Volume 44 - No. 22
May 29, 2014
by Barbara L Miller
It was April, 1865. The War was over. Twelve year old Jim and his grandfather had a friendly wrestle over the smalltown newspaper that had found its way to their kitchen table. The old man was the winner.
“It says here they're done settin' up a schedule for the death train. Looks like when Mr. Lincoln will be comin' through Pickaway it'll be about midnight.” The old man traced his knotted finger down the page, then lay the newspaper across his lap, satisfied that Pickaway would be honored to see the train pass. Jim's grandfather always pronounced the town's name like that, Pickaway. Jim knew better than to correct Grandpa Joe's speech. He had tried it once, after he got into school, and been roundly sounded out. “You leave your grandpa Joe be,” his mother had chided. “He's been talkin' a lot longer than you and it ain't done him no harm!”
Jim cringed even further at the reprimand, knowing that his mother's speech was just as awful as her father's. Truth was, he had learned to pronounce it another way, the way it was spelled; Piqua, PickWah, and he hated that nearly everyone in his family mispronounced their own town's name. Grandpa Joe declared that if goin' to school was goin' to make Jim so uppity, maybe he'd do just as well to stay out on the farm, like regular folks. He also added, speaking directly to Jim, “You are pert near as tall as your brother was already. We kin use you.”
Jim was growing, getting big enough to be of real help on the farm they rented outside of town. They were counting on him more and more to watch the animals, bring in some crops and soon, to pitch hay from the high loft. That was nice, knowing he was one day going to be a good sized man, like his dad. But, he sure wasn't going to talk like his dad, or his mother, or any other living relative he knew. That was one reason he admired Mr. Lincoln. Old Abe The Paper - 760.747.7119
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was weaned in the back country, but came out giving speeches that rang on, even after his death. Jim had read the words, studied them out and memorized some of them. Like everyone else, he admired the address given at Gettysburg. He liked the fact that Lincoln was also a joker. He had heard and read so many conflicting reports, listened in on conversations down at the feed store, he could practically write an essay on Lincoln's life. At least, he daydreamed about it. Now, it seemed, the fallen Lincoln would pass through his own town. But, at midnight? You can't really see much at midnight along the train tracks.
At the mention of the funeral train, Jim's mother excused herself and went to the April garden. She had been working hard out there; digging, turning earth, hoeing rows and pulling dead winter grass. Jim knew she worked extra long hours trying to kill her worst sorrow. Thomas, his brother, had perished at Tazwell, Tennessee, only eighteen years
old, and always her pride. Jim missed Thomas terribly himself. Life would never be the same with him gone.
“What day?” Jim asked. “How long will it take for the train to get here?”
“Well, let's see. The train's already comin'. It left on the 21st of the month (this bein' April), and is makin' its way west. Looks like it's snakin' all over tarnation. It's goin' to be another week afore it gets here.” Another week? How could the boy stand that long a wait? “You think we'll get to look on him?” Jim asked his grandfather.
“Laws! I don't suppose I want to look on him! I read where undertakers have to keep puttin' ice around him, and cover the remains with flowers to keep the smell down. He's bein' embalmed all along the way, don't you know.” Hearing his hero spoken of in such a way disgusted Jim. It was enough that a bullet had
laid him low, but to think of such a long journey for Abraham Lincoln in an ongoing state of decomposition was sickening. He had seen rotting animals before and smelled awful odors when rats died under the house. “I gotta go,” he said, and headed for the feed mill. Maybe he would find better reports down there, or maybe he could spend a nickle on some molasses candy at the general store. “Be home by five,” his mother called as he passed by. “Yes ma'am,” he answered respectfully and ambled toward town. Going to Town
On his way to the feed store Jim saw the timetable for the funeral train posted on a storefront. Hours before it was scheduled to come to Piqua, it would pass through the state's capitol in Columbus. It gave him some shivers of pride to think that his town was on the route, out here in western Ohio, far from Washington
A Fire for Mr. Lincoln Continued on Page 2