My GREAT-GRANDFATHER ‘S WALKING STICK

Great-Grandpaw Weaver’s walking stick is thirty-one

and 1/2 inches long.  Rather short for my use now, 

but it was just right for him back then,  He used it until 

his death.  It has a history that makes it special for me.

Sone time during my second-grade school year (1944-45), one of our elderly customers, Mr. 

Simmons, pasted away.  I remember him well for he always teased me when he 

was in The Store.  The family of Mr. Simmons held an estate sale to dispose of 

his belongings and I went with my Dad to the sale.  

It was a “SALE” but it was also a time of reminiscence for his family and the 

community; so there was a lot of conversations going on.  As they talked, Dad 

picked out a few things.  Among the items he bought were a bed frame, a chest 

of drawers, and a fancy oak trunk with brass fittings. 

As the adults talked, I wandered about looking for something of interest.  I spotted the walking stick standing in a corner of the room beside a broom.  It immediately peaked my interest because the handle was carved into a  small foot with toes and ankles.  I picked it up and begin walking around leaning on it.  

As my dad was about to pay for his items, he asked me if I liked the walking stick and I told him I did.  He told Mr. Simmons’ son to add it to his purchase.  I carried it home and found a place to stand it beside my bed, just in case I ever needed it.  

One morning my great-grandfather, John Weaver Sr., came for a visit at our store.  He had walked the two miles from his house on the Kennedy’s Mill Road.  He took a seat in one of the chairs that sat by the potbelly stove which warmed the store and visited with the family members and the customers.  As you might expect, that spot was where much of the news and gossip  of the community was acquired.  

He greeted me and exclaimed how much I had grown since he last saw me and then returned to conversations with the adults.  I guess I wanted a little more attention from him, so I went back to my room in the apartment behind the store and got my walking stick.  I came back into the store carrying it and at the first opportunity, showed it to him.  He took the stick, examined it, and commented on its peculiar design with a foot for a handle. 

He held on to my stick as he retuned to the adult conversations and I took a seat next to him.  Occasionally, he would test the stick by tapping it in a semicircle in front him as if he was walking, even though he remained seated.  At a lull in the conversations, he turned to me and asked why a young boy like me needed a stick to walk.  

I told him that I did not need it to walk.  He then told me that a old man like him sometimes needed a stick to walk and he could make good use of it on his 2-mile walk back home, so, maybe I could give it to him.  I understood the logic of that but I really did not want to give up My Stick.  I looked to my Dad and he gave me a nod that encouraged me to give it up.   

He went home with my stick, but the only time I ever saw him use it was as he left the store and got into the car of a family that had offered to take him home as they went to town.

Several weeks later someone came by the store and told Dad that his grandfather had died during the night.  He carried me with him to check on the arrangements for burial.  When we arrived at the house, we could see that a crowd of family members had already gathered.  

Inside, I saw Great-Grandma Weaver sitting on one side of the living room fireplace with some of Dad’s aunt and uncles. Great-Grandpaw was lying on a bed on the other side.  The bed covers were pulled up to his waist.  His hands were folded across his chest.  Silver dollars had been placed over his closed eyes, and a dingy looking rag had been draped under his chin and tied in a bow on top of his head.  

As Dad and I approached the bed to take a look at his grandfather, I spotted My Stick standing against the wall beside the head of the bed.  I tugged on Dad’s hand and pointed at it.  He reached over and picked it up, and without a word, handed it to me.  I held on to it and took it home and put it back beside my bed.

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***There are a couple of interesting stories about the other items bought from Mr. Simmons estate, but those will have to wait for another day.