Notes From My Knapsack 11-4-10
Jeff Gill
Twelve Years Old In Granville – 1839
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When the three of them had decided to head home after a long morning of fishing in Raccoon Creek, two went up to the town spring on the back side of Sugar Loaf, and one took off across the lower slope to cut up through the Burying Ground.
There was a creek that looped behind the tombstones, and he hoped to mess around a bit there rather than end up stuck inside churning butter until his arms ached. His older sister was spinning yarn off their neighbor's sheep, and Uncle Frank was sure to have brought by a crock or two of rich fresh cream and a jug of milk as he passed through town from grandfather's farm on Loudon Street down towards the woolen mill at the end of Clouse's lane. Any pair of hands that passed the kitchen door were likely to end up wrapped around a churn handle, and he didn't want those to be his.
So he swung around the wall and up angling through the cemetery, until he saw someone sitting at the base of a young, but fast growing oak tree just at the crest of the slope.
"Good day, sir," the boy said, touching the brim of his straw hat.
"Good day to you, young sir," answered the man, who was anything but young himself.
"Are you well, sir?" asked the youth.
"It is kind of you to ask. My soul is well, my heart is heavy, and the years weigh me down, but it is all to the good."
At twelve, he didn't quite know how to answer that, but a thought did occur to him.
"Are you Mister Benjamin? They say you are a hundred years old."
"That I am, all of that and a year more. How old are you?"
"I am just twelve years old, myself."
"Do you know, when I was not much older than you, I was fighting alongside the British in the French and Indian War?"
"That I had heard, sir, and that you were in the Continental Army during the Revolution?"
"As a sergeant, indeed I was. And then a pioneer, and now an old man sitting under a tree."
His new friend considered this, and felt secure enough in the confidence shown him to say "Most people say you keep to yourself out at your place on Ramp Creek and talk to no one."
The weathered face creased with a small but distinct smile, and he replied "But I am speaking to you, am I not?"
"Yes, sir."
"I speak when something needs to be said. There is much said in this world that could easily be done without. And I come here to talk to my wife, Margaret," he said gesturing to a stone rising out of the grass just beyond the old man's feet, "and my daughters," pointing both up and down the hill in turn.
"I didn't mean to interrupt you, sir," nodded the young man. "Not at all," was the ancient's reply; "you may sit down and join me." As he did so, Benjamin added, "You're sitting on my grave."
Since his own elderly relatives often spoke this way, he merely nodded, and went on to ask if Mr. Benjamin had ever seen George Washington. They sat and talked until long after the last of the butter had been drawn from the churn.
(This is the third of a series of stories, each called "Twelve Years Old in Granville." Some will be based in fact, as with Jonathan Benjamin, who died at 103 on Aug. 26, 1841, and others will require a bit more creative guesswork and imagining. I hope you find them all informative and intriguing.)
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