Sparrow's Song

The old man with one eye reached for his can of snuff and nonchalantly jammed a wad between his cheek and gum before replacing the round can back in his pocket and giving us a wink. Filthy habit, he advised us, cain't say I recommend it a'tall. Wide eyed, we watched him wipe tobacco juice from his chin with an old checked bandanna and then spit with precision and true aim. A half empty quart bottle of Molson sat beside him, a nondescript hound of unknown ancestry lay at his feet in the warm sun, and a shotgun leaned precariously on the rickety railing. This was Old Sparrow - part Indian, part Acadian, full time philosopher and story teller, legendary drunkard, decorated war hero, ex-husband of four island women and one on the French Shore, father of sixteen children that he would admit to, and former bootlegger. If any home on the island was off limits, Sparrow's topped the list - Nana had called him a "reprobate" and a "scallywag" while my daddy claimed he was "colorful" and "not a man to sit across the poker table from". My mother dismissed him as a "lecherous, old womanizer and who knows what he does with those sheep".

Sparrow kept a few chickens, a dozen or so sheep, and one old milkcow. He whittled knickknacks for tourists and received a "guv'ment" check monthly, sold what milk and eggs he didn't use himself, and sheared the sheep for their wool. He was a man of simple wants, he told us, snuff and Molson's, a good pair of boots and a warm quilt for the winter and he had everything he needed. According to local folklore, he had come to the island as a young man, a seiner with a pretty young wife and been seduced into staying by the sunsets and lack of law enforcement.

Bootlegging was more reliable and paid far better than fishing and by his own admission, he could shoot a flea off a dog's back at 50 paces, so he hunted during the winter and stockpiled all he needed for an entire year. He built the little cabin on the hill himself and commenced to begin filling it with children until the war came when he was sent to France. He fought well, losing an eye to a carelessly thrown grenade, but returning home to resume his life, he discovered that he was bored and discontent after being a soldier. The pretty young wife abandoned him and he took to the sea where he tried his hand at piracy and treasure hunting, lumberjacking in the 'States, oil rigs off Alaska, brothel running in the Carribean and a year as a mercenary in Spain. When he exhausted the wanderlust, he returned to the island, took a second wife and settled in again, this time for good - his fortune had been made and his thirst for adventure quieted. Several wives later with all the fortune spent, he found he was ready to porch sit and tell his stories while he watched the world go by like a sleepy old dog who had finally found his way home.

The night of Sparrow's song was clear and warm with fireflies darting everywhere in the darkness and a mild breeze drifting up from the ocean. We were supposed to be at the picture show but instead had slipped out as soon as the lights had gone down and made our way to The Point, keeping to the shadows and dodging into the ditches at approaching cars. When we reached Sparrow's, we saw a light in the window and heard the singing.

it filled the air like dust in sunlight, floating and wavering and all around us - Genevieve, oh, Genevieve - a deep, resonating voice, clearly understandable and articulated - The days may come, the days may go- we stopped in astonishment, realizing that it was Sparrow. There wasn't a hint of drunkeness in his voice and he was alone on the porch, not even the old dog keeping him company. Without knowing why, we understood that his song was about regret, about what he had lost and what had been taken from him, about what he would never have again.

We crept away in the darkness and let him sing.

Later that night as I lay in bed I could still hear his voice through my open window. When my daddy came in to tell me goodnight, I told him what we had heard and he read me an obituary from the weekly paper about the death of a woman on the French Shore, Marie Geneieve Landrieu Sparrow who had died unexpectedly a few days before. It wasn't singing you heard, he told me gently, it was mourning.