Root Jumper by Justine Felix Rutherford Read Free Book Online Page A

name was Samp Tripett. He lived on the lower end of the valley. I don’t know how Samp got his money. As far as I know, he was always a farmer. I never actually knew this man, and I can’t remember ever meeting him. Through the years I remember yellow bits of paper stuffed in the kitchen cabinet with the words “I owe you” or I promise to pay” written on them. My brother Werner said if you borrowed money from Samp, whether it was five dollars or several thousand dollars, you had to sign a note. He said Samp would tear off a piece of a brown poke, or any writing material that was available, and say, “You sign here, and if you don’t pay, I’ll sue you.” I understand that was the rule for his own family as well. I don’t think Samp ever turned anyone down. He carried most people all year long or from crop to crop. I went to the Spurlock reunion held on Spurlock Creek one summer in recent years. One of my cousins told me she went to housekeeping on fifty dollars that they borrowed from Samp.
    Another man we used for a bank during this period was Harry Gebhardt. He lived on Union Ridge. I knew Harry well. I saw him every day when I went to school at Pine Grove. He sort of looked after us kids.
    Harry and his wife Hazel owned a small grocery store on Union Ridge, and they farmed as well. I say “they” farmed because for as long as I can remember Hazel worked right along beside him in the hayfield or doing whatever else he needed done. The boys nicknamed Harry “Rags” because when his denim overalls wore out or his overall jacket wore out, he just put another raggedy outfit over top of them. He was always clean, but he looked like a tattered scarecrow. I think he really liked to be called ‘Rags.” These people are all gone now, but the memories of them linger on.
     
    Bad News
    One day I overheard my mother and father talking. I was always all ears. I’ll never forget. They were both sitting on this log in the backyard. My dad had been painting Stewart Baker’s barn roof. He said to my mother, “I had to tell Stewart today I couldn’t finish his barn roof because I wasn’t able.” He said, “I had to leave the job today.” I looked at him and saw tears in his eyes.
    For the first time, I really knew fear. Could anything happen to my dad? Not to my dad who whittled out my dishes from hickory nut hulls and who patched up my wounds and hurts. He was the man whose lap I always crawled up onto in the evening to catch a nap. Not my dad who was always there for all of us. What would happen to us if anything happened to Dad?
    Today I think divorce is the scariest thing for children, but back then it was the death of a mother or father. I remember my husband Doyle telling years later that he was so scared something would happen to his mom or dad that on the way to school he would lie down in the road ditch and cry.
    My dad went to the doctor a few months later. The doctor couldn’t find anything. I was relieved, but I watched my dad get thinner and thinner. I knew something was wrong, although he kept right on working when he could. My mother knew also. The doctor finally put him in the hospital. They found he had lung cancer. He got to come home for a few months. I remember going to the road in a sled to pick him up. He had two grapefruits—one for me and one for my younger brother Arnold. I had never seen a grapefruit. He helped me peel it. I didn’t tell him, but I didn’t like the grapefruit.
    Again I remember the kindness of our friends and neighbors. Among the kindnesses I especially remember that Harry Gebhardt came to visit Dad and brought him a rocking chair. He said, “Walter, this was my mother’s. Hazel and I thought maybe you could use it.” Dad sat in that chair until he died. I remember Dad telling Harry, “I got my farm paid for.” He was so glad he could leave us the farm “free and clear,” as he called it. We bid farewell to my dad in March, 1938. I was eleven years old. He left