In 1989, I
bought a place in western North
Carolina. The
building was originally built to house antique cars, no partitions. I saw how easily it could be turned into a
comfortable not fancy dwelling.
A friend of
mine was between jobs at the time and I persuaded him to help me transform the
place. He, like me, is a “Jack of all Trades”, so we work well together.
Neither of
us being very good cooks, we ate most of our meals in the small town
nearby. Our favorite place was a service
station that had a serve yourself hot dog bar.
We went there quite often. This
particular day, we had made our hot dogs and we were seated at a small
table. An old man was talking to the
cashier. When he saw us, he came over to
where we were. “You Fellers must be new
around here”, he said. “I know everybody
in this area, and I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”
I assured
him he was right, and acquainted him with what we were doing.
“What place
did you buy,” he asked? I told him the
location. “Know it well”, he
stated. “Have you heard the story about
that old mountain behind your place,” he inquired? I told him that I hadn’t. At this point he pulled up a chair and began
to talk.
When he had
finished his story, he got up and started walking away. “Maybe I’ll see the two of you again
sometime,” he said, and walked out the door.
I asked the
clerk who the old man was, “I’ve never seen him before, I thought he was part
of your crew,” he stated. I thought this
odd for the old gentleman had said that he knew everybody in this area. But come to think of it he didn’t say
everybody knew him. This is the story
that the old man told.
They say the mountain’s haunted
Don’t know that I believe
And yet you feel you’re not alone
As you wander through the trees.
It’s said an old man lived here
In the valley just below
In a cabin by the water
Where bulrush and cattails grow.
Everybody called him Whistler
No one knew his name
Didn’t know how long he’d been
here
Or from where he came.
All the mountain folk knew
Whistler
Most saw him everyday
He’d whistle tunes for passers by
To cheer them on their way.
Those were the good times
On each other you could depend
Neighbor loving neighbor
Each door open to a friend.
Mountain life was simple
Things stayed the same for years
He whistled tunes to fit the day
Through smiles as well as tears.
Whistler became restless as if
waiting
His steps had gotten slow.
Just what the old main waited for
No one could really know.
Each one had their own opinion,
The truth was never learned.
Why he wandered up the mountain
And never did return.
Is it just coincidence
So the records say
That I moved into this county
On the day he went away?
Some say that when the north wind
blows
In the evening late
Sounds like the wailing of a dove
That’s somehow lost its mate.
Could it be Whistler crying.
Out of sight but not yet gone away
What kind of rules for ghosts
apply
How long must they stay?
Could it be that he can’t leave
Till someone takes his place
Does another have to be there
To fill that empty space?
The land was seized for taxes due
No kin had filed a claim
Impossible to advertise
A debt without his name.
His house stood empty quite a while
A buyer never found
The county wanted rid of it
Or else they’d burn it down.
I bought the place at auction
Just why I never knew
An inner voice kept telling me
It’s what you have to do.
His home was like he left it.
As neat as it could be
Two places set at table
Was he expecting me?
I knew that I had been here
Too familiar with the place
The dust covered painting on the
wall
Of an old man saying grace.
A well worn King James Bible
On a table by his bed
Told me a lot about this man
By the things he read.
A dollar and a little change
Was all the money found
Wonder how he paid for his
supplies
When he went to town.
I found it strange to say the
least
As I rummaged through the place
Just one old faded photograph
Of a pretty woman’s face.
She looked so much like Mama
But that could never be
An inscription on the back read
Summer of eighteen eighty three.
Many were the questions
Answers very few
Wife, daughter, lover
I still wish I knew.
Unusual for an outsider
To be accepted as their own
They didn’t seem like strangers
But folks I’d always known.
It seemed that I was driven
Was told what I should do
If by choice or otherwise
I became Whistler number Two.
Now I’m known as Whistler
Cause that’s my first love too.
I whistle for my neighbors
Just like he used to do.
But progress moved in on us
Nothing stays the same
Seems to me like overnight
Everything had changed.
The county wanted wider roads
They tore the cabin down.
The only proof that it was there
A few cement blocks around.
Nothing left but memories now
Maybe a ghost or two
But I find myself still whistling
Tunes I never knew.
I wrote the story as tho I had been talking to Whistler
number Two. I believe that I had been.
But wait, there’s
more . . .
After the
house was finished, my wife and I would come up every few weeks. Me, to cut grass and do maintenance, and she
to tidy up inside. But mostly to enjoy
the peace and quiet of the mountains.
This
particular hot summer day, I had been cutting grass. I stopped to rest and cool and dozed off. I was startled awake by a voice saying,
“Sonny could I bother you for a drink of water?” (I hadn’t been called Sonny for at least
fifty years.) Standing before me was an
old man mopping his face and neck. I
invited him onto the porch, and asked if he had rather have a coke. “No thank you,” he replied, “Water will be
fine.” He sat down in one of the
rockers, and put his sweat cloth in one of his front pockets. As I went into
the house for his water, I thought how unusual to carry your kerchief in your
front pocket. I brought his water out,
and sat down next to him. As he drank
it, he remarked, “You know, years ago there was a spring of the sweetest water
a man ever tasted just below where your well is now. But with no one here to use it, time has
filled it in and covered it over.”
He pulled
out his cloth just one more time and stood up saying, “Looks like a summer
shower is coming up, so I’d better head on up the mountain.” As he walked off of the porch he said,
“Thanks so much for the water, Sonny, and hope to see you again.” As he walked away, I noticed for the first
time that his shirt and overalls seemed to be hand made and didn’t have any
back pockets. That explained the sweat
rag in his front.
As he left,
I carried his glass back into the house.
When I came out, he was nowhere to be seen. But I could have sworn I heard someone
whistling Danny Boy, my mama’s favorite song.
Na, I thought, must just be the wind.
I could
hear thunder out of the southwest, so I thought, the old man was right about
the rain. Thought I’d better pull the
rockers back near the wall so they wouldn’t get wet. As I pulled the chair he had been seated in I
noticed a penny in the seat. He must
have pulled it out as he removed his cloth.
I picked it up, and started to put it in my pocket when I noticed it
didn’t look right. I examined it closer,
and guess what? It was an Indian Head
Penny dated 1883. Had it been lost, or
placed there?
This wasn’t
the same man I had talked to in the service station. Had I been hospitable to Whistler number One?
Is
the story true?
Is
it something I dreamed?
Did
someone tell it to me?
Is
it just plain fiction?
I
don’t know. You Tell me.
CF.
