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There was thunder about as Uncle Shad pitched the last of the new mown hay onto the wagon and saddled up the team. The horses were restless and we soon lost sight of them in the fog although we could hear their hoofbeats. Nana watched a little anxiously until the sounds faded then called us for supper.
Shad's driven that road in fog a hundred times, my daddy reassured her, Don't fret.
But my grandmother, a natural born worrier, wasn't so easily put off.
I'll just call Elsie, she said, Have her to call me when he gets there.
Knowing better than to disagree, my daddy just nodded and smiled.
When Elsie hadn't called by seven, Nana sighed and put aside her knitting. By then we were thoroughly socked in and the foghorn was bleating warnings every ten seconds. Nobody with a lick of sense would've been on the roads that night but Nana and my daddy trudged to the Lincoln and headed up the drive anyway, the old car's headlights barely making a dent in the fog, as if the whole world had been suddenly encased in wet, dripping cotton. By then someone had dispatched the lantern line and the village men were walking in tight rows on either side of the road, kerosene lanterns swinging at their sides. We couldn't see them but we could hear them calling to each other every few paces, keeping the Lincoln safely between the ditches as they walked, guiding and directing with a calm and familiar precision. Meanwhile, the telephone lines lit up all over the island and a second lantern light formed further up island, slowly and painstakingly making their way toward the first. Sometime after nine, they converged at the crest of the hill but still there was no sign of Uncle Shad. Chilled, wet, sweating and beginning to be bad tempered, the men re-grouped and prepared to resume the search when one of the dogs began to bay, a distorted but still sorrowful sound that got everyone's attention immediately.
Over here! Jacob Sullivan yelled although considering that you couldn't see the hood ornament from the front seat of the Lincoln, "here" was a somewhat relative term. The men followed his voice and the howl of the dog and soon discovered the wagon, parked neatly on the dirt lane leading to the ballfield, the team still harnessed and standing silently like sentries. While the men began shouting Shad's name, my grandmother leaned on the horn and the sound blared through the fog with a shocking sharpness, startling the would be rescuers as well as Uncle Shad who had been buried deep and peacefully asleep in the damp hay.
By God, you'll be wakin' the dead! he exclaimed as he brushed aside the blanket of straw and struggled to his feet, What the devil is all this?
You all right, Shad? Jacob Sullivan demanded roughly.
'Course I'm all right, you damn fool, Uncle Shad snapped back as he climbed down and surveyed the scene, Why wouldn't I be? Pulled over when I couldn't see for the....then he stopped mid sentence and looked around in disbelief....for the damn fog, he finished, trying hard to stay indignant and failing miserably. There was an extended silence.
Could've gone either way, my daddy said later, but then Jacob started to laugh and it was all over.
The next morning broke clear and fine and fresh. By then, Shad and the team were home and the lantern line had dispersed. The old Lincoln was back in the driveway and Nana, too relieved to be angry, was in the kitchen husking sweet corn from a brown paper sack that had been anonymously left at the back door. Each member of the lantern line had discovered a similar package that morning - some got tomatoes or peppers, sweet red onions or summer squash - Jacob Sullivan got a fresh pouch of pipe tobacco and a thermos of sweet buttered fish chowder. Good turns, not unlike debts, were routinely repaid on the island. It was just the way things worked.
Knowing better than to disagree, my daddy just nodded and smiled.
When Elsie hadn't called by seven, Nana sighed and put aside her knitting. By then we were thoroughly socked in and the foghorn was bleating warnings every ten seconds. Nobody with a lick of sense would've been on the roads that night but Nana and my daddy trudged to the Lincoln and headed up the drive anyway, the old car's headlights barely making a dent in the fog, as if the whole world had been suddenly encased in wet, dripping cotton. By then someone had dispatched the lantern line and the village men were walking in tight rows on either side of the road, kerosene lanterns swinging at their sides. We couldn't see them but we could hear them calling to each other every few paces, keeping the Lincoln safely between the ditches as they walked, guiding and directing with a calm and familiar precision. Meanwhile, the telephone lines lit up all over the island and a second lantern light formed further up island, slowly and painstakingly making their way toward the first. Sometime after nine, they converged at the crest of the hill but still there was no sign of Uncle Shad. Chilled, wet, sweating and beginning to be bad tempered, the men re-grouped and prepared to resume the search when one of the dogs began to bay, a distorted but still sorrowful sound that got everyone's attention immediately.
Over here! Jacob Sullivan yelled although considering that you couldn't see the hood ornament from the front seat of the Lincoln, "here" was a somewhat relative term. The men followed his voice and the howl of the dog and soon discovered the wagon, parked neatly on the dirt lane leading to the ballfield, the team still harnessed and standing silently like sentries. While the men began shouting Shad's name, my grandmother leaned on the horn and the sound blared through the fog with a shocking sharpness, startling the would be rescuers as well as Uncle Shad who had been buried deep and peacefully asleep in the damp hay.
By God, you'll be wakin' the dead! he exclaimed as he brushed aside the blanket of straw and struggled to his feet, What the devil is all this?
You all right, Shad? Jacob Sullivan demanded roughly.
'Course I'm all right, you damn fool, Uncle Shad snapped back as he climbed down and surveyed the scene, Why wouldn't I be? Pulled over when I couldn't see for the....then he stopped mid sentence and looked around in disbelief....for the damn fog, he finished, trying hard to stay indignant and failing miserably. There was an extended silence.
Could've gone either way, my daddy said later, but then Jacob started to laugh and it was all over.
The next morning broke clear and fine and fresh. By then, Shad and the team were home and the lantern line had dispersed. The old Lincoln was back in the driveway and Nana, too relieved to be angry, was in the kitchen husking sweet corn from a brown paper sack that had been anonymously left at the back door. Each member of the lantern line had discovered a similar package that morning - some got tomatoes or peppers, sweet red onions or summer squash - Jacob Sullivan got a fresh pouch of pipe tobacco and a thermos of sweet buttered fish chowder. Good turns, not unlike debts, were routinely repaid on the island. It was just the way things worked.
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