view of Kennesaw Mountain to the north and city of Marietta to the south. The building had served as one of the field headquarters of the confederate army that Sherman pushed back to Atlanta.  The confederate officer who owned it lost his life during the Battle of Noses Creek at the base of Kennesaw Mountain. His bereaved and childless widow gave the house and lands to the Diocese of Atlanta with the wish they preserve the house, the view of the mountain, and build a church and a school. The young widow returned to her parent’s home in Charleston, South Carolina after the war but her legacy was preserved and the church and school survived.

The house was imposing and dominated the grounds around it. It had highly peaked roof lines, slate shingles, two high-ceilings stories, graceful balconies, and a magnificent row of Doric columns supporting a graceful overhang that protected the flag stoned porch and large front entrance. The windows were tall and elegant and in the rear of the home was a formal garden from the previous century, a different world. Everything was well kept and the boy could hear a lawn mower around the side as he walked to the front doors. The doors were large, oaken planks with heavy iron clappers and an old fashioned ringer.

He turned the ringer timidly. No one came. A few tentative knocks on the door produced no better results. 

Oh well, I'll try somewhere else, he thought.

"Nobody's home," said a man's voice from the side of the house.

Startled, the young boy turned to see an elderly man in work clothes. He must have been cutting the grass, thought Michael.

The old man wore faded overalls and a tan work shirt stained with sweat. Instead of a hat, his head was covered by a red bandana knotted together in the back. He took it off and wiped his hands and brow. The red was the only spot of color on the man except for his eyes. They were a green color and bright as pine needles.  His hair had turned white and contrasted with the dark and furrowed landscape of his face and neck.  He wore it longer than the fashion of the day but tucked neatly behind his ears. With all that, he had a peaceful smile and joy in his eyes.

In a gentle tone, the man spoke to the boy. 

“Sorry, no one's here but me. Even the housekeeper's gone for the day. They'll be back later though. I think the pastor and his assistant went to visit the sick at the hospital."

Michael looked at him and gripped his folder a little harder. The cardboard was beginning to acquire a damp, boy-sized palm print.

"Are you thirsty, son? I was just stepping over to the faucet for a drink of water."

"Yes, sir. Thanks."

"Well, come on then. What's your name?" he asked in a friendly voice.

"Michael, sir, Michael McDermott. I live on Magnolia Hill street," said the boy.

The old man smiled and said, "Nice to meet you, Michael. My name is Seph. I'm the caretaker around here. I'm also the handyman, carpenter, and general fix-it fellow."

The water from the faucet ran cool after a minute and both drank from their hands.

"So, young Michael McDermott, what brings you to the rectory doors? Do you need to see someone?"

The old man and Michael walked over to the shade of an ancient cedar tree. The sharp, clean smell of cedar occupied the air close to it and was as refreshing to the nose as the cool water is to the lips. Under the tree rested a bench.

"Mr. Seph, I…"

"Just Seph is fine, son. Sometimes I go by Brother Seph, but call me Seph. Let's sit under this old tree. I could use some time in the shade after working all afternoon in this heat. Tell me what you are doing with that name badge and folder."

Michael and Seph sat down on the weathered stone bench under the old cedar. Michael put the folder on his lap. 

"I'm canvassing for new subscribers for the Journal-Constitution, sir. The paper pays me ten cents each if they sign up for three months. But the best part is a grand prize to go the Georgia State Fair in Atlanta and five dollars in spending money. Five dollars in quarters is a sack of money."

Seph looked down at the young boy, smiled, and said, "How's it goin' so far?"

Michael started to reply but something caught in his throat. He swallowed and said, "It's not as easy as I thought it would be."

"Few things are, son," said Seph. "Tell me about it."

Michael nodded. The old man seemed very kind and Michael wanted to talk to someone about this seemingly easy job that had turned out so hard.

"I am supposed to ask people to try a trial subscription for the paper. All I have to do is knock on their door and ask them. I can't seem to get started. I think I'm afraid no one will sign up. Yesterday, I didn't knock on one door! When I got home and my Mom asked me how it went, I lied. I said it went great. This was the first door I that really knocked on. That was mainly because I thought no one was home. I can't give up but I can't get started."

Michael' brow knotted up as he talked. His frustration showed. He was mad at himself. He felt better just telling his problem to the old caretaker. Somehow telling a stranger was easier than talking to his folks.

They sat together in silence for a few moments. The shadows were deepening as the late summer day knelt before the coming evening.

"Michael, I am going to put away my tools now. Can you come back tomorrow? The pastor and the others might be home then."

Michael answered quickly. "Sure Seph, I will. Do you think the pastor might subscribe?"

Seph laughed as he stood up. He put the red bandana back on his head. 

"I don't know, Michael. But I know you did knock on his door. You'll be OK. You can win that prize. It's not how you start something. It's how you finish. As a carpenter, I've built of lot of things that started out rough. You'll see what I mean."

Seph continued, "Come back tomorrow after school. I can help you get going on this. It's just like any job of work and work is what I know. If you work hard enough, you’ll get what you deserve, maybe the grand prize. We’ll see."

Michael thanked Seph, shook his callused hand, and began to walk home.

On the way, Michael began to think this might turn out OK. Maybe he hadn't signed up a new subscriber, but he had knocked on his first door. It was a start.

That night Michael included Seph in his prayers of thanks and went right to sleep.