What the point was I never knew, but I remember them laughing so hard they just threw themselves down on the grass and lay there with the tears runnings down into their hair. One time Boughton and I and some others took a hay wagon apart and reassembled it on the roof of the courthouse. I don’t know what the point of that was, either, but we had a grand time, working under cover of darkness and all that. I wasn’t ordained yet, but I was in seminary. I don’t know what we thought we were up to. All that laughter. I wish I could hear it again. I asked Boughton if he remembered putting that wagon on the roof and he said, “How could I forget it?” and chuckled to please me, but he really wanted to sit there with his chin propped on the head of his cane and listen to the voices of his children. So I walked home.
You and your mother were making sandwiches with peanut butter and apple butter on raisin bread. I consider such a sandwich a great delicacy, as you are clearly aware, because you made me stay on the porch until everything was ready, the milk poured and so on. Children seem to think every pleasant thing has to be a surprise.
Your mother was a little upset because she didn’t know where I was. I didn’t tell her I might go to Boughton’s. She’s afraid I’ll just drop dead somewhere, and that’s reasonable enough. It seems to me worse things could happen, actually, but that’s not how she looks at it. Most of the time I feel a good deal better than the doctor led me to expect, so I ‘m inclined to enjoy myself as I can. It helps me sleep.
I was thinking about old Boughton’s parents, what they were like when we were children. They were a rather somber pair, even in their prime. Not like him at all. His mother would take tiny bites of her food and swallow as if she were swallowing live coals, stoking the fires of her dyspepsia. And his father, reverend gentleman that he was, had something about him that bespoke grudge. I have always liked the phrase “nursing a grudge,” because many people are tender of their resentments, as of the thing nearest their hearts. Well, who knows what account these two old pilgrims have made of themselves by now.
I always imagine divine mercy giving us back to ourselves and letting us laugh at what we became, laugh at the preposterous disguises of crouch and squint and limp and lour we all do put on. I enjoy the hope that when we meet I will not be estranged from you by all the oddnesses life has carved into me. When I look at Boughton, I see a funny, generous young man, full of vigor. He’s on two canes now, and he says if he could sprout a third arm there would be three. He hasn’t stood in a pulpit these ten years. I conclude that Boughton has completed his errand and I have not yet completed mine. I hope I am not presuming on the Lord’s patience.
***
I’ve started The Trail of the Lonesome Pine. I went over to the library and got a copy for myself, since your mother can’t part with hers. I believe she’s reading through it again. I’d forgotten it entirely, if I ever read it at all. There’s a young girl who falls in love with an older man. She tells him, “I’ll go with ye anywhar.” That made me laugh. I guess it’s a pretty good book. He isn’t old like I am, but then your mother isn’t young like the girl in the book is, either.
This week I intend to preach on Genesis 21:14–21, which is the story of Hagar and Ishmael. If these were ordinary times — if I were twenty years younger — I’d be making an orderly passage through the Gospels and the Epistles before I turned to Genesis again. That was my custom, and I have always felt it was effective as teaching, which is really what all this is about. Now, though, I talk about whatever is on my mind — Hagar and Ishmael at the moment.
The story of Hagar and Ishmael came to mind while I was praying this morning, and I found a great assurance in it. The story says that it is not only the father of a child who cares for its life, who protects its mother, and it says that even if the mother can’t find a way to provide for it, or herself, provision will be made. At that level it is a story full of comfort. That is how life goes — we send our children into the wilderness. Some of them on the day they are born, it seems, for all the help we can give them. Some of them seem to be a kind of wilderness unto themselves. But there must be angels there, too, and springs of water. Even that wilderness, the very habitation of jackals, is the Lord’s. I need to bear this in mind.
Young Boughton came by to see if you felt like a game of catch. You did. He was sunburned from working in the garden.
It gave him a healthy, honest look. He’s teaching you to throw overhand. He said he couldn’t stay for supper. You were disappointed, as I believe your mother was also.
The moon looks wonderful in this warm evening light, just as a candle flame looks beautiful in the light of morning. Light within light. It seems like a metaphor for something. So much does. Ralph Waldo Emerson is excellent on this point.
It seems to me to be a metaphor for the human soul, the singular light within the great general light of existence. Or it seems like poetry within language. Perhaps wisdom within experience. Or marriage within friendship and love. I’ll try to remember to use this. I believe I see a place for it in my thoughts on Hagar and Ishmael. Their time in the wilderness seems like a specific moment of divine Providence within the whole providential regime of Creation.
Just before suppertime yesterday evening Jack Boughton came strolling by. He sat himself down on the porch step and talked baseball and politics — he favors the Yankees, which he has every right to do — until the fragrance of macaroni and cheese so obtruded itself that I was obliged to invite him in. You and your mother still regard him as a fairly wonderful surprise, this John Ames Boughton with his quiet voice and his preacherly manner, which, by the way, he has done nothing to earn, or to deserve. To the best of my knowledge, at any rate. He had it even as a child, and I always found that disturbing. Maybe it’s something he isn’t conscious of, growing up the way he did. But it seems to me sometimes that there’s an element of parody in it. I wonder if he acts that way everywhere, or if he does it only around me, and around his father. What do I mean by preacherly? There’s a way of being formal and deferential and at the same time cordial, while maintaining an air of dignified authority, which is preacherly. I never mastered this myself, but my father had it and Boughton had it. My grandfather, that old Nazirite, was impressive in another style. But of sheer and perfect preacherliness I have never seen a finer example than this Jack Boughton, heathen that he is, or was. Your mother asked him if he would like to say grace, and he did, with an elegant simplicity that seemed almost wasted on macaroni and cheese.
He mentioned that I had not been to see his father in a few days, which is the truth, and which is no coincidence either. I thought he might be at his father’s only a few days. It has been one of the great irritations of my life, seeing the two of them together. I hoped to stay away till he left, but clearly he is not about to do that.
In the old days I used to come into the kitchen and look around in the pantry and the icebox, and generally I’d find a pot full of soup or stew or a casserole of some kind, which I would warm up or not depending on my mood. If I didn’t find anything, I’d eat cold baked beans and fried-egg sandwiches — which, by the way, I enjoyed. I’d find pie or biscuits on the table sometimes. When I was at the church or up in my study, one of the women would just step in the door and leave dinner there for me and go away, and then another day she’d come back and take her pan and her tea towels or whatever and go away. I’d find jam and pickles and smoked fish. Once I found liver pills. It was a strange life, with its own pleasures.