By Robert Morgan
When my grandpa took his produce
down the Winding Stairs to Greenville
to peddle door to door, he left
the day before and camped somewhere
near Travelers Rest just north of town.
After cooking by a campfire
he slept beneath the wagon since
the bed was heaped, and listened to
his horse crop grass and watched above
the trees the comet fling its ghost,
portending either ruin or
a century of wonder ahead.
Both interpretations were proclaimed.
Next morning he hitched up and drove
into the streets. He knew to go
to sections of the poor and of
the working middle class for there
they paid the price he asked. The rich
and servants of the rich would haggle
and criticize his vegetables.
But ordinary people paid
more readily and more for beans
and squash, tomatoes, corn and hams.
He sold them frames of sour wood honey
and jugs of rich molasses made
the fall before. Only at the last
would he take the things unsold
to finer streets to dicker with
the servants of the quality.
And when the last jar of preserves
or jam was sold he took the dimes
and quarters to the stores for cloth
and shoes, for cartridges and coffee,
sometimes a book, sometimes a doll.
And then he turned the wagon north
and rattled out the avenue
back toward the hills. And once he paid
a mesmerist who had a booth
beside the road to charm him, but
my grandpa's concentration was
so strong it broke the spell. And once
he paid a palmist to read his hand.
That night he camped beside the pike
but parked his wagon pointed south
to make a robber think he was
still loaded and not headed home
with cash that had to last throughout
another fall and winter. When
he looked up then and saw again
the comet's eerie plume that seemed
to write upon the sky he thought
the portent good and years ahead
as golden as the leaves on hickories,
and future bright as the river,
or line that crossed his callused palm.