THE NINTH
HOLE
Ronnie
Bennett’s childhood story
The
morning April air was just bit cool as 14 year Ronnie left his family's farm
house to walk the three miles to the Hartford school house for a spelling bee
but as he climbed the hills and jumped the ditches along the dirt road the
temperature seemed just right to his short-sleeved arms.
Just
as he reached the half-way point which was the driveway to the County Farm he
heard someone call his name. Ronnie recognized the voice as that of the
operator of the facility. Old man Richner matter-of-factly walked down the
driveway to meet him.
Having
lived this close to the County House all his life the teenager had accepted the
atrocity as a fact of life and wouldn't really grasp its significance for many
years. The County Farm was the only
option for the very poor without family to take them in, the elderly too feeble
to care for themselves or anyone with mental problems. The county would hire an
operator for the farm and allow him to make all decisions for those unfortunate
enough to be sent to the facility by the court or their family.
"Would
you like to work today" the tall man asked the boy as they approached each
other in the driveway. "I was going to the spelling bee but if you need me
I guess I will help you today because I'm not that good a speller anyway,"
he replied. "Aunt Janie died last night and I've got to go to McHenry for
a box. Could you get the old mare and hook to the rock sled and go by the house
and get Rollo and you and him go dig a grave over by the fence in the far side
of the graveyard," the county house operator said. "O.K., where’s the shovels and dynamite
and I'll get right on it," Ronnie said. "The shovels, broad axe, and hoes are in
the smokehouse but you better not set off any blasts without me here and
besides the ground over there is not that rocky," Richner said. "O.K.," the boy said disappointedly.
Blasting was the favorite part of helping the old friend of his family with
clearing and other tasks last summer.
As
the teenager reached the porch with the mare, sled and other tools he saw Rollo
coming out of the house on his home-made crutches. The boy had worked with
Rollo last summer removing rocks from the fields on the county farm so he well
knew what the middle-aged man whom had spent most of his life at the county
farm could or could not do.
The
lame man made his way to the sled and sat down on the edge and laid his
crutches on the pile of digging tools. Ronnie walked along beside the sled and
drove the mare as close to the iron gate of the County Farm cemetery as
possible. Rollo took his crutches and
the broad axe and made his way to the gravesite while the boy tied the mare.
The
pair dug the grave in about two hours to the depth of five foot on the highest
corner since the hilly gravesite sloped slightly in two directions. As the boy
and slightly "Slow" man labored on the grave they talked about
hunting and fishing and other things until the conversation got slow and Ronnie
asked, "Rollo, how did you come to be here at the Poor House (another name
for the county farm)." My folks
died when I was 10 and nobody kin to me liked me being crazy so someone brought
me here in a wagon pulled by two black mules," the man replied. After another few quite moments the boy
chanced a second question very cautiously, "Rollo, you don't have to tell
me but I was wondering how come you are crippled." The man replied, "Mr. Hall, who used to
run this place, cut the leaders in the back of my legs when I tried to run away
from here right after I first got here and heaven knows I had my reasons for
running off. I made it to the church
house and everyone was mad because I was there being crazy and all. He used a
butcher knife and it hurt really bad for a long time.”
The
grave was barely finished when they heard the sound of Mr. Richner's old ‘36
flatbed Ford Truck coming down the driveway toward the house. The pair took the
sled back to the porch of the house and looked at County Farm Operator and
waited for him to tell them what to do next.
Ronnie
helped Richner unload the very plain wood coffin onto the porch. Two old women
who were residents of the facility were finishing combing and brushing the hair
of the corpse as the box was unloaded. The 14 year old helped place the
deceased into the coffin by grasping the feet while Richner grabbed onto the
torso. They lifted her from a homemade slab of oak boards placed on saw horses.
The Operator then called for anyone who wanted to pay last respects to Aunt
Janie to come out of the house and do so. About ten weary, hopeless and feeble
men, women and one child filed by the coffin to view their friend for the last
time.
The
Old Man, the cripple and the boy loaded the coffin onto the sled since the road
was not firm enough to get over with the truck. This time they opened the
wrought iron gate and drove the sled in across graves with flat rock markers to
the open freshly dug hole. Richner told Ronnie to throw a couple big dirt clods
into the grave and the directions were followed. "Take the lines off the
mare and bring them over here," the county house operator told the
teenager. They placed the lines one on each end of the coffin and used them to
lower the box into the ground. The dirt clods allowed the lines to be removed
after the coffin was in place.
“Thank
you for helping today. Would you finish up here so I can take the Missus to
visit her sister, she hasn't been out of her bedroom today while this mess was
going on," the Operator said."
Ronnie and Rollo covered up the grave and placed a flat rock at the head
as a marker as the old truck roared down the driveway back toward town.
I read this often to remind me why I can not locate graves of those I search for in researching...Thank you for all the wonderful lessons!
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