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Where did he come from?
Who is he?
The Old Johnson house has been forsaken and abandoned for years - it's a forgotten shack of the past.
Who in the world is this mystery man now hiding out there?
He's a loner - a stranger - and doesn't fit our country style of living.
We all know each other - know a lot about each other - watch out for each other. But who is this misfit who keeps himself alone, hid up?
Is he some kind of fugitive, hiding out? What has he done? There is no vehicle of any kind. How did he arrive here?
He's probably not going to stay long, he's made no effort to pull a weed, put up a curtain, clean the walkway. The old broken-down window is carefully crammed with rumpled papers.
I'm glad it's appearing to look a temporary stay.
My mother, my dad, my two sisters, all working in the fields nearest this old house, should be the more concerned of all to greet this unexpected visitor.
I know he wants no part of getting acquainted.
Last Wednesday I drove near enough to the old house to find him sitting on the old wood steps. I was driving slow and I decided that maybe I should give a wave of my hand as I passed by, but his head conveniently turned another direction avoiding my gesture.
But I was glad - I didn't really want to get anything going - but I felt pressed to make the first step at that moment as a good neighbor ought to do - the way we always do - out here in the spacious country.
Well, I did see that the old mailbox in front of his house held no new name, and come to think of it, never once have I seen the red flag up holding a letter to go, and never once has the mailman stopped there that I've seen.
Surely he's hiding from something. And the more I think of it, our family being the closest neighbor, it should be our duty to do a little more investigating.
This weekend I'll be down in the bottom of the field irrigating. I'll be doing night irrigating so I'll slip up quietly, close enough to the yard that I can peer (peek) through a window and learn a little more of that he does with his time.
On purpose I watched for our mailman so I could see if he knew the name of the old man living at the Old Johnson Place. Just as I figured, he did not know. He verified what I had believed. He had never stopped at the old mailbox - no mail to deliver there ever.
Well, my weekend came, I drove the old 4-wheeler to take care of my irrigating down in the south end of the field.
But my plans to steal into the yard and peek at this mystery man failed. No lights ever turned on, no lamp, no candles, not a flicker of light in the old house. Now, what is he doing in there in the dark?
Everybody is out planting gardens now, and this old man has been hiding out here for over two months.
Each time I pass the old house I hope beyond hope that I will not see any garden - I want him to go- this is getting too much.
I want to feel freedom - sing to the spacious skies as I roll the tractor along. I want to smell the new mown hay and watch the colorful pheasant fly out to safety from my turning wheels. I want all of this to come back the way it was when the old house stood alone by itself, with little jackrabbits peering through the weeds.
But I'm realizing I'm turned inside, ever fearing, ever wondering since the arrival of this unwanted mystery man. He doesn't know it, but he has imprisoned me in what used to be my happy world.
Yes, this is it, there is no need living within these walls of fear.
Something must be done - whatever must be done, must be done - but I want to hash it out in the open. I shall talk with my dad and my family and decide how to get to the door and confront this character.
But then, something happened. The plans of talking with my dad and my family about the horrible situation never came to be.
Something happened first - heavy rain began to fall and flood. I was in the south field, and as I was hurrying to get home to cozy shelter, really hurrying past the Old Johnson house, I glanced over just in time to see the lightning flash and light up the skies and show a form face down on the ground. The old man. No other thought came into my mind but "help him!" I found myself lifting a helpless body into his abode to escape the dashing rains.
He was alright, all was well, and his quivering lips were murmuring, "Thank you, my son, thank you."
I covered his shaking body and then he told me his story when he was comfortable.
I hurried home to my family, the drizzling rain splashed playfully on my face, the air felt fresh and good. The smell of hot beef stew was simmering through the rooms on this cozy, rainy night.
"Mom", I said, "Can I take some of this soup to the old man down the lane? He came here to stay awhile, escaped from his children as he thought he was a burden. They needed a rest from him for just a little while. He life-long friend Tom brought him here, set him up comfortable and promised to tell no one of his whereabouts until he returned to get him after a two month stay - he's blind! Oh yes, his name is Joe Johnson, they called him 'Little Joe.'"
Who is he?
The Old Johnson house has been forsaken and abandoned for years - it's a forgotten shack of the past.
Who in the world is this mystery man now hiding out there?
He's a loner - a stranger - and doesn't fit our country style of living.
We all know each other - know a lot about each other - watch out for each other. But who is this misfit who keeps himself alone, hid up?
Is he some kind of fugitive, hiding out? What has he done? There is no vehicle of any kind. How did he arrive here?
He's probably not going to stay long, he's made no effort to pull a weed, put up a curtain, clean the walkway. The old broken-down window is carefully crammed with rumpled papers.
I'm glad it's appearing to look a temporary stay.
My mother, my dad, my two sisters, all working in the fields nearest this old house, should be the more concerned of all to greet this unexpected visitor.
I know he wants no part of getting acquainted.
Last Wednesday I drove near enough to the old house to find him sitting on the old wood steps. I was driving slow and I decided that maybe I should give a wave of my hand as I passed by, but his head conveniently turned another direction avoiding my gesture.
But I was glad - I didn't really want to get anything going - but I felt pressed to make the first step at that moment as a good neighbor ought to do - the way we always do - out here in the spacious country.
Well, I did see that the old mailbox in front of his house held no new name, and come to think of it, never once have I seen the red flag up holding a letter to go, and never once has the mailman stopped there that I've seen.
Surely he's hiding from something. And the more I think of it, our family being the closest neighbor, it should be our duty to do a little more investigating.
This weekend I'll be down in the bottom of the field irrigating. I'll be doing night irrigating so I'll slip up quietly, close enough to the yard that I can peer (peek) through a window and learn a little more of that he does with his time.
On purpose I watched for our mailman so I could see if he knew the name of the old man living at the Old Johnson Place. Just as I figured, he did not know. He verified what I had believed. He had never stopped at the old mailbox - no mail to deliver there ever.
Well, my weekend came, I drove the old 4-wheeler to take care of my irrigating down in the south end of the field.
But my plans to steal into the yard and peek at this mystery man failed. No lights ever turned on, no lamp, no candles, not a flicker of light in the old house. Now, what is he doing in there in the dark?
Everybody is out planting gardens now, and this old man has been hiding out here for over two months.
Each time I pass the old house I hope beyond hope that I will not see any garden - I want him to go- this is getting too much.
I want to feel freedom - sing to the spacious skies as I roll the tractor along. I want to smell the new mown hay and watch the colorful pheasant fly out to safety from my turning wheels. I want all of this to come back the way it was when the old house stood alone by itself, with little jackrabbits peering through the weeds.
But I'm realizing I'm turned inside, ever fearing, ever wondering since the arrival of this unwanted mystery man. He doesn't know it, but he has imprisoned me in what used to be my happy world.
Yes, this is it, there is no need living within these walls of fear.
Something must be done - whatever must be done, must be done - but I want to hash it out in the open. I shall talk with my dad and my family and decide how to get to the door and confront this character.
But then, something happened. The plans of talking with my dad and my family about the horrible situation never came to be.
Something happened first - heavy rain began to fall and flood. I was in the south field, and as I was hurrying to get home to cozy shelter, really hurrying past the Old Johnson house, I glanced over just in time to see the lightning flash and light up the skies and show a form face down on the ground. The old man. No other thought came into my mind but "help him!" I found myself lifting a helpless body into his abode to escape the dashing rains.
He was alright, all was well, and his quivering lips were murmuring, "Thank you, my son, thank you."
I covered his shaking body and then he told me his story when he was comfortable.
I hurried home to my family, the drizzling rain splashed playfully on my face, the air felt fresh and good. The smell of hot beef stew was simmering through the rooms on this cozy, rainy night.
"Mom", I said, "Can I take some of this soup to the old man down the lane? He came here to stay awhile, escaped from his children as he thought he was a burden. They needed a rest from him for just a little while. He life-long friend Tom brought him here, set him up comfortable and promised to tell no one of his whereabouts until he returned to get him after a two month stay - he's blind! Oh yes, his name is Joe Johnson, they called him 'Little Joe.'"
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