MISC: Slim's Scythe

[Dave Van Domelen]

                             "Slim's Scythe"
                     Copyright 2011 by Dave Van Domelen
         inspired by a work he'd really like to know the author of
===========================================================================

                                 PREFACE

     When I was in grade school, I subscribed to Cricket Magazine, and read
every issue cover to cover.  Some of the stories have stuck with me to this
day, such as a retelling of the legend of how we came to value salt (based on
a Russian folk tale, if I recall correctly) or the story of the porcelain man
who helped a maiden escape imprisonment only to be turned into dinnerware for
his trouble.  Granted, he was kinda clingy, but she really done him wrong.
[Later note: this one I could find.  It's The Porcelain Man by Richard
Kennedy, 1976.  It also came out as a picture book, which I presume was
either padded out from the version in Cricket, or just had more illustrations
and larger text.]
     But the one that stuck with me the most strongly involved a swamp full
of overly clever frogs, an old storyteller, and a scythe.  So many details
remain fresh in my memory over thirty years later...but not the author, or
the names of any of the people or places (except Manhattan, which is merely
mentioned, not a place where the story happens).  Nothing specific to help me
identify it, but it had a particular detail that would ensure I thought of it
at least once a year.  I've asked on Yahoo! Answers, on various social media,
I've even written to the editors of Cricket (which is still being published,
but I never got a reply).  Shortly before I wrote the story below, I got a
suggestion from someone via Yahoo! Answers that it might have been The Liar
by William Faulkner.  After checking that story and confirming that it wasn't
the one, I realized that while the story did have a Faulknerian feel, it
couldn't have been by that author, since the framing sequence involved an old
man reminiscing about the Great Depression to a narrator too young to have
lived through it.
     So, after thinking to myself on many occasions that I remembered enough
of the story I could almost reconstruct it, I decided to go ahead and do so.
Maybe it'll jog someone's memory and I'll finally find out who wrote it.  Of
course, I'm not going to go with a bare bones recitation of what I remember,
I'm going to flesh out some of the missing details and make it a proper story
to the best of my ability.
     Here's the core of what I remember.  I think it might have been part of
a continuing series, or an excerpt from a collection, in which the narrator
heard many stories from the old storyteller.  It was set in an area with
swamps, but I'm pretty sure it was in a county rather than a parish, so maybe
Florida or Georgia.  The narrator was an adult, but born after the
Depression, putting him in his 20s or early 30s at the outside.  The old liar
was depicted in the illustrations as a fat old man in the present day but a
skeletally thin young man during the flashback, and he was in his "making
one's fortune" years during the Depression.  He was certainly old enough to
be trusted with a pistol or to make demands of government officials as a
taxpayin' citizen.  I've always had a better memory for numbers than names,
and I'm pretty sure of the numbers cited in this story, leaving aside some of
the times leading up to the climax (i.e. when I say 11:03, the original story
nmight have said 11:08).  All of the basic actions in the following story are
from the original as best as I can recall, I'm only adding embellishment and
asides to give it a more "rambling storyteller" feel.  I'm pretty sure that
sort of embellishment was present in the original piece, I just don't
remember those details.
     All of the names of people and places (other than Manhattan NY) are my
creations.  I'm also arbitrarily setting the framing sequence in 1976.
     If you know what story I'm basing this on, please let me know!

=============================================================================

     The Bicentennial had come and gone, leaving Clarke County in the grip of
its usual mid-August doldrums, the sort of sticky summer days you get when
you build a town on the edge of a swamp and what wind you get blows in from
there.  Not that the little parade in the county seat had been all that
impressive, but it was better than we usually had, which only made August
look even duller by comparison.
     With nothing better to do on this particular Saturday afternoon, I
decided to wander down to Ol' Slim's place and see if the old liar had a new
story in him.  Sorry, I meant to say, "if he had another enthralling tale of
his youth to impart on the younger generation."  If even a tenth of his tales
were true, I suppose he'd be justified in claiming he'd earned the right to
be a lazy old lump now.
     Now, to look at Ol' Slim, you'd assume it was one of those ironic
nicknames, like calling a bald man Curly.  His habit was to squat, toadlike,
overflowing a stool at the general store or to slump back into an overstuffed
and worn armchair on his porch.  Either way, you probably couldn't see what
he was sitting on.  But I was assured by no less a personage than Slim
himself that at one time he was thin as a split rail, and only got fat after
the gout made it hard for him to get around.  My pa allowed that this was the
truth, except that the gout came after the gut.
     So, on this particular Saturday, I swung open the slightly askew gate at
the front of his yard, ignoring the dirty looks from his next door neighbor
who was fighting a losing battle against crabgrass, and called out in
greeting.  
     "Hullo, Slim!  What's new?" 
     Slim chuckled, or maybe coughed.  Kinda hard to tell with him.  "Ain't
nothin' new round here in years, Ned.  Plenty old, though, if y'lookin'
f'bargains." 
     Now it was my turn to chuckle.  Whenever the sheriff came down on Slim
for the piles of junk in his yard, Slim just said he was holding a yard sale.
Then he had to actually sell a few things to give truth to the lie, and maybe
whittle the piles down a bit.  There always seemed to be more next time I
came around, though, which puzzled me.  Even if Slim was lying about the
gout, I couldn't see how he could have hauled some of those things into his
yard.  Maybe he grew junk like some people grow flowers, planting a toy car
in the dirt and watering it until it bloomed into an old Studebaker with no
tires.
     "I musta just missed Bob," I smiled.  Bob was the sheriff.  I took a
quick look around, as much looking for something that might draw out a story
as something I could use.  "Say, I don't recall seeing that before," I
pointed at a well-worn scythe, the old kind they used for mowing hay.  It
looked in good condition, and the blade was shiny and must've been sharpened
recently.  Slim wasn't a farmer, there wasn't enough open space in his yard
that he'd need a scythe to cut the grass...not that I expected he'd have
bothered with lawn care.  His neighbor Eustace certainly complained about
that enough.
     "Oh, my scythe?  I just got that out f'reminiscin', not f'the sale.  It
got me this house, didja know that?" Slim looked inordinately proud of
himself.
     Now, Slim had lived in that shabby-looking two story house as long as
I'd been alive, probably longer.  When I was a kid, we'd told stories about
how the house just sprang up out of the swampy ground one day, complete with
junk and Slim, like some sort of haunted house that was too lazy to actually
haunt.  He'd never really said why and when he settled down, I guess so he
could always leave himself more room to squeeze in another tall tale.
     "How'd that go?" I asked, leaning against a post that I knew was still
strong enough to take it.  
     "Y'ever gig frogs as a kid?" he asked.  Before I could ask what that had
to do with a mowing scythe, he rolled on.  "Never mind, I know y'did.  Y'were
a boy in Clarke County, y'gigged frogs.  But when I was a kid, y'couldn't.
The frogs over in Boone Swamp were just too damned clever.  And I don't just
mean smart f'frogs.  They was smarter than a lotta people I know.  Not that
it's a tall order, round here," he cast a sidelong glance at Eustace.  "But
they was definitely too clever t'catch, so they jest kept breedin'.  Boone
was fulla brainy frogs."
     "I suppose y'had somethin' t'do with them goin' stupid?" I asked, hiding
a smirk.
     Slim shook his head.  "Whole new population now," he carefully
enunciated the polysyllabic word.  "Ain't no mo' brainy frogs in Boone
Swamp.  And this scythe is why...."

               *              *              *              *

     This was back in th' depression, Ned, and I didn't have two nickles
t'rub t'gether.  Made me go from jest slim t' full on scarecrow.  I'd tried a
lotta ways t'make money, I'm sure I told you 'bout some of 'em, but even when
they worked I ended up broke again soon 'nuff.  I needed enough cash all at
once t'get somethin' permanent, like a house, 'r maybe a truck.
     'Bout this time, I read in the papers that a fancy French restaurant in
Manhattan was paying two dollars a pair for frog legs, and Boone Swamp was
just overflowin' with frogs.  'Course, I knew I couldn't jest go giggin'.
Even if I could outsmart 'em the first couple times, they'd wise up and I
might have a few dollars for a new coat but that'd be it.  I needed a plan
that would get 'em all at once, and pretty soon I had it.
     I headed to the government weather forecastin' office at th' county
annex.  "I need t' know when winter's coming t' Clarke County this year," I
asked.
     "Well, some time in early November," the weatherman said.  "That's when
it usually hits."
     "Ain't good enough!" I think I pounded th' desk t'show I was serious.
"I pay good money in taxes f'you guvmint people.  'Some time' won't cut it.
I need t'know down to th' second!"
     They hemmed and hawed, but after a little more convincing they got out
their charts n' slide rules an' went t'work.  Took all afternoon, and I was
gettin' tired a'waitin', but they came through."
     "According to our calculations, winter will hit Clarke County in the
eleventh second of the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour of the eleventh
day of November," the weatherman finally said.
     I thanked 'em and left, I had some prep'ration t'do b'fore November.
Did some harvesting work, used some a' my pay t'buy a pistol, an' I got 'em
t' throw in this scythe.  On th' ninth day a' November, I went down t' Boone
Swamp with an old chair, th' pistol, m'pocketwatch, an' m'scythe.  Frogs
scattered the moment I stepped int' water, 'course.  They always did.  But I
knew that sometimes being too smart makes y'stupid, an' patience n' planning
can always beat a fast pair a' legs.  So I set th' chair down in a bit a'
shallows in th' middle of a clearin' and sat down, pistol in m'pocket an'
watch in m'lap where I could see it without movin'.
     An' I sat.  Stock still like a statue, all day.  No lunch, no dinner.
I'd been hungrier before, I could handle it now.  Night fell, an' I saw no
frogs.
     Round about mornin', I could hear 'em.  A splash here an' there, some
ribbits, like they was talkin' things out.
     At noon, they sent a delegation a' frogs t'check me out.  I held totally
still.  They'd jump closer, then run away.  Repeat a couple times.  Mebbe
they thought I was dead.  I guess it was late afternoon by the time their
curiosity finally got th' better'f their sense, an' one hopped up close
enough t'touch.
     I didn't move.
     After th' sun went down, I could hear 'em goin' bout their business,
mostly in th' distance, but closer alla time.
     When th' sun came up on th' eleventh, I was surrounded by frogs.  Some
had decided I was just a part a' th' scenery now, while others jumped up on
my lap an' then back off, like kids daring each other t'go in th' bull's
pen. 
     I didn't move.
     At three minutes after eleven, I stood an' got up on th' chair, picking
up the scythe.
     The frogs scattered int' the deep water, 'course.  But I had their
curiosity whetted.  They HAD to know what came next.
     Slowly, by twos an' threes, they moved back in, 'til I was surrounded by
frogs starin' at me from all sides in th' shallows.
     At ten minutes after eleven, I pulled out m'pistol an' pointed it at the
sky.  A few frogs hopped back a bit, but they all stayed in th' clearin'.
They even started edgin' t'wards me some more.
     At eleven-eleven I pulled back th' hammer.  Th' frogs didn't budge.
     At eleven-eleven an' nine seconds I pulled th' trigger.
     BANG!
     At eleven-eleven an' ten seconds, two thousand frogs all jumped f'r deep
water.
     At eleven-eleven an' eleven seconds, two thousand frogs hit th' water.
     An' then winter came to Clarke County an' froze that swamp solid,
leaving four thousand frog legs waving 'bout above th' ice.
     Well, then, all I had t'do was get down off th' chair an' go t'work with
this here scythe, harvestin' the legs.  Sold 'em t'that restaurant, an' after
a while found a house I liked an' bought it.

               *              *              *              *

     "An' so y'can see why I couldn't possibly part with this scythe.  It got
me a home, aft' all," Ol' Slim beamed.
     "I'll give ya five bucks for it," I offered.
     "Sold."