Reflections on a True Native--Part II

Editor’s Note: Joan and Skip Sherman, owners of Conway’s WBNC radio station, bought a place in Madison in 1962. In time it became their home, and over the years they developed a unique friendship with their neighbor up the Lead Mine Road, Perley Ward. This is the tale of that evolution, drawn together from a series of letters and recollections. This week’s segment concludes The Perley Papers. --Ann Bennett

Perley Ward was an accomplished hunter, and in the fall of 1977, he bought his usual resident license. It cost eight dollars, and he also put a dollar into the deer pool at the Emporium in Silver Lake, just for luck. Then Perley went hunting, even though he had to borrow Professor McNair’s gun since his own had been stolen the year before. I guess that after watching deer all year, or I should say all his life, and that was 64 years, Perley knew where to look for deer. A day or two after the season opened, he shot an eight-point buck.

We’re a pretty close group on the Lead Mine Road, so Professor McNair hauled the buck to Harvey Blake to be cut and wrapped. When I saw Perley, he said that it would be ready on Thursday and I was to pick it up. Perley didn’t really ask me to fetch the deer, he sort of told me, the way a man who’d gotten back from a successful hunt would tell women what to do.

So I went to Blake’s on Thursday afternoon. It was a beehive of activity. All the old-timers wouldn’t have anyone but Harvey cut up their deer. There was a sign on the door, “We’re not cutting bear anymore.” I thought it was a bad sign of modern times, but went in and got the boxes of cut up venison. On top of the last box were the antlers in all their bloody glory.

In triumph I brought the buck to Perley’s house. He didn’t waste a moment. I said, “Here’s your meat, Perley,” and he said, “Good, now let’s go to your house and put it in your freezer.” It was such a simple statement of fact that I just said, “OK, let’s go.”

We got to the farm and Perley unloaded all the venison, took everything out of my freezer and put his meat in. Then he figured out how to get my stuff back in so that the freezer would shut.

Perley decided he wanted our daughter Carrie to have the antlers. He always considered her his romantic ideal, and when matters of chivalry arose, it was Carrie he thought of. When she was a senior in high school and the farm was just a vacation place for us, Carrie had decided to go live there in the fall by herself. And because we were liberal parents, we said she could. She took two wild barn cats and some organic food.

Perley had taken it all in - we weren’t even on speaking terms back then - and decided to keep an eye on her, if her fool parents didn’t have enough sense to. In time they struck up a friendship. I think Carrie fixed a meal or two for him, and Perley kept the boogey man away from the farm. I came down a couple of times to see how things were going. Around Thanksgiving it got cold and lonely and Carrie moved back to the radio station in Conway.

But from then on, Perley had a soft spot for Carrie. The first mayflowers in spring were for her, the first berries in summer, and of course, the first run of maple syrup. He always wanted to know where “that gal” was and when she was coming home.

Carrie came up the weekend after the hunt. I showed her the bloody antlers and told her we were going to Perley’s to discuss mounting the beautiful horns. She recoiled. We discussed the matter a bit, and Carrie agreed to accept the tribute.

So on Sunday, Carrie and I went up to Perley’s. We were admitted to the parlor. Perley had a wooden mount his father had made for just such an occasion, and we talked about the different ways to mount the antlers. It was quite an artistic task. I noted that Perley had washed the windows so he could see out better. After a proper visit, we left.

I took the antlers to an antique restorer I know and had the mount cut down, finished and mounted. It cost $16. Then I went to a local silver smith, Snuffy Curtis, and arranged to have a small brass plaque made with the inscription, “Perley Ward shot this buck in November 1977.” This cost $12. When it was completed I brought the trophy to Perley, and with his help hung it in my dining room.

Perley came down now and then for meat, and he would give some to us. I fixed venison stew, venison pot roast, and occasionally we’d share steaks and chops. It was a fine jolly winter, and Perley was pleased to be able to share it with us.

One day Perley said, “Let’s get them neck bones out.” I got them and said, “Are you going to make some soup, Perley?” and he replied, “No, I ain’t going to make no soup, you are.” Well, when the mighty hunter tells the woman what to do, I guess the woman does it, and I outdid myself. The soup had turnips, lentils, carrots, rice, potatoes, tomatoes, peas, beans and I don’t know what else. We shared it and then Perley ate it for a week out of my big jelly pot.

That’s almost the end of the tale. Perley had meat until April. But the best part was that he won the deer pool and $25. He couldn’t get over it - an eight dollar license, meat for the winter, and $25.

The seasons passed quickly, another summer, fall, months of snow and spring with its mayflowers, and Perley had become a subtle part of our lives. He cut and stacked our wood and shoveled the roofs in winter, He helped Skip with the garden, too, and saw to the lawns.

One July weekend in 1979 it rained and Perley didn’t come to mow the lawn as usual. We waved at the window, and Monday he waved me in and gave me two quarts of blueberries. Skip and I ate lots with just cream and then I made a pie which we shared with my folks and Perley. He was delighted and gave me 10 dollars to buy some Kentucky Fried Chicken. I was busy Monday and forgot, but on Tuesday I bought chicken and mashed potatoes, gravy and cole slaw to boot. That time he gave me a quart of raspberries. He’d seen the partridges in back of his house pecking around and knew that they were ready. He said, “I know your husband would like a different kind of berry.”

I thanked him and said that Skip’s garden had all grown up into weeds and asked if he could come down and save it. So Wednesday he weeded all day. I took him home and Perley gave me a shopping list for Thursday.

That morning he showed up at nine sharp. I served coffee and left boiled potatoes, knockwurst, sauerkraut, beer and anything else he might want and said to make himself at home, pick raspberries and mow the lawn. It was a rare summer day - sunny, not too hot, and it would be light until late that night.

But by afternoon it was hot and I brought Perley his groceries early. It was his usual list: bread, a slice of ham, steak, or tripe (he loved pickled tripe), milk, donuts, Winstons and coffee. Sometimes he’d want eggs, baked beans or ice cream. Once in a great while he’d ask for toilet paper, margarine, sugar or milk. Before he went on Social Security he ordered hamburger and Prince Albert pipe tobacco. Afterwards it was steak and Winstons. I think it was the only change he made in his life.

Perley saved on Social Security. I took care of it for him and deposited $100 in his savings account and took the rest to him in cash - about $56. Of course everyone on the road paid him a little bit, but it was nowhere near what he was worth.

I stopped by his house and left the groceries by his back door. Chances were that Perley was sitting on my back porch, cooking off, needing a ride home.

I arrived at the farm about 4:35. Perley was sitting on the porch. There were two quarts of raspberries in my kitchen, my lawn was manicured within an inch of its life, and the garden was all weeded. Everything looked splendid. Perley brought all of my things in from the car with great cheer and care. I asked him if he wanted some cake, but he declined. “It’s an awfully long walk up the hill to my house,” he added. And I said, “I’m here to give you a ride.”

I stepped out of the door, holding it open for Perley, when he took a deep, sharp breath. Then he toppled over with a great crash in my parlor. His knees didn’t buckle; he went over like a tree in the forest. As he hit the floor, I was on the telephone calling White’s Funeral Home for an ambulance. Golden White answered and I told her what had happened. She said I needed the Madison Rescue Squad. I asked her to call them and she agreed. This all took half a minute. I spoke to Perley, assuring him that help was coming. He was breathing heavily and laboriously, and then stopped. I knew he was dead. I looked closely and was sure there was no hope of reviving him. I went into the kitchen and had a shot of bourbon. Then I called my dad over at Cook’s Pond and asked him to come hold my hand because I was sure Perley was lying dead in my parlor.

The next few hours were a blur of people and confusion. The rescue squad arrived and ran into the house with all their equipment. They took a quick look at Perley’s eyes and in his mouth and said he was gone. Mother and Dad came, some more rescue people, and my friends Frannie and Cross Kennett. Then the man from Lord’s Funeral Home came and asked, “Who was Perley’s doctor?” I said he hadn’t seen a doctor in years. So they had to get Doc Smith, the medical examiner. I brought a blanket from upstairs to cover Perley, the sheriff’s man came. There was a great coming and going. People called on the telephone. They'd hear something on their scanners. Dad took some calls and I took others. I called the radio station and told everyone what had happened and that it wasn’t Skip, who was off playing tennis.

Doc Smith was very kind. We tried to determine the time of Perley’s death and decided it was between 4:30 and 4:45. The sheriff emptied Perley's pockets and I said I had his bank book and went and retrieved it. The sheriff wanted Perley’s birthdate. We found it printed on his hunting license - September 22,1912. He was sixty-six.

Perley had $1200 in the bank, some change, and six dollars left over from his grocery money. Then the sheriff wanted to know my birth date. That sort of startled me, but I told him. Then Carl Arnold came and they all wondered where the key was to Perley’s house. I looked at the pile of change and pointed it out. All the men insisted it was too small and rusty to be the key. It looked like it fit a jewelry box or suitcase and was black with age. I was sure that was it, and said so. The sheriff, the rescue squad and everyone else heaved poor Perley onto a stretcher and took him off to the funeral home. Finally the crowd began to thin, and Mother, Dad and the Kennetts and I sat down for a drink.

Skip came and we told him about it and then I fixed a tolerable dinner, seeing as how upset I was and how many bourbons I’d had by then. Skip ate his dinner but I hardly touched mine. “I guess we won’t have any more black berries this year,” he remarked and I replied, “We’ll have to pick them ourselves."

After supper I called Carrie, and the Dandenous, the young couple next door, came by. After that, and after noticing Perley’s old hat and walking stick were still in my parlor, I went to bed. I dreamed all night that he was alive, only to toss and turn remembering that he wasn’t.

On Friday I called Lord’s Funeral Home and asked about the obituary. Mrs. Lord said her husband was with the family and that it would be ready in the afternoon. I drove to Ossipee around 2:30 and he was writing it up. We chatted and I asked if he’d given Perley a bath. Lord nodded and I said that was good, he hadn’t had one in years. The funeral director said that was what happened to men who lived alone. I guess he has buried some others like Perley in his time.

I took the obituary to the station and moved some papers around my desk, but it was hopeless. I came home and stopped by the McNairs to tell him the arrangements. We chatted in the kitchen and Mac suggested I ask Albert Watson to read one of his poems about Perley. Then it occurred to me that it might be nice to have donations to a fund in his memory for the Madison Conservation Commission. After all, Perley was a real conservationist. He didn’t use gas, oil, or much water, paper, or electricity.

I went home, called Albert Watson and later Richard Hocking to talk about the conservation fund. Then it was supper time and I kept looking at Perley’s hat. It kept me company. I emptied his ashtray and put his used cigarette boxes in the wastebacket and went to bed only to dream of Perley and the honey extractor. He never could understand centrifugal force. He as always puzzled over how turning that little handle could make the honey fly out. He used to say, “What I can’t figure out…” and this time he really couldn't figure it out. I slept hard and didn’t wake in the night to remember he was gone.

Visiting hours were held Saturday night, and it was very hot. We were the first to arrive at the funeral home, and it looked the way it must have in the 1930s with wine colored upholstery, Eastlake chairs, an imitation mostly red Persian rug, apple green wallpaper, and gold nylon curtains. Perley was laid out in an open casket. He looked quite presidential. Skip said Rutherford B. Hayes and Albert said Ulysses S. Grant. They hadn’t shaved his beard, but they must have done something to fit him in a regular casket. I tried not to think about it.

There were plenty of flowers. A young couple came and we all sat around in silence like a Quaker meeting. They left and around 7:45 Grafton and Elson Ward, the surviving brothers, came with their families. We all introduced ourselves. Ida and Bud French came and Perley's niece Olive who used to wash and mend Perley's clothes whenever she came up from Connecticut. Carl Arnold arrived, and there were others, too, all strong, robust country people like Perley.

Grafton said there would be little money left over from the funeral to make a donation to the conservation fund. Also he had heard the obituary on the radio. I had made one change of my own. The funeral director had given Perley’s occupation as “laborer,” but I knew Perley had called himself a “caretaker.” So, I changed that, He certainly was a caretaker in the largest sense of the word. After visiting hours, McNair, his son Malcolm, Albert Watson, Skip and I all sat out on the porch at the farm and had coffee along with the last of Perley’s raspberry pie.

Sunday it was hot again. Grafton and Elson were up at Perley’s taking out the valuable furniture. I stopped to visit on my way out. They had found a strong box with all the deeds and important papers intact from 1810 to 1912. Perley’s grandfather Samuel Ward had been a blacksmith and they found entries in his ledger that ran two cents for sharpening a plow, one cent for a horseshoe. They figured that he worked two days for seventy-five cents. A few years back Perley had sold me some andirons that Samuel had made for ten dollars. I thought it was a bargain, and I wondered what Samuel would have thought.

That afternoon the Ward family and neighbors began to gather. George Davidson, the minister, started the service with all the old familiar psalms and noted that Perley had served his country in time of need during World War II. There was a large flag draped over his coffin. George had officiated at countless country funerals, and he did it in their style - sort of sing-songy, folksy, full of old saws and cliches. Afterwards Albert Watson read his poem, which for me, Skip, McNair, and a few others was very gratifying. It struck me that there was no music throughout. No hymns, no nothing.

Everyone filed past the open casket for a last goodbye. The drive to Gilman Cemetery was short and that’s where it was the hottest. George Davidson said a few brief words, the flag was folded and presented to Grafton, who took it with trembling lips. It was an emotional pause after which we all took our leave. The funeral with all its rigmarole did lift me out of my shock.

We went by the house on the way home and looked; it was a reflex. The shade was drawn in Perley's window and a sign in the front yard read, "Private Property Keep Out.”

That night I dreamt of Perley for the last time. Maybe dreams of the dead go in threes. I dreamed that some young couple had bought the old Ward Farm and were fixing it up. I was there and we were painting. I was happy that the house would have a new life.