Jeff Gill
[This is third in a series of stories called "Twelve Years Old in
Granville," each set in a particular year from the perspective of a
twelve year old, based on our local history with a bit of literary
license to help the narrative along.]
1839
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.
[Jonathan Benjamin died at 103 on Aug. 26, 1841, the oldest person in
the Old Colony Burying Ground; he and his wife Margaret were married
67 years.]
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and supply preacher around
central Ohio; tell him a story at knapsack77@gmail.com.
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