Daddy Jim's death poem

Black Jack

Daddy had a mule he bought
When he was all of eighty two,
For he said that he ought
Not to sit home with nothing to do.

He lived in Mountain City
After selling Proffitt's Knob
For nine thousand, hard money,
And he missed the parts of a job.

But more he missed the seasons,
The feel of the plow in his hands,
And he had to tame the demons
That kept him uneasy off the land.

So he went to the county fair
Held way down in Johnson City
And found a mule with jet black hair
And a slim leg that made him pretty.

He kept him in an old tin barn
Along with his feed and tack,
Just a stone's throw from the new home
Away around the back.

I'd often find him in his field
After he got a tobacco license,
And he got a pretty good yield
That he sold at the Burley warehouse.

He worked that mule the day he died
In his armchair in Mountain City.
As his life, his death was a surprise,
But the mule was sold, a pity!

How the son, Lee Proffitt, left the farm

Hoe Handles

I worked out on the knob
Till I was near eighteen,
Toiling among the rock
That were sprinkled on our farm

Or driving in the cows
That we kept enclosed
By some boards we stretched across
Where the hillside jutted close.

For Daddy Jim was up at light
And kept the place so clean,
It was a truly sparkling sight
White against the valley's green.

We were took most every day,
I mean the boys that is,
When the sun was slanting far away
To hoe the field of corn that was

Just beside the rocky spring
Whose sweet water nourished it.
We'd weed and scrape the ground away
So suckers wouldn't discourage it.

For daddy said the corn was like
A woman with a secret love,
Needing some gentle talk
Not a clumsy, heated shove.

Daddy took one tool and worked
Busily along the rows
While Fred, and Tommy, and tall Jack
Spread out with their hoes.
It was early summer then,
And the stalks were close about my waist,
And looking out across that corn
My disaffection took a rise.

So I called out to him,
"When will this work be done?
For I'm fed up from
Sweating in the hot sun!"

He said, "Now Lee, you better git
It right. I run this place,
And we're gonna hoe this field tonight
If we have to give the moon a race!"

All of a sudden that old hoe
Blistered right up in my fist,
And I couldn't wait to go
From that rocky, hoe-scratched place.

And I did. I left right then
With just these parting words to him,
"This God damn hoe don't fit my hand!"
And I threw it in the corn.

Since then it has been many years
And I have known a lot of strife
From Kasserine Pass to Sicily
And I have two girls and a wife.

But whenever I meet my dad
His mouth is thin and drawn,
As he says that old hoe blade
Is still rusting in the corn,

But he says it with respect,
And he firmly takes my hand
As if I have been brought
Into the company of men.

The central conflict in the book: Son vs Father

Trust

Once I followed Daddy Jim
Way down in the valley
To the house of cousin June
Right next to the cemetery.

I found a marble block
And hid myself behind,
For he looked strange when he left
And didn't know I heard.

He had said he was going down
The hollow to Tom Mast's store,
But he took the path to town.
I thought he was lost for sure.

So I tagged along behind
And now I was hiding,
For I was greatly afraid
That somehow he would spy me.

Then he came out with Em, June's wife
And they snuck to where I was,
No more than ten feet in clear light
So I know everything that passed.

"I can’t stop loving hard,”
She said, and he said back,
"Them are powerful big words,
Now I need some proof of it."

She stepped toward him. Then she took
Her dress and pulled it down,
And without that clinging cloth,
Her skin was marbled as the stone.

Daddy fumbled with his belt,
Breathing in thick pants.
They regarded each other for a spell
Then he took her with a grunt.
Right upon the flattened block
That was the tomb of Uncle Jessie,
They wildly pitched and bucked
In spasmed ecstasy.

After finishing that act,
He walked home laughing,
But they both were very distant
At the next church gathering.

They didn't seem to glance
At each other all the while,
Regarding each other in a trance
And without the trace of a smile.

I was chosen that very time
To pass the Communion plate,
So I handed it to him
And watched his stony face.

He took the blood dark wine
And pressed it to his lips,
As if he could wash away all sin
And eat the crusty bread of forgiveness.

Now I still love my father,
But he's lost my respect,
And I could never bother
To like him half as much.

A poem about Daddy Jim's wife, Ma Proffitt

Hemlocks

We set the row of hemlocks
Thin and feathery bright,
Just where the line of fence posts
Barely catches the morning light.

I remember it well. The dirt
Was soft, and the sun danced on
The sky. My ma and I worked
Half a day and settled every one.

They grew and thrived beside our house
Far back in the hill
Where there is no other noise
As the rushing waters spill.

They grew with me every year
Until they reached the window's height
And spread until they now appear
In green and rustling light

That bends around the window frame
And flows into the room
With a sound that is the same
As water rushing swiftly down.

That was so many years ago.
I now am old and face
The rushing years that swiftly flow
Hardly leaving any trace.

But for fifty years I’ve dreamed,
Startling and crystal clear,
How for the length of a day we stayed
Together setting these hemlocks here.

First Daddy Jim Poem

Rooster

They called him Rooster or Daddy Jim
Even those who weren't his sons,
For he was hard and thin
And I heard he liked to have some fun.

He had the best horses in Zionville,
And he rode with the finest tack.
He'd whoop and holler up the hills
And raise more hell coming back,

And he was often seen
Sitting at the Bull Dog Cafe
When he should have been
Out in the fields for the day.

His father left him a hundred acres,
A team of mules, and enough cash
To keep the place for forty years,
If he didn't sit on his ass.

But he preferred liquor to work,
And a game of cards to a sweat,
With women he really made a mark,
And he liked a good fight you can bet.

The land he sold off piece by piece
Until forty acres were left,
And then he was not half so free
To run the hills and risk his neck.

So he stayed up on the farm
And kept it neat as a pin,
Though he'd go from time to time
Just to keep the wildness in

To his old haunts
Like the Bull Dog Cafe
To satisfy his body’s wants,
Though it is fallen and buried today.

It's true his given name was James,
But he had the nerve of a Bantam cock,
So he earned and kept the nickname
Of Rooster, for he was of fighting stock.

Rural Traces

I have long been working on a book of lyrics about my wife's family in the Boone area of North Carolina. They are the stories of the strong, patriarchal society in the form of colorful anecdotes that were told or whispered to me through many years of active listening to the last of this great generation who, within memory, lived and transmitted the old time ways. I attempt to show them as fully developed characters rendering both their virtues and their faults. Let me know with emails which characters you want to learn more about, and I will include more poems about them.

David King Chesapeake, Virginia Nov. 4, 2007