(Oct. 17, 1908)
Shall Will Miller ever write again? Oh, yes, but it will be a long while.
It has been nearly two months since the death of his baby sister; Will is still rather solemn.
About three weeks after little Clara died, another was taken. Did you hear about it? Yes, it was elderly Mr. Parmenter. As a Wood duck takes to water, Will is drawn to the older men of their small farming community; and he studies them as a professor would a treasured library. To lose Mr. Parmenter was devastating – an aged book he could no longer read and love.
Elmer Parmenter was a frail, quiet man, of little significance to the world.
Oftentimes, in the summer, when Will was visiting at his grandparents’ home, he would spy Mr. Parmenter in the valley below with his hay scythe clipping the grass of the church yard. Will wasted no time in running the half-mile distance to visit with the old gentleman. He learned much from Mr. Parmenter, of this present life, and of the one to come.
How Will so enjoyed watching him take the sharpening stone from his pocket, run it across the blade of the scythe with gentle motions, and the distinct sounding click, click, click! Then, placing the heel of the scythe close to the ground, he would grip the scythe handles with hands that resembled weathered leather, and begin cutting with short sweeping swaths; always whistling the tune of a hymn as he cut.
Another fond memory was when the two of them gathered dry leaves and sticks to start a fire in a ground hog hole. The ground hog was becoming very destructive to the church yard. Mr. Parmenter had trapped him once, but the ornery critter destroyed the trap, and now it was time for him to go! But not without protest! How he growled and whistled deep in his hole as the two prepared the fire! After it was lit, it only took a little while and the old ground hog shot out of the hole and headed for the nearby creek in a trail of smoke!
Will took his hat off, and slapping his knee, he exclaimed, “We smoked that ole whistle pig out, didn’t we Mr. Parmenter?!”
The old gentleman chuckled, and replied. “We sure did, Lil’ Will! We sure did!”
Will still remembers the gleam in his old friend’s eye that day. But now, sadly, the old friend was gone.
On this particular autumn morning, Will’s grandpa arrived immediately after chores and took Will with him to one of his favorite places: Stouse Mill.
Stouse Mill is just a little south of Milo, located on the far western edge of the community of Elk Horn, sitting right on the Piney River. Will’s grandpa, Jacob Miller, takes his corn there to have it ground – cornmeal for the family, and feed for the livestock. The owner of the mill, J.M. Stouse, is a friend of the family.
Stouse Mill is a popular hangout for men of the community, gathering there to share news and old stories. And, yes, you may have guessed it – Will dearly loves hearing those old stories from the men; and a loving grandpa knew this, hoping it would lift his mood today.
But, upon arriving, Will gave a quick glance to the men, and then headed to the top floor of the three-story mill. Oh, he knew Mr. Stouse wouldn’t mind, for Will’s grandpa had been bringing him to the mill since he was old enough to remember. Yes, the mill was like an old friend with its huge oak posts and hand-hewn beams. The smells of the fresh ground feed, and the sound of the big water mill making its circular motion was like a soothing balm.
When Will reached the final step of the top floor, he breathed a sigh of relief, for there he found solitude, and quiet. He approached the little north window, and looked down upon Piney River below. The river was quiet that day. It resembled a mirror, with a gentle breeze blowing that gave a quaint rustling among the autumn leaves.
Standing like a tower next to the big red mill, was a huge Sycamore tree, with one of its branches nearly touching the little window.
As the breeze released one of the huge leaves from a branch, Will leaned close to the window and watched the leaf gently descend to the river below. It was then he recalled a Bible passage Mr. Wrinkles had just shared at meeting. “As for man, his days are as grass: as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth. For the wind passes over it, and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more.” (Psalm 103:15,16).
Wasn’t Mr. Parmenter like the big leaf? For, he too was born, lived his life, and then departed? He also thought of little Clara who was taken while just a little green shoot.
Will stood observing the big orange leaf as it rested on the river, slowly navigating its way downstream. He thought of how soon the leaf would disappear from sight, never to be remembered no more.
Will then posed a few questions to himself which caused that familiar pain in his heart to return. Would others forget Mr. Parmenter now that he was gone? Who would mow the church yard now? Would they whistle hymns, and take the time to teach little boys the different species of trees as he had done for Will?
There is One from above that puts all of our tears into a bottle (Psalm 56:8). He was near the young boy that day as he gazed out the little pane of glass on the upper north window of the big red mill. He caught the tears that fell from his cheeks, and He heard the little boy whisper, “I won’t ever forget you Mr. Parmenter…I promise I won’t.”
Lord willing, until next time.
Michael Everett Jones is a Texas County native, old fashioned historian and purveyor of traditional Christian values. Email ozarksgrandpajones@gmail.com.