Tom, the old handyman
By Bill Shepard
I think of the old man often but the memory seems stronger every year about this time. It has been more than four-score years since I actually saw the old man but in my mind’s eye I see him clearly.
It is doubtful that there is another person living that has memories of the old man as I do. If so, let he or she sound off; I would like to hear from you! The old man has lived in my memory since I was a small boy and that was a long time ago!
Bill Shepard
Tom was the village handyman and every year about this time he could be seen moving about the village, he and his old mule. They were busy ploughing the small garden spots for the village folk. My dad was one of those who hired the old man to plough his garden spot and make it ready for planting.
I was as anxious as dad to have Tom come, for he would allow me to get hold of the plough stock and guide the old mule around as the plough point turned the good earth over. My bare feet would sink into the soft earth; it felt so good!
Old Tom belonged to the Lambert farm that was separated from the village by a small stream of water (ditch). That stream ran the full length of the village and rendezvoused with Swift Creek deep inside the cypress swamp it had created.
The Lambert farm was a small parcel of ground, ten acres or less. How it has escaped being part of the old village no one knew, but there it was, and there it remains until this day. It has changed ownership many times since the times when old Tom lived there and ploughed the fields.
Mrs. Lambert had inherited the small farm and had moved there after her husband died, leaving her with a large family. The youngest boy of the family was my friend, Paul. Before moving to the farm, the family had lived on the village near where I lived, thus our friendship. We would remain friends until his death many years later.
Tom actually lived on the farm; his residence was inside one of the large barns. He slept inside the barn, ate his meals there, it was only home he had for as long as I knew him. I suppose he as happy, just he and his old mule. Where you saw one, you saw the other! When Tom was not working on the farm he could be seen somewhere about the village ploughing or hauling wood from the sawmill for the villagers to burn in their wood burning stoves.
It was a long way from the village (over the creek) to the sawmill. Tom charged fifth cents for the hauling and it would take nearly a full day to make the trip. Tom always walked beside the old mule; I never saw him riding on the wagon, it was loaded or empty. He could be seen holding the bridle on the mule’s head and walking by the old mule. They made a pair to watch! The old man would be humbling words as they moved along; maybe he was talking to the old mule, no one else could understand.
I often followed the old man to where he was going and helped him to unload the wood from the wagon. Whether he appreciated my help or not, he never said. After unloading the wood, the owner would pay him his fifty cents and the old man would be on his way. It would be my time then to bargain with the owner over the price for splitting the pine slabs into size for burning in their wood burning stoves. Usually, I would end up with a quarter as the price and a dime extra for stacking it to dry! It would take several afternoons after coming home from school to complete my job but I was glad to do it. Quarters were not easy to come by when I was a boy.
If Tom had a friend other than the old mule, I never knew one. I visited the Lambert farm perhaps more often than any other, and at time, if at the right time of the year, the old man would reach into his pocket and take out a handful of pecans and hand them to me. A large pecan tree grew beside the barn where he lived. I would thank the old man and he would mumble something I could not understand. I would ask about my friend Paul and be on my way. What was the end of the old man, I do not know. The Lambert children grew up and, one by one, they married and left the farm. Mrs. Lambert remarried and left the farm also. Paul, my best friend, joined the army shortly after the beginning of World War II. He married and became a father of three children. The old farm has been abandoned for many years. The narrow road leading from the village to the farm was all grown up over the last time I was there. The ditch separating the farm and the village still murmurs along and the memories I have of the place and the people are as alive as they have ever been. I see them all as I write, old Tom, the mule and the village and farm where it all happened.
See you in the garden next time!
Mr. Shepard is a native of Darlington, S.C., and a current resident of Piedmont, S.C. He is the author of “Mill Town Boy” and “Bruised”. He has been sharing his tales of growing up in Darlington for decades, and we are delighted to share them each week. His mailing address for cards and letters is: Bill Shepard 324 Sunny Lane, Piedmont, S.C., 29673.