The Man Who Built His House Upon a Rock CH.4 pt1

Ch. 4

Sticks and Stones

Back

Most people thought of him as a tender-hearted boy who tried hard to follow what the Good Book said. He never chose to do anything wrong. It just sort-of happened. Like the time he shot an arrow through Mrs. Payne’s window. It wasn’t his fault that Tommy didn’t want to play William Tell anymore and ducked out of the way at the last second. Her cat was doing fine with just three legs anyway.

Forgiving mercy aside, the little town of Vinton, Virginia had never seen a boy quite so precocious as Simon Peters. Nor did the townsfolk blame his parents when the boy acted up. Mrs. Peters was a kind woman whose family had lived here longer than anyone could remember. She went to church often but never quite settled on a particular congregation. Her beliefs ran to the Baptist persuasion though not as strict as some of her acquaintances. Still, she tried to keep her son on a short leash.

His dad had been well respected throughout the county. He worked as a foreman at the UFG mill before an untimely death from a brain tumor. Simon was two weeks shy of his eighth birthday at the time. He seemed to take it well, what with the guidance of his mother and a few Callaway cousins who lived nearby. It wasn’t until a year later that the real trouble began.

Simon’s antics were most often attributed to his Father’s side of the family, which was not exactly considered cream of the crop. Before Mr. Henry Peters married Miss Grace Callaway several generations of them had moved from one city to another like New World gypsies. His clan had not been back to this part of the country since and most liked it that way. Henry seemed alright, normal, but rumors spoke of witchcraft and murder many years previous. There were even tales concerning a trove of silver and gold hidden in a cave somewhere. Henry would run his fingers through dark wavy hair, flash a modest grin and laugh at the story.

“Sure wish I knew where it was”, he’d say, “I’d buy myself a new pick-up truck.” They would laugh with him and offer to help cart it home when he found it. Henry was a man impossible to dislike.

The citizens of Vinton felt nothing but pity for Grace Peters and her little boy. Left alone as they were and forced by circumstance to sell the large family home with its 30 acres of prime land near Hardy and Smith Mountain Lake. The parcel had been homesteaded by the Callaways in 1744 and though they never were wealthy land owners, they had also never starved. Grace stood as lone heir when both of her brothers moved on to the big city.

Those who talked about the whims of fate, meaning everyone in Vinton, nodded in agreement that, “they should have enough money, if they were careful”.  Or so everyone thought.

First the insurance company denied their claim for Henry’s death. National Standard Insurance said it was a caused by fumes from the chemical baths used to soften fabric at the mill and UFG were responsible. The company vehemently fought this in court and won a settlement against the insurance group for slander. This did nothing about the Peters’ claim which NSI still refused to pay. Although they were cleared legally, the owners of UFG gave Grace a year of Henry’s salary out of the settlement. Just to help them along. That’s the kind of people who lived in Vinton.

But the lawyers argued, judges ruled, the taxman called, and in the end Grace and Simon were left with just enough cash to buy a two bedroom house on the outskirts of town.

Some thought it was pretty rough for the family. They sold off all their fancy clothes, the extra car, the electronics and even Simon’s spare bike. Local gossips were sure that the poor woman and her son would be desperate soon. What the clucking hens did not know was that Simon and his momma had a deal.

One evening, shortly after Henry’s death, Grace called Simon out into the back yard for a talk. She had climbed into the fork of an old apple tree which stuck way far out from the trunk and formed an almost perfect place to lay back and gaze at the stars. Simon clambered up and settled into his mother’s arms.

For a long time they studied the inky night with its millions of twinkling pinpricks. They had often lain just like this trying to count them all or imagined what kind of people or aliens may live “out there”. Tonight though, Grace had a lump in her throat as big as one of the red apples hanging nearby. She swallowed, mustered her courage and spoke.

“Son, you know your daddy has gone off to be with Jesus.”

“Yes Momma.”

“And he’s not coming back again.”

“Yes Momma.”

After a short pause, Simon looked up at his mother’s anguished brown eyes and whispered, “Will I ever get to see him again?”

“Baby, the Good Book doesn’t really say. But in my heart I believe that if you are honest and try your best, that when you go to see Jesus, you’ll get to see your loved ones too.”

“I sure hope so Momma.”

They sat, huddled together in the tree’s loving embrace. She waited a few moments to let her boy grasp the awful loss of death and the balm of hope in eternity. Grace had always believed in God and knew that everything happened for a reason. Just what the Lord had in mind when He took her Henry away she couldn’t figure but she had a firm belief that something good was to come of it…someday. In the mean time, she had a boy to raise and he had to become a man right quick if they were to survive.

Then, with a firm voice she said, “Simon, your daddy’s family are a bunch of hard workin’, God-fearin’ people who have earned everything they ever had. Don’t let no one tell you different. My folks came to these United States before the Revolutionary War. They have always been respectable and honest. You ain’t got nothin’ to be ashamed of when it comes to your ancestors. I want you to always hold your head up high and be a real man. Do you know what that means?”

“You want me to poke Jonny Thompkins in the nose the next time he says Great-Grandpa Peters was a train robber?” asked Simon hopefully.

“No”, she said with a chuckle and the pure joy of it filled her empty heart, “I want you to think of our bull Buford.”

“Our bull?” he asked confusedly, “I don’t get it Momma.”

“Simon, when those dogs of yours get into the pasture, what does Buford do?”

“Nothin’, he just stands there lookin’ at ‘em.”