Aunt Nan: Fortune Teller


Aunt Nan

The Naming of Aunt Nan

In 1993, collecting materials for a family history I intended to write, I found myself in the South Boston Library of Halifax County, Virginia. When I eventually wrote the book, it had three sections dealing with Halifax County, the first an unripe narrative of the events of the journey by airplane and rental car, the second a story about meeting a gracious and kindly librarian in South Boston named Julia Carrington, and the third a tale about looking for the family of Aunt Nan Pounds that Mrs. Carrington told me about. She remembered Aunt Nan well, she said, because Aunt Nan had told her fortune when she was young. “Aunt Nan was very old, quiet and neat,“ Mrs. Carrington said, “and she had the most beautiful blue eyes. Now you’re going to hate me for saying this but she was colored. Though they were really light. Some of her family went north and passed."

Aunt Nan had lived about ten miles west of Halifax toward Vernon Hill, Mrs. Carrington said, and kindly marked the place on my map. The sun was going down when I left the Library, and by the time I got to Halifax and turned west it was dropping in front of me like a hammer. That journey took me through deepening darkness along narrowing gravel roads and the gravel turning to dirt, the upshot of which was that I gave up, saying to myself, “Aunt Nan, I’ll look for you some other day.” That was in 1993. Twenty-three years later, I kept my promise--though in fact by then Aunt Nan was the last thing on my mind.

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Twenty-three years later was February of 2016, in the full bloom of the world wide web and its database delirium, with the memories of the days when I drove from county seat to county seat to find records in the courthouses and libraries grown so distant in my mind as to seem like

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another lifetime. Then I came across a photograph of an elderly woman who looked familiar. I didn’t recognize her until I had studied her name and considered that her residence was in Halifax County Virginia. It was Aunt Nan.

I’d been trawling for an image of a great-great-aunt named Amanda Pounds who was born in Missouri in 1860 and died there in 1916. I found myself looking at the photo of a woman named Amanda Pounds who was born in Halifax County Virginia in 1865 and died there in 1955. My first response was blank confusion. The face was right. The name was right. She certainly looked like a Pounds. But how could she have been born in Virginia in 1865 and lived until 1955? Then I looked again at the nickname given her in parentheses: “Aunt Nan.” Slowly a rushlight of memory began to glow in the darkness. This has to be the Aunt Nan that Mrs. Carrington told me about in 1993. It had to be! And it was. What was it she had said to me? (I knew because I had written it down.) “Aunt Nan had a boy named Wilson, and you know he favors you. Kind of high in the forehead and with those sunken eyes.”

Two hundred years and more had passed since the Poundses I knew about lived in Halifax County, and in the last fifteen years the pursuit of genealogy had come to be informed by genetic science, but no science was needed here. The DNA is in the face. When you meet a blood-kin member of your family for the first time, you feel a shock of recognition, a lifting of the heart even before you learn their name. I recognized Aunt Nan, and I would recognize others as I came across their photos: her son Wilson, her father Felix, and above all her nephew Moses Belt Pounds II (1904-1993), who looked enough like my father to be his brother. Mrs. Carrington had said Aunt Nan was “colored” though “very light.” That would mean mulatto, but the word never occurred to me as I looked at her photo and

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images of her father and her son that I found. When the next day it did occur to me, it meant nothing, and today it means less. All I felt then and still feel now is that these are my people.

I wrote Mrs. Carrington a letter and sent it to the South Boston Library. After twenty-three years, she would be either retired or gone to her final rest, but someone there would put me in touch either with her or her kin. I was quite sure of this, because this was rural Virginia, I was from rural Oklahoma, and folkways don’t change, except with the slowness of mountains and rivers. Famously, the territory called Oklahoma had been given to the five civilized tribes of Indians that President Jackson and his cohorts had moved by using enormous sums of money and the threat of armed force, moving them from their homes in the Upper South, western Georgia, and the future states of Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana. White history books sentimentalize this journey as the Trail of Tears. The Indians call it the Trail of Death. Turning the pages of history we come to the land-runs that began in 1889 opened Oklahoma to white settlement. The white settlers came from two areas: some from the northern states like Kansas, Iowa, and Illinois, others from the south, Kentucky, Alabama, and Missouri. It was my mother’s family who represented the southern influx--her grandfather was from Alabama. It was my father’s tribe, the Poundses, who represented the northern inpouring--his grandfather came from Ohio and Illinois. But even this northern tribe had southern roots. They’d all started out in Virginia, and by the mid 1700s many of them were living in and around Halifax County. That explained what I was doing there in 1993.

Another name to mention here, though I have yet to define the family links, is that of Sarah Ellen Crummel (or Cumble, 1864-1949), who is buried about a mile from

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where I was born in Chandler, Oklahoma. She was born in Russell County Kentucky and was a relative of the mulatto Poundses who had migrated from Halifax County, Virginia, into Metcalfe and Russell counties a few years before the Civil War, led by the Halifax County-born freedman Thomas Pounds. Born about the same year as Aunt Nan, Sarah Crummel looks enough like Aunt Nan to be cousins, which in all likelihood they were.

Within about ten days of writing to Mrs. Carrington, I had an email from Cary Perkins, Mrs. Carrington’s daughter, dated 10 February 2016:

When I talked to my mother yesterday about your email she was pleased to hear from you and recounted again the story about getting her fortune told and how it all came true. I have to say how very dear it was for Mrs. Pounds to forecast such positive things for my

mother; whether she was a bona fide fortune teller or just a wise woman, I think of her as a dear woman and think of her, at this moment, very fondly.

May I suggest that you contact my mother if you want any additional recollections. She is 88 years old. I will happily pass your request on to her and make arrangements to email you or have you call her.

I recognized the light of grace that sometimes shines on us from above to encourage our endeavors when we persevere, not to mention the kindness of strangers. Cary and I have since carried on a correspondence, in which she has been as kind and gracious as her mother. Much of what follows below is either the fruit of that correspondence or was inspired by it.

In March 2016 I received a letter from Mrs. Carrington that added some details to her story about Aunt

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Nan.

She told my fortune when I was teaching third grade at Wilson Memorial High School. I was about 20 or 21 years old. Everything she predicted for me came true, except one thing. She said I would live a long time, be very close always to my mother and my church, and be very wealthy. All came true, except I am not wealthy at all!, except in things that matter, like family and loved ones still with me, and memories. I have eight children and many grandchildren.

Aunt Nan’s own story begins with her grandmother, Priscilla “Silla” Pounds, 1791-1893. The substance of what is known for sure about Silla comes from her death record, which gives the date as 30 October 1893 and her age as 102. She was born and died in Halifax County, and the information was provided by her son Felix. (The Kentucky Thomas Pounds mentioned above was her son or nephew.) This data is supplemented by the 1880 census, the only one on which Priscilla appears. In 1880 she was living alone next door to Felix and his family in the Birch Creek District, near Oak Level and not far from Sinai, giving her occupation as “Sewing & Knitting.” Since Felix is listed in the same district in 1870, it is reasonable to think that Priscilla was there also. Priscilla is buried in the Felix Pounds Cemetery in Paces, Halifax County.

It is known that Priscilla had two sons, Meshack and Felix, but before looking at them it is best to consider the one place name provided by the records--Birch Creek. Located about ten miles west of Halifax, it was the name of the census district that included Felix’s branch of the family between 1870 and 1930, and just as significantly the district included part of the sprawling and wealthy Berry Hill

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Plantation, which adjoined Sinai. At least that is the first response one hears today, conscious as everyone is of the famous plantation. Covering 3,600 acres in its heyday, it was one of the largest in Virginia. It was originally owned by Isaac Coles, who began using slaves in 1803. Twice the plantation changed owners, finally ending up under the control of James Coles Bruce in 1832. Bruce is credited with transforming the existing 18th-century brick plantation house then standing into the Greek Revival mansion seen today. The main house was designated a National Historic Landmark in 1969 and today is used as a conference site. The curious reader may view it at Wikipedia.

There is an earlier history of the area, however, one we should be aware of. In 1775 Champness Terry owned all this land and more--some 20,000 acres, and that was 50 years and more before James Coles Bruce bought Berry Hill. Terry received a 20,000 acre land grant in October 1765 on the branches of Sandy, Polecat, Miry, and Birches Creeks. The significance of this fact is two-fold. This area was near or possibly even surrounded the 400 acres along Peters Creek belonging to Jane Pound, as shown on the land surveys of 1773 and 1775. And in Illinois in 1817, our patriarch Samuel Pounds married Susanna Williams, a daughter of the Revolutionary War soldier Joseph Terry Williams (1756-1834) of Halifax County. He in turn was a nephew of Champness Terry, the landowner. Adequate research on this matter has not yet been done, but it seems possible that the land on which the mulatto Poundses lived for so long may have originally belonged to Champness Terry. Aunt Nan’s son Wilson, whom Mrs. Carrington told me so long ago that I resembled, is buried is on this property too at the New Vernon Church.

Reduced to 650 acres today, the plantation still contains two slave graveyards, one (Diamond Hill) holding

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the graves of more than two hundred people, making it one of the largest slave cemeteries in Virginia. Closed to the public, these cemeteries have never been accessed, though Diamond Hill was recently cleaned and it appears to have

Stone slave quarters, Berry Hill Plantation

no legible markers. Notable too are the old slave quarters with their stone houses.

None of the Poundses were ever slaves; they were designated Freemen (free persons, that is) of Color and were probably skilled in useful crafts. Some of them may have lived on the plantation as retainers, and we know that some of their kin did, for an 1845 “list of Negroes at Berry Hill Plantation” contains the names of Darby Duncan, Lucy Alderson, and their children. One of Lucy’s daughters would marry a Pounds, and Felix Pounds (son of Priscilla) may have lived in one of the stone houses that comprise the slave quarters, for the 1860 census lists him as living two houses away from the mansion house.

In 2012 an internet magazine called SoVaNow.com published an article called “When Sinai Was Young,”

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Henderson Duncan and Anna Alderson

giving the memories of two cousins, Blondine Duncan and Elizabeth Palmer. “The couple they consider the patriarch and matriarch of their family met when both were working at Berry Hill: Henderson Duncan had been an enslaved man there, the son of the famed Darby Duncan, the chef at Berry Hill who learned his culinary skills in New Orleans; the modern-day tavern at Berry Hill Resort is named for him. In 1872, Henderson Duncan married Anna Alderson, a free woman, who may have been white, who was working at Berry Hill. Anna died in 1954 at the age of 106.”

They offered other memories of Sinai as well. The magazine reports:

They agree that the village was settled after the Civil War as formerly enslaved African-Americans left the sprawling Berry Hill plantation and looked for their own land about two miles away.

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And is the name Biblical in origin — a reference to the holy mountain where Moses was given the Ten Commandments?

They’re not sure, nor is South Boston’s Patricia Jennings, who says the lore in her family is that a relative, P. B. Ragland, actually gave Sinai its name.

As for the pronunciation: locally the three- syllable “Sigh-nee-eye,” as opposed to “Sigh-nigh” — the women don’t know [which to prefer].

I have also received a current description of Sinai’s location from Brittaney Hamilton, a Pounds relation, whose great-aunt still lives there:

So first off, the Pounds-Hamilton Cemetery is located in the area that used to be called Sinai . . . a few miles north of South Boston. If you do a google maps search for Sinai Elementary School in Halifax, that's essentially where the cemetery is. The cemetery is actually on the land owned by my great aunt behind her house. Slightly north of Sinai Elementary, you'll see Banister Lake on the google maps page. My family lived near a creek that runs off that lake, but I'm not sure of the exact section. I'm assuming it's one of the creek branches that leads into the Sinai area because that's where I've always understood the Pounds side of my grandfather's family to have come from.

The village of Sinai and the Berry Hill Plantation are juxtaposed here as a reminder, if any were needed, of the institution of chattel slavery along racial lines, which is the great historical divide in American history. In terms of my own attempt to write a continuous family history, it is an immense jagged tear across the fabric. One half of our

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Halifax County history is is the history of the white Poundses who lived in this area between 1770 and 1820, and the other half is that of the mulatto Poundses who lived here from 1770 and probably earlier under different hames, and some of whom remained to the present day. The two halves cannot be joined, but only because of color. In other respects--intelligence, literacy, family pride, protestant work ethic--they seem quite amenable.

To change the metaphor, we have two halves of a jigsaw puzzle. The pieces in each half fit together neatly, but the pieces that would join the two halves are missing. Where documents should be, there is only silence. It’s across that historical gap that I recognized my face in Aunt Nan’s. Faces constitute visible DNA, and they don’t lie anymore than the science of genetics lies (though both are open to coincidence, what the geneticists call “false positives”). But the paper trail to tell us what happened before 1850 is largely missing. Thus, in what follows I’ll be forced to speculate, but I’ll mark the speculation as such.

We’re looking at two families named Pounds, resident in Halifax County from the 1750s to about 1850, but the heart of the matter is the period 1780-1820. The question is simple enough: to learn where these two lines meet or cross. Children spring from a sexual crossing of a man and a woman, but what we’re presented with here is matriarchy: we know the names of the women but not the names of their mates. Priscilla Pounds, one matriarch of the Halifax County mulatto clan, and a second matriarch, Harriet Pounds, whom we can guess was probably the sister of the first. The most important difference between them is that Harriet’s children went to Metcalfe County in southern Kentucky, while of Priscilla’s two sons, the elder (Meshack) went to neighboring Pittsylvania County, while the younger (Felix) stayed in Halifax.

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The most important child of Harriet who went to Kentucky was Thomas Pounds (1815-1895) once he turned twenty-one and got his free papers. The gist of his story is that when he had served his indenture in Halifax County and was declared a freeman, he walked to Metcalfe County to save his three siblings from being sold as slaves. One of his children later born to him in Kentucky was Mary Marietta “Polly” Pounds (1849-1939), whose narrative was collected by the WPA in 1937 and provides the story of her father’s antecedents. Written in the third person, in part it reads as follows:

Aunt Polly’s pap was Thomas Pounds, a free born Mulatto. He was born in Halifax County, Virginia. His grandmother was a white woman and slave holder. Her name was Polly Pounds and after her husband died, she had an illegitimate child by a Negro slave. This half- white and half-colored child was Thomas Pound’s mother. Thomas’s mother grew up as a free born and had four children.

Now the shoe is on the other foot. It was a white woman who crossed the color line to find a mate. Three of the resulting children were the siblings Thomas walked to Kentucky to rescue from the threat of enslavement. Perhaps this story illustrates the perils of matriarchy. Without a father, the free children could be taken and sold back into slavery.

Matriarchy means that unmarried women most often gave their own surname to their children, so we don’t know the men’s names, and crossing racial lines means we don’t know the names of the white men because they didn’t formally marry their mates. The unions that produced the children left no records. Born in the 1790s about four years

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apart, Priscilla and Harriet, as I said, are most likely sisters, but no parents or spouses are known in either case. Six children are known in the next generation, two of them certainly Pricilla’s, three of them probably Harriet’s, and one an orphan who could belong to either of them or to a third party.

Though I identify with orphans, I’m not one myself, for I can name my father and mother. They took care of me in the way good parents are expected to, and I hope I gave signs of gratitude before they passed. But I was not the typical grateful child. I had early-on read Camus’s The Stranger and Melville’s Moby-Dick and learned to recognize myself in the figures of Meursault and Ishmael. I have been a teacher of literature now for half a century, and though it will sound naïve to my theory-minded colleagues, I still like to think that one of the functions of literature is to teach us who we are. That’s why there is this continual rumble from the campuses about race, class, and gender. Students are learning who they are, or who they might be, and in order to learn they must thresh out the categories and reshape them as recognizable images of their own faces.

The present essay contains lessons about those campus favorites, race, class, and gender. “Class” in the United States is the simplest category, and we can dismiss it because it means nothing more than the presence or absence of money. Race is the obvious topic of these pages. For myself, I recall something that Ralph Ellison says in one of his meditations on race in the U.S.A. Writing in the 1950s from the perspective of white-black issues, he says we’re all members of a mixed breed called the American. There’s a drop of white in the blackest black, and there’s a drop of black in the whitest white--a message that is given parable form in Invisible Man in a passage about the paint used to make the White House so dazzlingly white. So I

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contemplate the fact of Aunt Nan’s blue eyes and look at the DNA written in her face.

Aunt Nan also has a word to say about gender. Some of the documents the state of Virginia used to mark her progress through life give her middle name as John. Her full maiden name was Amanda John Pounds. No, she wasn’t trying to join the trans-gender club. Her mother Priscilla did what poor people have always done. She gave her child a name that would mean something to a matriarchal society. She gave Amanda the name John as a memorial and a marker, so that she and others would know who her granddaughter was. She was Amanda Pounds, descendant of a man named John. The social world is marked by immense complexity, so we all need names to get through life. They are the necessary handles by which people get a hold of us. In giving us a name, our parents perform one of their first and most essential acts of kindness. That, at least, is the charitable reading of the matter.

.....

Just after writing the above sentence, I walked outside to the lotus pond near our house for my morning constitutional. Pondside is where my best ideas assault me. I started reading Ruth Ozeki’s The Year of Meats, and on page nine I found this conversation between two parents, a mixed-Japanese couple whose family name is Little and who are thinking of naming their girl child Jane. Pitiful to contemplate because the reader knows that even if the girl grows to be six feet tall, she’ll never be plain Jane. She’ll always be called Little Jane.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Dad would say. “It’s just a name!” which would cause Ma to recoil in horror.

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“How you can say ‘justa name’? Name is very first thing. Name is face to all the world.”

I take the mother’s side in this disagreement. A name is indeed the first step taken as even in infancy we prepare a face to meet the faces that we meet. Fortunately for this couple and their child, they do reach an interesting compromise. They use the mother’s maiden name to create a compound family name Takagi-Little.

Something like that must have happened with Aunt Nan. “Amanda Pounds” is a fine name but, Priscilla must have felt, incomplete. It gives the father’s surname but doesn’t tell which of the many Pounds men he was. So, with no hyphen to compound the family names, Amanda becomes Amanda John Pounds. Now she has a face she can hold up and possess as her own. Maybe that confidence helps her to be a stronger. Though it may be from the long line of Pounds women I knew growing up, for me it’s a face that speaks of strength and kindness.

Sources

The sources for this essay are given intertextually. 

Stone slave quarters, Berry Hill Plantation


Joan Didion documentary, 2025

 Just refreshed my love for the work of JD by watching a Netflix documentary of her life. What a fine human being she was, and what a writer! Most people know that she had an ancestor in the Donner Party—one that took the safer trail and survived. LA Times has a good article about the potato masher: https://www.latimes.com/entertainment-arts/books/story/2021-12-27/joan-didion-california-narrative-of-manifest-destiny-and-a-potato-masher



By all means, see the Neflix documentary. Beautifully done and done with love by a nephew. In the voice- overs, we hear the way she talks and see the helpless drowning gestures that mark the futility she feels in observing the world and writing it. She walks right toward the object, both eyes wide open. She might have been an observer from another planet — one so edgy and alert that she ended up knowing more about our own world than we knew ourselves. See Wiki for book titles, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joan_Didion
including a small collected works called We Tell Ourselves Stories in Order to Live. It contains books that you probably havent read.

No, the center will not hold. It has not held. How well she knew that.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Below is from Didion's introduction to her first overwhelmingly important book, the book that instantly made her the voice of her generation:


THIS BOOK IS called Slouching Towards Bethlehem because for

several years now certain lines from the Yeats poem which

appears two pages back have reverberated in my inner ear as

if they were surgically implanted there. The widening gyre,

the falcon which does not hear the falconer, the gaze blank

and pitiless as the sun; those have been my points of reference,

the only images against which much of what I was seeing and

hearing and thinking seemed to make any pattern. "Slouching

Towards Bethlehem" is also the title of one piece in the book,

and that piece, which derived from some time spent in the

Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco, was for me both the

most imperative of all these pieces to write and the only one

that made me despondent after it was printed. It was the first

time I had dealt directly and flatly with the evidence of atomi-

zation, the proof that things fall apart: I went to San Francisco

because I had not been able to work in some months, had been

paralyzed by the conviction that writing was an irrelevant act,

that the world as I had understood it no longer existed. If I was

to work again at all, it would be necessary for me to come to

terms with disorder. That was why the piece was important to

me. And after it was printed I saw that, however directly and

flatly I thought I had said it, I had failed to get through to many

of the people who read and even liked the piece, failed to sug-

gest that I was talking about something more general than a

handful of children wearing mandalas on their foreheads. Disc

jockeys telephoned my house and wanted to discuss (on the air)

the incidence of "filth" in the Haight-Ashbury, and acquain-

tances congratulated me on having finished the piece "just in

time," because "the whole fad's dead now, fini, kaput." I suppose

almost everyone who writes is afflicted some of the time by the

suspicion that nobody out there is listening, but it seemed to

me then (perhaps because the piece was important to me) that I

had never gotten a feedback so universally beside the point.

Almost all of the pieces here were written for magazines dur-

ing 1965, 1966, and 1967, and most of them, to get that question

out of the way at the outset, were "my idea." I was asked to go

up to the Carmel Valley and report on Joan Baez's school there;

I was asked to go to Hawaii; I think I was asked to write about

John Wayne; and I was asked for the short essays on "morality,"

by The American Scholar, and on "self-respect," by Vogue. Thirteen

of the twenty pieces were published in The Saturday Evening Post.

Quite often people write me from places like Toronto and want

to know (demand to know) how I can reconcile my conscience

with writing for The Saturday Evening Post; the answer is quite

simple. The Post is extremely receptive to what the writer wants

to do, pays enough for him to be able to do it right, and is metic-

ulous about not changing copy. I lose a nicety of inflection now

and then to the Post, but do not count myself compromised. Of

course not all of the pieces in this book have to do, in a "subject"

sense, with the general breakup, with things falling apart; that is a

large and rather presumptuous notion, and many of these pieces

are small and personal. But since I am neither a camera eye nor

much given to writing pieces which do not interest me, whatever

I do write reflects, sometimes gratuitously, how I feel.



Previews of "The 1972 Oregon Odyssey"

 Preview of The 1972 Oregon Odyssey



                                                                



The title above is not the title of the book, which is to be called 


The 1972 Odyssey

of

Poundso and Baddso

from

Lawrence Kansas to Eugene Oregon

Written in Lawrence 1972 and

Edited in Tokyo 2025

by 

Wayne Pounds


but it is only intended as a preview to whet the appetite of possible readers. The book is ready for publication but the cover has to wait on the artist (Shelley) to finish her university exams during the remainder of this month of July.


In the meantime, here are three samples of what await you:


1. Foss Junction, western Oklahoma badlands

When we arrive at Foss Junction I’m relieved to see semi-civilized amenities--a gas station and truck stop advertised 200 yards down the Foss Road.I always thought I disliked gas stations for their dirt and squalor (my father ran a couple of them kept scrupulously clean) but in this kind of country you cherish them as standard bearers of civilization. A place to wash and crap and eat, nothing else you could ask. Except a ride, except a ride, out of this forsaken cow-lot. We find an eight by twelve grocery store, snacks and beer for truck drivers. I have a vienna sausage sandwich, made from a heavy loaf of homemade wholewheat bread we’ve been carrying in the pack, and a quart of cold milk. A foul tasting sandwich. The canned potted meat is nearly putrid and the bread has taken on the flavor of the pack, orange nylon. Baddso has a sandwich like mine, a piece of watermelon, and a quart of milk. There is a big truck taking on fuel and the driver is standing in the door of the cab putting food and drink in an ice chest. Beezo for the road. I talk to him, ask him for a ride. Nothing doing, safety and insurance regulations, he’d lose his job if were seen--up and down the highway are safety inspectors in the limbs of every large tree. Otherwise, sure, he’d give us a lift. Every trucker would tell the same story. They don’t lack sympathy for the walking poor. That’s why when you raise a thumb toward them they throw up their hands or make some other helpless gesture from the wheel, meaning there’s nothing the driver can do. Who ain’t a slave, asks Melville’s Ishmael from the deck of a whaler in the 1840s. 

Back on the highway, the traffic streams west. I’m dead tired and sleepy from eating too much crap food, Shoulda known better. Hunger traps the hungry. In two hours we stop nothing but a Highway Patrol. He looks at our ID cards--how does he know that I really am who that card says I am? I could be a lie but he doesn’t care. The card makes me legal. I might in fact be Jack Guthrie, brother of the famous Woody and probable author of “Oklahoma Hills” and spitting on the interminable steps of the halls of justice. I’m only half listening to this prick who is reciting his catechism. Father, I ask, what shall a man do to hitch through Oklahoma. My son, thou must shun the shoulders of the road. restrict standing to the drainage ditches, and this above all, stand never beneath an underpass. I tell our highway mentor that I appreciate the instruction, which we were especially in need of because of the confusion planted in our minds by the compassion of one of his colleagues who earlier in the afternoon let us out of his car to stand in the shade of an overpass. He must not have known the law, comes the blustering reply. God help him, he didn’t know the law. They can really hang him high for not that.


2. The Ride with Menace

We leave Foss Junction in a squirt of exhaust fumes, fifteen hours there our longest wait. Wonder if Baddso is still keeping track of our waiting times and averaging them like baseball stats. He’s talking with the front seat people, telling them of the fifteen hours and thanking them in an excessively polite manner--no, nothing excessive about it, Christ on the cross fifteen bleeding hours. The threesome of men are a dubious combination and oddly sorted. A heavy guy with shaggy sandy hair cut around his ears in driving, named Terry. He and George sitting in the middle are about the same age twenty-five to thirty. The third man in his forties, uncombed curly brown hair, wearing a T-shirt, he talks like he’s from Arkansas. All three exude an air of marginal criminality. Menace. Either of the white guys could be another Charlie Starkweather. I’m afraid Baddso may be an Othello with too much fundamental decency to recognize an Iago.

The name of the man on the right’s is Old Roland I learn from George who goes through a long routine trying to remember it. He fills us in on their history. Me and Terry’s old buddies, ain’t we Terry, punching his mate in the ribs. The way George says the name it sounds like Terrah like the British pronunciation of terror. Me and Terrah’s drinking beer at the Sundown Club in Tulsa last night and we wasn’t thinking about no Seattle, was we Terrah (punch), and Old Roland here comes in, been driving from Little Rock, going to Seattle to get a job, he comes in and we get to talking to the waitress, man she was built like a stone shithouse I ain’t kidding, ooh I’d like to got me some of that. He grabs his crotch with both hands and squirms in the seat, moaning in an ecstasy of thwarted anticipation. Old Roland is going to Seattle so what do we care, me and Terrah decide to go with him. Sheeyut, Seattle, man’s there’s women in Seattle. Baddso, myself, and these three bozos all with the same destination--the extreme northwest. Sheeyut.

George’s monologue goes on until no one is listening any more, repeating punches in Terrah’s side to get him to verify various points but never giving him time. The only other thing of interest I pick up from George is that they’re going to Amarillo where Terrah is expecting to pick up some cash money, the details of which are left vague. Taciturn Old Roland comes out of his apparent sulk in the corner to volunteer various bits of information already communicated to us by George. Old Roland says he’s from Arkansas by God and that he never saw these guys before last night when they all got drunk and took off together. He just wanted someone to come to Seattle with him. It’s his car by God and they’d better drive it right or they was a reckoning a-comin, no more of this bullshit driving, no more of this hundred and ten shit like Terrah was doing back down the road. I hastily agree with Old Roland that a car as to be treated right if you want it to treat you right and to get somewhere as far as Seattle. The car, as if to state its own opinion of bullshit driving, begins to register hot and Terrah pulls into a gas station to investigate. The car is three quarts low on oil. Old Roland is mad, claims the car never used to use no oil and by God people’d better start driving his car like it was supposed to be drove.

Terrah and George agree, obviously humoring Old Roland, buy oil, we’re running down the freeway again. Western Oklahoma is whizzing by under our wheels--Canute, Elk City, Sayre--but I’m too busy watching the antics in the front seat to pay much attention. Old Roland pulls a pint of whiskey from out of somewhere, gulps the remaining swallow left in the bottle, wipes off his mouth with the back of his hand, and embarks on what is evidently a serious subject. You fellers got any money to help us with gas? Me and the boys here has spent our last cent on this trip, then buying that oil busted us. This is said quite confidentially, and I give it the attention it warrants, rubbing my chin ponderously, consulting with Baddso about the state of our finances, finally replying that I reckoned between the two of us we might be able to come up with two dollars. Thinking while I was rubbing my chin that it would not be wise to let Old Roland know that Baddso and I had a hundred dollars in travelers checks between us and calculating that a hundred and twenty miles to Amarillo at twenty miles a gallon is six gallons times thirty cents a gallon is a dollar eighty, so two dollars ought to get us into Amarillo. . . . .

George offers a beer to Baddso and me as we drive back to the freeway but we decline politely. They have two apiece. When a bottle is to be opened, it is handed to George who does it with his teeth, neatly and with evident pride. When a bottle is to be disposed of it is handed to Old Roland who throws it with all his strength straight down onto the pavement where it explodes with a faint rearward tinkling crash that seems to delight him. 


Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law 

pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw.


Kidneys primed, they soon need a rest stop, and when no trees appear or other cover in five miles Terrah stops on the shoulder and all three piss, laughing and lifting yellow arches while the cars go by. We travel toward Amarillo, Terrah now talking, telling anecdotes in which he figures as a swashbuckling hero, George confirming the stories and grabbing his crotch at every mention of a woman. And Old Roland gently asleep in his corner. 


Heating Up with Navy Joe, near Williams CA

When a car does hesitates it means it has decided to pick you up no matter how you look, which I don’t much like since I’d rather think we were being stopped for our visible merits, such as they are, such as they are, the Jack on a pack and my straw hat. We’re walking forward when the driver yells to us to hurry “before this thing heats up” so we jog packs into the van through the side door which somehow closes behind us and we take off. The driver a slender guy my age with curly uncombed black hair down the back of his neck and wearing a T-shirt. Looks like a mechanic who has just finished a four year stretch in the Navy. Thee’s a fourteen year old boy sitting in the righthand seat and a chick sitting on the cowl over the engine. Have to say “chick” here because if I use the more common “girl” that puts her in the same class as the “boy” and she’s not fourteen by at least six years. Steer away from the semantic chaos of gender. She’s sitting on some carpeting, as I first thought for padding but as I soon learned to preserve her soft butt from baking over the engine heat. In addition to this triplet, who have the only seats in the van, there are two brothers, hitchers like ourselves in their mid and late teens, and a chick with a four year old boy. She smiles and is suddenly pretty. Evidently these two belong with the triplet in front and all are bound for L.A. by way of Sacramento. Providing the engine stays cool, which it doesn’t. Watch that door and don’t lean against it, comes the sudden word from Navy Joe at the wheel, it’ll fly open. A very tricky door indeed it turns out to be and takes ten minutes to fasten every time it’s opened.

After picking up Baddso and me the van stops for water at the next gas station. In what appears to be a practiced routine, Navy Joe pulls up to the water hose, the kid jumps out to hand him the hose, the girl takes her carpet and moves to the rear, Navy Joe opens the cowl, the engine running, takes the proffered waters hose through the window and begins hosing down the radiator, shooting the water into the fan, causing a spray towards the passengers. With the cowl up and the van stopped the heat in the engine quickly passes the melting point of flesh and we deliquesce as we get out the door, forming puddles of liquid flesh on the concrete drive where we stand.

Navy Joe gets Maybellene cooled down to his satisfaction, radiator filled, and as we all clamber in and he takes off he tells Baddso and me that such stops are necessary only every hundred miles or so.


rainwater running over my hood

I knew that was doin’ my motor good


In five miles the motor is overheating again and we hit another station. This is Williams, and Navy Joe gets the idea of buying a thermostat and installing it. This requires driving around town to find an automotive parts shop, where we all stand around on the sidewalk soaking up the hundred and twelve degree heat while Navy J makes the purchase. The women and the four year old find shade in the entrance of a restaurant and I wonder how long it will be before the proprietor shoos them off as hindrances to trade and profit or calls the police. Baddso is walking up and down the sidewalk peering into windows. He disappears only to show up a minute laster with three oranges, just three because we’re at a little distance from the van with its passengers and he offers me one, telling me he had brought them from the same grocery store where he bought oranges for lunch on his way to Kelseyville from Oregon. He seems almost happy to be in such familiar territory . I accept the orange figuring that the third one will be offered for division to the others but Baddso goes on across the street digging the pulp out of the skin with his teeth like a steam scoop shovel getting mud out of a hole. Unlike him to forget the amenities. I take my peeled orange up to the restaurant entrance and offer slices around in a facetious way calculated to serve as an apology for all my sins against courtesy. Only the four year old accepts. He can’t get enough.

The fourteen year old and Navy Joe are tying to get the radiator hose disconnected from the engine block in order to put in the thermostat but the engine is so hot that the bolts and surrounding portions of the block are frying their fingers. I offer my small assistance but Navy Joe says he might as well do it himself because his fingers are already french fried. My grand piano sits blanketed on Connecticut Street and I agree, secretly relieved and twinging with guilt at being let off easy and being so cautious of my fingers. Rubinstein’s Friday Afternoon piano concert’s now on the road to Kansas and home: please do not bring guests and for that matter do not come yourself.

The bubbling rust-covered water has finished running out of the finally disconnected hose anded I hold the hose away from the block with the aid of a wet paper towel. Surprising how how rubber can be. It’s as criminal for a grand piano like mine to set with no one playing as it is for it to be owned by a talentless self-indulgent literature merchant who’s been playing only a few years. Girl friend said something to that effect, maybe less harsh, unable to believe that I could be so impractical and improvident. Money is to be saved invested for the home and kids and college and the heart attack machine. You wouldn’t sell your MGB to buy a piano? But I did.

The roads are crowded to the shoulders with cars running with fewer than a full capacity of passengers and every ditch has a couple of rusty ones in it. I don’t need a car. I just need a ride in one that doesn’t overheat. The thermostat is in, the hose reconnected, and we resume the intermitted journey. Naturally within two miles the temperature gauge 

is standing on the H peg and we’re stopped in the middle of the Great American Desert with the cool cars running by in herds like bikini-clad girls or like bright metallic lizards. Consternation and consultation in the front seats.


oh Maybellene why can’t you be true

you done started back doin

the things you used to do


Who could be so asinine as to put a thermostat into an overheating engine with the temperature at 112 outside in the starry blue-eyed hope of cooling it. An afterthought of mine, didn’t occur at the time because I thought Navy Joe was a mechanic, what with his T-shirt and oversized tires. Also thought he was replacing an old thermostat with a cooler one rather than as I learn later putting in one where there had been none before. In short, thought he knew what he was doing and what do I know about mechanics anyway. What’re we going to do now, use the water in the ice chest, the geniuses say. Not much of it. Sit here baking till the cool of the evening maybe, which is only eight hours away, being one o’clock now.

The first thing to do is get out of the ovenish inwards of the van out into the relative chill of the hundred and twelve. Once out I sing Baddso a few lines of “Cool clear Water” and am surprised to find he knows the song. Didn’t know you had deserts in England or is it merely the power of pop.


Don’t you listen to him Dan

he’s a devil not a man

and he paints the burning sand

with water, cool clear water


At the chorus I spot a ditch fifteen yards from where we’re standing with warm murky water in it. I report this feature of the topography to Navy Joe and he orders his lackeys, the fourteen year old and the hitching brothers, to break out the empty pop bottles and haul water. There’s a freeway fence between the road and the ditch so the kid and I get on the other side and do the dipping while the brothers and Baddso foot the bottles back and forth. It’s the old pour it into the fan trick again, and in fifteen minutes we’ve got things cooled down, we refill the carton of pop bottles, reboard and head for the next filling station to pull out the thermostat. Baddso and I conferred while we were outside about abandoning the van and trying for another ride but Baddso said we ought to stay for one more breakdown to be polite. Both relieve to be moving again.


old Dan and I

with throats burned dry

and souls that cry


When a mile down the road the temperature gauge starts its H-ward swing and the cowl gets to hot to touch Navy Joe and the righthand kid get the cowl up with a hand apiece while Navy Joe holds us in the road at sixty-five MPH and the kid pours the ditch water into the fan. The spray comes back on us and the older brothers who is most exposed hides behind a map of California. The bottles cool the engine for another miles then it’s up with the cowl and into the fan with the ditch water again. With two more full bottles left we start refilling the empties from the two inches of cold water in the ice chest. After first removing the contents of course, two cans of cola and a small jar of vaseline. The kid pouring the water into the fan is having himself a fine old time. Each time the spray comes back and the older brother ducks behind California he grins broadly in toothy idiocy as if to say we’re sure having some hell of a ride huh.

We make it into a station just as the water runs out. Waterboy jumps out and hands in the hose and Navy Joe gets it spurting into the fan. Cool it down a little than park it out of the way till you can get your fingers back on those hot bolts. I fill some pop bottles and pour water over the bolts and other metallica (a heavy-metal band) to save Navy Joe from deep frying his fingers. Hold the radiator hose again and spray into the fan, pretty soon we’ve got Humpty together again. Fill all the pop bottles and the ice chest and re-embark. It’s three o’clock but Sacramento is only thirty-five miles away. Don’t ya listen to him Dan / he’s a devil not a man.

Navy Joe and Waterboy keep the fluids going into the fan at regular intervals while Baddso and the girl who was on the cowl fill bottles out of the chest. The four-year-old’s mother strips him naked and deposits him in the chest of water. He and I discuss my hat, wants to know am I cowboy or Indian. Mexican, I say, which in the westerns is a kind of ethnic limbo. Billy the Kid didn’t even count the Mexicans he shot, carving notches on his pistol only for the white men.

         Jesus


he was a handsome man 

                                                  and what i want to know is

how do you like your blue-eyed boy

Mister Death