There once was an old woman, who lived in Ohio…
When the Great Depression struck, she was already ancient. Confined most days to the rocking chair of elderly bliss, afternoons would see her on the porch, growling at roving bands of playful children who happened to cross the “deadline” of her front lawn. Spread across the old woman’s lap was a tattered shawl, faded and worn by history, an heirloom from when her face wasn’t wrinkled and careworn by the march of time. She clutched it with reverence, as one would hold “Old Glory”, torn and shredded, deserving of reverence. There was a rumor, spread far and wide across the small town, that she secreted a Civil War revolver underneath, waiting for that one irreverent youth to step out of bounds…
Johnny was a boy in the early 1930s. He knew of the old woman and feared her as all little boys in the neighborhood did, lest she pull that pistol and pop a shot off in his direction. A terrifying fantasy, shared by all the children in the neighborhood, created from the common fears of youngsters towards the old folks. Johnny was of a bit of a different kid, though. He was dirt poor, like most in those days, more curious, or more troublesome, than average. Shirtless, sporting nothing but played in overalls, washed but replete with the remains of dirt, mud, and food grease, badges from glorious days of yore and straw hat torn in many places, almost misshapen, Johnny approached the little old woman one afternoon on his way home from a day of unbridled, summertime play. His friends had already reached their destinations, filling up on their Mother’s required break from play, an inconvenience that took time away from horseplay, baseball, fishing, or any number of pastimes enjoyed away from school. He was direct, approaching what seemed to him the oldest human on the face of the Earth. “Do you have an old gun under there?” Johnny asked in a hesitant but reverent tone, one a youth would use towards an elder, half curios, half fearful should the old woman gun him down where he stood . “Child”, the old woman cooed, “wherever would you hear such a thing?”. “I heard it from some of my friends, ma’am” Johnny said, making sure to address her properly, as his mother had taught him. The old lady broke out in soft but genuine laughter, “heavens no child, why on Earth would I have such a thing?” said she. “From the War?” Johnny said, half asking with curiosity peaking in his squeaky voice. Slowly, but directly, the old woman said “No child, I don’t have anything of the sort…either here or anywhere abouts”.
Now Johnny was sure he had heard it from some, or one of his friends, maybe he overheard it from an adult or two, he couldn't remember and really wasn’t sure, but the old lady lifted her shawl to show him she carried no weapon from a War that was swiftly passing out of living memory. “See” the old woman said gently with a wry smile on her face. Johnny was taken aback. He had never seen the old woman smile, only scowl and mutter at neighborhood youngsters in those mad throws of youthful play and hijinks, replete with happy outbursts, running and jumping, the leaping and yelling that summertime games bring. He must have given some sort of pause, not knowing what to say or how to react in the presence of the old woman who didn’t seem scary or threatening. “Would you like to sit down young man?” breaking Johnny’s awkward silence, “yes…yes ma’am”. He took a seat and crossed his legs on the floor of the porch, not too close and not too far from the little old woman and her rocker, just enough to not be rude, but far enough for a respectful distance.
“So child, what do you know of the War?”. Johnny had learned some of it in school, that the Civil War was fought between North and South, that Ohio had fought on the Northern side, and he was pretty sure his grandfather was in it, that President Lincoln freed the slaves and was killed by a man that shared his name, John Wilkes Booth. After Johnny finished, the old woman smiled and laughed, “that’s right”, “You are a very bright boy”. Johnny smiled back, feeling the pride of recounting his school lessons. “Would you like to see something?” said the old woman with a slight twinkle in her eye. For just a moment, Johnny’s heart jumped, fearful the old woman had been dishonest and really did have a Civil War pistol, ready to plug him just because he’d crossed where none of his friends had dared. Quickly realizing the foolishness of his thoughts and remembering that the old woman had just allayed those fears, curiosity got the better of Johnny, and he proclaimed “Yes ma’am!”.
She reached deep into the recesses of her faded, careworn calico dress, dripping with tales of more youthful days, but clinging in the sunset of her life. The old woman produced a small rolled up wad of yellowed cotton batting. Carefully and gingerly, she unwrapped the soft, yellowed casing of withered fibers, shaking hands slowly revealing the treasure within. In the palm of her gnarled hand, dancing with blue veins and dark spots of age, lay a small, tiny, bone creation, a creation from days of old, something from decades back, something the old woman valued above all else…a toothpick…
“My Daddy made this when he was prisoner in Andersonville” said the old woman. “It’s the only remembrance I have from him”. Curious to the point of annoyance Johnny once again just had to press, “You mean you don’t have your pappy’s gun?” “No child…” said the woman, “ I told I didn’t, t’was just a rumor to keep you young-ins in line” she said gently, but a bit firmer this time. Johnny smiled sheepishly, fears fully fading like the eyes of the elder sitting before him. Also, Johnny had no idea what an “Andersonville” was, or rather, surmising that it was probably a place, where “Andersonville” was. It couldn’t be an old gun, because the old woman said she didn’t have none of that. “What’s Andersonville, ma’am?” Johnny blurted. “Well,” she said…”t’was a place in Georgia the Rebels put our soldiers when they was took off the battlefield…during the War. It was a horrible place according to my daddy…full of death and whatnot. Those damned Rebs killed many of our good soldiers in that place, but my daddy lived and come home to us”. Johnny slightly smirked and snickered on the inside, he didn’t expect someone as old as this woman to use the word “damn” in front of a youngster like him. He had heard the word before, hushed tones from his father when no children were thought to be around, but hearing it here, in such a manner, made him her cohort, her ally, her confidant, and he disliked those “damned Rebs” south of the Mason-Dixon Line even more.
It was a very small “toothpick”…and Johnny wasn’t so sure the old woman knew what a toothpick was. All the ones he’d seen looked like a little sharpened stick, long and round, tiny, made of wood. The object she held in her hand was different. “Are you sure that’s a toothpick!” Johnny exclaimed. The old woman gently nodded, saying “I bet you’ve never seen a thing like it, it’s different from the ones they make today”, as she slowly and carefully moved the object around in her palm with a finger. Johnny’s gaze was fixed on the “toothpick”, saying “it looks like a jackknife my Pa has…does it open up?”. “It sure does” and she carefully grasped the toothpick with two fingers, pulling out a thin triangular blade that really did make the toothpick look like a miniature pocket knife…
Summer came to an end, as it always does in the world of little boys and girls, greeting the dawn of a new grade in school, new adventures, a longing for what was to come in the next year. Johnny never feared the old woman after that day. She was just a little old lady, not the scary image of a haggard old crone ready to shoot down little boys who got too close. Johnny blossomed into a young adult, becoming a naval aviator in WWII and ultimately earning a PhD. in Psychology. Oddly enough, he also became an expert on Southwestern Indian pottery, amassing one of the best and most diverse Native American pottery collections in the United States. He could never remember what happened to the old woman, time and the fog of youth clouding the memories. Dr. John never forgot the toothpick though, and how an unnamed Union soldier from Ohio survived the horrors of the Confederacy’s most notorious prisoner of war camp, to bring home a precious item he'd made whilst there, bequeathing it to his little daughter. John often wondered, when the old woman passed, did anyone even know what she had cherished and held close, in that tattered wad of cotton? Did anyone save the little bone treasure, shrouded in a wealth of American history? Perhaps...
