WHAT HAPPENED TO AMERICA AFTER WWII?
THE 112 Year OLD MAN speaks OUT!
VOL 1
Alfred Stites
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 by Alfred Stites
License Notes: All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
Forget the Goal, the Journey Counts
The Babble Book (eBook)
Sidewalks in the Jungle
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book is posthumously dedicated to my Great-Great-Uncle Richard Northam who, despite his extraordinary age, was one of the most lucid, articulate, and reasoned men I have ever encountered.
* * *
It is required that this book be presented as a fictional work because of the controversial material contained herein. As defined in the contract under which the digital recordings were made, the transcription of Richard Northam’s comments has not been edited any manner. In that the author is not a professional proofreader it is hoped the reader will forgive any errors that may have been overlooked.
Alfred Northam Stites
* * *
Late in the fall of 2010 the 112 year old man Richard Northam (1898 - 2011), who lived through a century of changes in America, sat down with his great, great nephew, Alfred Northam Stites, and allowed a recording of his unvarnished opinions on 30 topics concerning life in America. Northam conversed on a wide variety of subjects that included the national debt, politicians, the U.S. Congress, health care, religion, education, language, war, race relations, and freedom. While his observations may be controversial, they will make you think. The solutions the old man offered to the current problems of this country are logical and reasoned in the main, although he sometimes suggested the outrageous response we all have though of at one time or another. A great deal of what he has to say in this book is what most of us think but hesitate to express.
Even at his exceptional age, the old man was clear and concise, rambling only on occasion. He was unapologetic about his opinions, popular or unpopular as they may prove to be. Although one may disagree with his comments, he was thoughtful, to the point, and disdainful of political correctness. His viewpoints fill the range from arch conservatism to free and open liberal thinking. Richard Northam emphatically insisted his remarks—blunt, factual, and sometimes acerbic - remain as spoken, without editing. If nothing else his honesty is refreshing.
He was outspoken about what has to be done to revive the economic and moral health of America. And even to achieve peace in the world.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
~ Introduction ~
~ Foreword ~
~ Preface ~
Recording Session No.1, A.M., Oct. 18, 2010
Recording Session No. 2, P.M., Oct. 18, 2010
Recording Session No. 3, A.M., Oct. 19, 2010
Recording Session No. 4, P.M., Oct. 19, 2010
Recording Session No. 5, A.M., Oct. 20, 2010
Recording Session No. 6, P.M., Oct. 20, 2010
Recording Session No. 7, A.M., Oct. 21, 2010
Recording Session No. 8, P.M., Oct. 21, 2010
Recording Session No. 9 A.m., Oct. 22, 2010
Recording Session No. 10, P.M., Oct. 22, 2010
Recording Session No. 11., A.M., Oct. 23, 2010
~ Author’s Note ~
~ INTRODUCTION~
As a graduate student at American University, Washington, D.C. in the late 1990’s I was exploring the potential for a thesis based on the extent to which the Southern attitude of conservatism was the result of the life style of slavery and the agricultural economy of the South. In the course of my preliminary research, I looked up my family background for the names and locations of Southern relatives. I discovered an ancestral Northam family branch in Virginia, and noticed there was the possibility that a last member of the Northam family was still alive as there was no deceased date or notation of death for the man Richard (NMI) Northam. Due to other circumstances, I put the research aside and left graduate school soon thereafter.
Ten years later, in the fall of 2009, I again began researching the family history in an attempt to locate my aunt and uncle on my grandmother’s side. I came across the Northam line through my grandfather’s family, and traced it back two centuries. The Northam’s had been established in the small town of Onancock, Virginia, on the southern end of the Delmarva Peninsula, popularly termed “the Eastern Shore.” I again came across the name Richard Northam as being alive during the early decades of the 20th century; if so, he could be around 100 years old. I became interested in meeting a man who had lived through the transformation of the Southern culture from agriculture to the technological age.
This book is the result of my locating and interviewing my great-great-uncle Richard Northam who resided in the small community of Onancock in the latter part of the 20th century and through the first decade of the 21st century.
~ ~ ~
~ FOREWARD ~
This work is the complete transcript of the many hours of conversation with my great-great-uncle Richard Northam. My great-grandfather was Claude Northam Wyant whose mother, my great-great-grandmother, was a Northam; her brother was Richard Northam. The ancestral family’s home was Onancock, Virginia on the Eastern Shore of Virginia.
Claude Northam Wyant was the owner and headmaster of the Bishop Thorpe Manor, a finishing school for young women in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. He sold the property of several acres and many buildings to St. Luke’s Hospital in Bethlehem in the 1930’s and died a few years later. He is buried in the Onancock cemetery.
As a young child I had heard of the Northam family, especially a great - great-cousin Clyde Northam, known as “Captain Clydo,” who had been a Mississippi riverboat captain for many years. My father met his Great-Cousin Clyde when visiting Onancock as a boy. Clyde was then an old man living in a rooming house at the lower end of Market Street. His niece “Whip,” whose given name was Winifred, also lived in Onancock at that time. My great-grandmother, Blanch Wyant, wife of the deceased Claude Northam Wyant, moved to Onancock in the middle 1930’s and remained there until her death. Her son, my great-Uncle Dudley Wyant also lived there for a time until he disappeared and was not heard of again. His sister, who I knew of only as my Great-Aunt Tim when I was a child (I heard no other given name), had moved to California and allegedly was a known poet there under a pseudonym. The family never heard from her again.
During the spring and summer of 2009 I sporadically researched the genealogy of the family hoping to discover where Aunt Tim and Uncle Dudley were buried. Once again, the name Richard Northem appeared in the family lineage. It gave his last known location as a small town in Mississippi in the 1930’s. Three different turn-of-the-century birthdates surfaced in different records, one mentioning the town of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.
In the fall of 2009 I located some records in the Virginia State Archives at Richmond, VA, that provided a loose outline of the history of the Northams in Onancock. In following up a reference to Richard Northam, I came across the statement “who may or may not be deceased” - an entry in 1995. More importantly, I found the report of an investigation of the Northams by a Mrs. Clara Doud who listed her occupation as a teacher at the Onancock High School. The report mentioned her inquiry at a hospital in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. Her file was dated October 14, 1998, and included the statement that there was a Richard (NMI) Northam living at that time in Onancock, and occupied as a sexton at the Holy Trinity Episcopal Church, Onancock. It gave no further information as to the birth date of this Richard Northam, and I concluded that it could be the grandson of the original Richard.
In November, 2009, I drove to St. Luke’s Hospital in Bethlehem, PA, the town of my grandmother and other Wyant ancestors. I located Clara Doud’s file that simply documented her inquiry of a decade earlier. There were references to “no deceased date,” but no birth information given about Richard Northam. Returning to my home in Arlington, Virginia, I attempted to locate Mrs. Doud by telephone. I was told she had passed away some years earlier. With other things to occupy me, I put the inquiry aside.
I picked up the threads again in September of 2010 and telephoned the Mayor of Onancock to inquire about a Richard Northam. After a labored questioning review of my credentials, he offered to call me back with some information. He apparently contacted the minister of the Episcopal Church in Onancock who telephoned me, and I was again questioned about the purpose of my inquiry. The result of that conversation was that I was told that Richard Northam did indeed live in Onancock, and that I would have to come to his residence to see if he would talk to me; that no one would intercede for me.
The initial portion of the following document is my recollection of the circumstances surrounding my first meeting with my great-great-uncle. Legal requirements dictated that I change the names of the Episcopal minister (although he gave me his signed approval for his name to be used), and the few other people with whom I dealt at the time. These requirements are apparently because of the death of Mr. Northam prior to the publication of this book. As could be expected, the legalities are confusing. The subsequent recordings of my conversations with my uncle follow the opening narrative.
~ ~ ~
~ PREFACE ~
Richard (NMI) Northam was believed to be the second oldest man in the Western Hemisphere, and one of the three oldest people on earth in the year of 2010. This publication of his remarks is authorized according to the decision rendered on February 17, 2011, by the U.S. District Court, Accomac County Courthouse, Accomac, Virginia, Case No. 2,852.
I am the only living relative of Richard Northam who is my great-great-uncle on my mother’s side. Onancock, Virginia, was the ancestral location of the Northam family who emigrated from Cornwall, Wales via Southampton, England, the date given as July 18, 1741. Their first residence was at Plymouth, MA, and subsequently Hempstead, Long Island, NY. The date of their taking residence in the village of Onancock is not known although it probably was in the late 1700’s. Documents provided by the State of Pennsylvania attest that Richard Northam was born on May 1, 1898, in St. Luke Hospital, Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.
As confirmed by the copy of my contract with Mr. Northam in the Addendum, I had permission from him to record our conversation with the stipulation that nothing of his conversation was to be omitted, edited, or changed. I was to publish the recording in whole or in part, if I desired, after he read the entire document and signed his approval for said publication.
This publication, therefore, is the entire transcription. The views, comments, opinions and facts as stated herein are entirely those provided by Richard Northam. He desired to make known his opinions of the changes he had lived through during his 112 years in this country, and in other parts of the world. He spoke with a directness that was terse and without embellishment. He sometimes colored his phrasing with mild obscenities and 19th Century expressions. He also used humorous and sarcastic observances to ridicule a subject or person. He had an exceptional vocabulary; he was an extraordinarily well-read individual. In our early meetings I noticed there was more of a rural inflection in his speech, and he used contractions. Later, as he became more comfortable, his vocabulary and diction improved. In the main his comments were somewhat terse and without embellishment. He repeated himself a few times when he returned to a subject matter already covered; when it was a subject about which he was passionate. I have not edited such repetitions, or combined his remarks about the same material; his contract with me prohibited any and all alterations of his words. When he read the galleys of this book he did not note the repetitions.
He sometimes frowned when he talked about a subject of which he disapproved. He smiled and laughed many times, although on occasion grimaced sarcastically. At times he broke off our meetings earlier than planned, his becoming tired or simply deciding not to continue at that time.
The recordings were done at Mr. Northam’s home on the grounds of the Holy Trinity Episcopal Church in Onancock, Virginia. I addressed him both as Mr. Northam and as Uncle Richard throughout our meetings.
ONANCOCK, VIRGNIA
The church sat back fifty feet from Market Street near the downtown center of Onancock. It was a small, weathered, red brick Episcopal Church with ivy climbing up the sides to the eaves; the brick had a century-old aging. The full, neatly trimmed lawn in front was parted by a worn brick walk that was lined by flowers; it led from the church steps in a graceful curve out to the sidewalk. The large lawn was wholly shaded by massive oaks and maples.
I stood on the sidewalk admiring the building with its slender steeple rising from a small bell tower. I surveyed the entire churchyard and noted the corner of an outbuilding to the left and well behind the church; it was to be the object of my long inquiry. Looking directly to the rear, a split-rail fence crossed the entire back of the property and defined a small graveyard that was enclosed at the far corner. The parsonage, a large, gabled white house, was to the right, adjacent to the church property. It was the home of the Reverend Abner Pollers, a man I later found had spent a large part of his life seeing to the needs of his parishioners in this small town on the Eastern Shore of Virginia.
As it was a mid-week morning, I doubted the reverend would be in the church, so I walked the few yards down the street and turned in to the parsonage. The door knocker was tempting because it was an iron anchor, and large for a knocker, but I pushed the doorbell at the side. The door was opened by a short, old African-American woman wearing a head wrap and an apron over her floor length black dress. She raised her eyebrows at me but said nothing. “
Good morning,” I smiled, “I’m looking for your sexton, the man named Richard Northam.”
The old woman frowned, then shook her head and said, “He mos’ likely in his quarters, but he prob’ly won’t see you.”
I nodded seriously and said. “It may be that he doesn’t talk to strangers, but I believe he is my great-great-uncle on my mother’s side.”
She raised head and opened her mouth, then shut it. “You a Northam?”
“I am. My name is Alfred Northam Stites.”
“Well, I do declare. I do de-clare! I spose you might’s well try. The Reverend Pollers is out. He be back come noon. Ol’ Dick lives in the cabin yonder,” she said, pointing as she shut the door.
Cutting across the lawn, I walked through the churchyard to the small clapboard house that stood at the left rear edge of the property. I had done a bit of research into the history of the church and the parsonage, and knew that the small sexton’s home is the last remaining structure of slaves’ quarters of the early 19th century. It has stood for almost 200 years having been renovated twice - the roof had been raised and an inside ceiling and bathroom added. It is an admirable, compact little house that seems about 20 feet to the side, with a slanted pine-shake roof. A thin curl of smoke rose from a brick chimney. The small building was painted with a lime whitewash; only the roof is the weathered grey of pine shingles.
Walking to the door, I stepped up on the large half-millstone that served as a stoop and knocked. I heard a shuffling inside, then a voice called out, “Who’re you?”
Careful not to smile, even though I did not think I could be seen through the thick curtains that had not moved, I called out: “My name is Alfred Northam Stites and I believe that you are my great-great-uncle on my mother’s side!” I waited.
There was a long silence, and then the voice said, “What do you want?”
“I would like to talk to you. My great grandmother married into the Northam family. I am writing our family history and I would like to talk to you about the old times, and also what you think about today compared with back in your early years.“
I was surprised when the door suddenly swung open. A small and thin, slightly bent, wrinkled, barefoot old man stood before me. He wore a faded tan cotton shirt that was buttoned up to the neck and at the wrists. His wrinkled trousers were of light cotton, a gray-blue color, and about a size too large. A sparse white patch of hair covered his head. His face had small wrinkles but few deep lines. His lips were thin, and his overall pallor suggested an indoor life. His very piercing black eyes looked sharply at me. “What’s yer grandma’s name?”
“My great-grandmother was Blanche Wyant. She was married to Claude Northam Wyant and was the niece of my Great-Great-Aunt Winifred who was called Whip.”
“Whip,” he repeated the name quietly. He then asked, “Where’d she die?”
“Baltimore, about, oh, thirty or forty years ago. She was pretty old but no one ever knew exactly how old.”
The old man grunted. He said, “Whip dint cotton to fools.” As he turned away into the house he said, “Might’s well come set.” I felt a small triumph as I stepped into the large room; my eyes widened at the sight.
The cabin was a compact twenty by twenty foot square. The walls showed where the ceiling had been raised to about eight feet in some past period. It was an all wood home; the walls had been shellacked at one time. A low wood-framed single bed was against the far left wall in the corner. A four burner gas stove stood in the middle of the back wall along with a polished wood counter and a small refrigerator under it. An assortment of bowls and cooking utensils were stacked on the counter and hung on the wall. A half-open door at the left side of the back wall revealed a small bathroom with a shower stall.
The floor was largely covered by a large, threadbare Persian rug. A six foot long sturdy maple table was placed in the middle of the room with a small pot of nasturtiums in the center. Two high-back wicker seat chairs were pushed against the table. Against the wall on the left side of the house was a long, narrow, dark polished table with magazines and newspapers scattered about. An old 20 inch TV set was at the far end of the table. Surprisingly, a large, beautifully framed Currier & Ives lithograph of a brilliant urban fire scene hung on the wall above the center of the table. Centered in the middle of the left wall was a large brick cooking fireplace with a suspended brace and pot; a low bank of coals smoldered against the cool fall day. An end table with a small radio was between the fireplace and the single bed that reached to the corner.
As I looked over at the opposite wall I had to smile. All twenty feet of the wall on the right was covered by a massive bookcase, the shelves crammed floor to ceiling with books of all shapes and sizes, hardcover and some paperback, well over two thousand books I thought. More books were piled on the floor along with a few magazines here and there. A large faded red and brown upholstered easy chair with a high wing back stood in front of the bookcase and faced the TV across the room. A small pile of books was on the floor on one side. A pair of reading glasses and a hand magnifying glass were on a small end table by the chair, along with an unabridged Webster’s Dictionary. Two floor lamps with Tiffany-style glass shades were placed by the chair and at the head of the bed. Each of the table lamps had a pastel cloth shade.
I noticed that aside from the large lithograph, there were no pictures on the walls nor were there any typical mementoes on the tables. There were four lace-covered windows; one on the left wall near the front, two on the front wall on each side of the door, and one on the kitchen wall toward the right side. A heavy, faded, beige drape was pulled back from the kitchen window, but covered the front ones. The room was warm from the low fire.
I stood indecisive for a moment, then walked to the table and pulled out a straight chair. The old man sank into the soft wing chair, the stuffing of which conformed to his frame. His hands and feet were slim and not as wrinkled as one would expect, and with only light liver spotting. He said, “Want coffee ye’ll boil your own water. The makings are on yonder counter.” Taking note of the “ye” I smiled my thanks and said I could do without. “Where’d yer ma come from?” was the brusque rejoinder.
“Her family was from Pennsylvania, and also my grandfather’s family was from Pennsylvania in later years. There were also some relatives from Long Island, but in the 1800’s they were mostly settled in Onancock … sometime in the early 1800’s but maybe earlier than that. My grandmother told me of a Captain Clydo when I was a boy. She said he was a river captain on the Mississippi.”
The old man’s eyes took on a glow as he squinted at me. Then he spoke with a slow, soft and measured speech. His voice did not quaver. It was not weak, but soft and modulated, and in the middle range; he spoke with a pleasant southern accent. He had a positive manner of speech with a rural intonation that I thought also harkened back to another time. Later I noticed he would sometimes use the idiom of a previous century which I found charming. I was to find that he had a relaxed but clipped phrasing that was sometimes sarcastic; that he sometimes phrased his replies in metaphorical witticisms.
“Clyde Northam, Cap’n Clydo. One of the best. Not a forty-face. Like me, he traveled some, but then settled into running the Mississippi. Had some money early 1900’s but made the error of taking a wife who promptly took care of his fortune. Didn’t see him for 40 years. I came back here nineteen fifty-some one fall when I got free, and Clyde was sitting in a rocker on a porch of a rooming house being tended by a fat old woman.” He frowned in thought, and then said, “Got this rug from his room when he died of a sudden.”
“How do you mean you got free?”
“Private,” he snapped. He moved himself around in the chair and stared at me for a long minute. He finally said, “This being the age of chicanery I must see your identification.” Smiling to myself at the use of the word, I gave him my license and also my passport brought for the purpose. He studied the two documents without comment and handed them back. “How’re you planning to write up the family history? Going to set here and take it all down? Don’t hanker for that … not got the patience.”
I thought for a long moment knowing that my answer might well mean a yes or no from this old man. Finally I looked directly at him and said, “Mr. Northam, as well as a history of who you remember, I would like to talk to you about your views of the world we live in today. You’ve seen a shift from an agrarian/industrialized society in this country through the technology period to now a computer and digital era.“ I nodded at the television set on the table. “I would guess that you keep track of world affairs and the politics of this country, and I would like to hear your thoughts.” I looked over at the thousands of books that lined the wall behind him and smiled. “I suspect you are well read in many areas. It isn’t often these days that a man can see so many books in a home, and apparently on many subjects, so I expect you have kept up with world affairs.“
He looked steadily at me but said nothing. I waited a moment, and then continued with what I hoped was a friendly smile, “You probably know that I can get the family history from genealogists, but I believe you must be very old. I would guess that there are not many in the whole United States as old as you are. Maybe the world.” I could not help but broaden my smile as I looked at the crusty old man.
He stared at me for several moments more and then said, “Yep, I am old. That’s a fact.” he said. “I was told I was a hundred some years ago. Teacher at the high school here went to Pennsylvania and looked up hospital records. Born at St. Luke’s, Bethlehem I was. Then she went to Harrisburg to settle the matter. Those days they didn’t publish a birth. She got the State Record Office to send me a ‘No Birth Record Certificate’ with the date of birth as May 1, 1898. Typical government way of notation. I have it around here somewhere.”
I gasped out “My God, that would make you one hundred twelve years old!” I was honestly taken aback at saying the years aloud. I couldn’t believe I was talking to a man who was 112 years of age; a lucid, cogent, articulate old man who was my great-great-uncle.
“Told you I don’t know, state says so.” He pushed up from the chair. “I cal’ate I’m somewhere around that figure since … I recall Teddy Roosevelt,” he paused, “but then could be some told me ‘bout his ride up that hill in Cuba. I was a boy.” He rose stiffly from his large easy chair and walked slowly but very steadily and upright to the front door and opened it. I got up from my chair as he said, “And I guess I’ll not get another twelve years under my belt.” He paused, turned, and looked at me for a long moment. He said, “Since my time can come tonight, or any time these days, I’ll think about having a talk with you for a bit. See how things go.” He paused again, looking steadily at me, and said, “Will consider it.” He stood aside as I passed him at the door. “Come by Sa’day mornin’ … nine o’clock.”
* * *
I sat by the window in Bizzotti’s Gallery-Café. Paintings, leather crafts, and ceramics by local artists hung on the walls. The café was obviously for tourists, and I guessed I qualified. I was excited. I drank their really good coffee, and went over the conversation I had just had with my uncle - my great-great-uncle! I thought I should talk to the Reverend Pollers about my spending time with his sexton, and decided to visit the parsonage after lunch. I thought over the cryptic comments given by my uncle. I was puzzled by the fact that there appeared to be no personal artifacts, no mementoes or memorabilia on the tables, no wall filled with pictures. I wondered why a man who was probably widely traveled would have no indications of his life or travels here and there. I tried to mentally trace his lineage to arrive at this last survivor of a centuries-old name, but got lost somewhere 150 years ago. I decided I would look up the records again and memorize them when I returned home.
The stability and the calm logic the 112 year old man possessed were extraordinary, even if his replies were couched tersely. His voice, while thin, did not quaver. He spoke quietly in a middle range tone that rose in pitch a little when he used emphasis. The only aspect that could be called “different” was a slow and very measured manner of speech. He appeared to consider his words as he spoke. He seemed to be a very exceptional person both physically and mentally. I got the impression from the short visit, that Richard Northam wanted to talk; that he had some things on his mind. I had a sense of satisfaction and excitement.
As I ate lunch I read through a publicity brochure about Onancock. I had to smile at the thought of the large navigable river being called the Onancock Creek. I watched the slow pace of the town of less than two thousand people flow past the café window as I ate my grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of excellent homemade vegetable soup.
* * *
The housekeeper at the parsonage gave me a nod when she opened the door; she said Reverend Pollers was in. I was shown to a nineteenth century, mannered, formal parlor at the front of the house. The reverend was seated in a wing back chair attended by a round Sheraton table, and rose to greet me. A large Bokhara Persian rug was the centerpiece of a room that appeared to have been preserved for guests only, as was the custom in previous centuries. I presented my credentials and a short letter I had written that explained the reason for my visit.
The minister was a slightly portly man of medium size with a full head of white hair and a bushy mustache which, for some reason, I thought odd on a minister. I waited while he validated my authenticity from the papers I presented. He read my letter twice, and I had the feeling that he thought my visit was suspect for some reason. He then gave me a tentative smile, and gestured for me to sit opposite him on a plump straight chair with fine needlepoint upholstery. Surprisingly somewhat apprehensive, I sat down rather stiffly.
He questioned me thoroughly about why a young man would want to spend time with his old sexton, my letter of explanation notwithstanding. Having fairly well exhausted his questions of me and taken more time than was necessary to go over my few documents, he handed them back. I took it that he had decided my visit and request was a legitimate one. He asked, “Do you know the history of the Northams in Onancock?”
“I do, sir, since my great-grandmother was married to a Northam. Even when I was a boy I heard the family talk that the Northams owned pretty much the whole town a century ago. When I was a teenager I spent a summer with the Anderson family who bought the old Mears place three miles down the neck,” I said, using the colloquialism for the land that paralleled the river to the Chesapeake Bay. “I was a school friend of Billy Anderson in Arlington before they moved here. “
He looked surprised, “You know the Andersons?” Then, picking up on my phrase, “owned the whole town,” he said, “The Northams did indeed own a large tract of land that eventually became the downtown. The family mansion just down the street is now called Creek B & B. It was purchased by the Joynes family - they were bankers here in earlier times. After they moved across the Creek - they built a home out by Meadville - they gave the house to their daughter Alyssa and her husband Michael to turn into a bed and breakfast; it has been a lovely inn ever since. It was Winifred Northam’s home until the 1950’s when she sold it to some northerners who only stayed in town a few years or so, then moved back - New Jersey I think it was. Edward Joynes purchased it from them. Whip, as she was known by, left for Baltimore, I believe it was.
By the middle 1800’s the Northam family apparently owned the area down to the wharves, and owned them as well - earlier called the fertilizer wharves. We all thought that either Clyde or Winifred was the last of the Northams until I found Richard sitting on the church steps one Saturday morning in the fall of 1989. I believed him to be in his middle eighties at that time since he had a passport with a birth date of 1903.”
He paused, and then said, “A person of his age usually gets considerable notice in this country. Richard made it clear years ago he did not want any such notice and we have respected those wishes. In the late 1990’s the Baltimore Sun heard of a very old man living in Onancock, and a reporter came for an interview but Richard would not speak to him. Why he agreed to talk to you I do not know.” He smiled, “You must be very persuasive … or perhaps it is because you told him you are a relative.”
“With all respect sir, I think that it may be Mr. Northam is feeling his mortality, and he may have had some thoughts about that mortality having a finite period. I suspect he may want to get some things off his mind, as they say.”
The reverend finished his tea, and folded his napkin carefully on the silver serving tray as he considered what I had just said. He smiled and said, “Every old person has those thoughts. Understand, young man, Richard doesn’t do much what you would call work. I must caution you to respect his extraordinary age, even though he does seem twenty years younger.” The reverend gave a chuckle, “That means he acts like he is 92. He takes no medicine and claims not to have for most of his life. I insisted Doctor Robertson come and give him a check-up when he settled in here. The doctor pronounced him with vital signs of a man of seventy. However, I must tell you that his physical reactions are quite slow and he is physically weak when attempting a task that requires upper body exertion. He does not do stairs very well, and like most aged people he tends to be momentarily unsteady when rising from sitting or lying down. Therefore, his church work requires virtually no physical exertion. He has a garden patch for flowers and a few vegetables, and he enjoys caring for the plants himself from time to time. His church duties are limited to such things as making sure that the ladies church committee has placed fresh candles for the Sunday service. He hasn’t done any real sexton work since he came here two decades ago. We have a housekeeper and a maintenance man for maintaining the church building, and a gardener who keeps the lawn trim and cares for the property.
The reverend was still for several moments, his hands folded on his lap. He looked at me and said “I do want to caution you, however. Like most old people, he sometimes will insert a seemingly disconnected thought into a conversation. Also, he wears fairly strong hearing aids, those with a computer inside.” The reverend smiled and shook his head and said, “And, of course, he has false teeth that he clicks sometimes when he becomes irritated. He also wears dime store glasses for reading although his eyesight is quite amazing for a man of his age; he is slightly farsighted. Generally he is very alert, and, as you must have gathered from seeing all his books, he is very well read on almost any subject you could address, and has an astonishing vocabulary, albeit sometimes an antiquated one. The reverend thought a moment, then smiled ruefully and said, “You will find that he is very opinionated on almost all of those subjects, and sometimes irritatingly so.”
Reverend Pollers seemed a bit self-congratulatory, saying, “Richard has been a fixture in this church since he arrived in town. At the time I met him he declared he would be my sexton because his grandfather had the church built in 1868. Our Board of Trustees makes sure his sexton pay, meager though it is, provides enough money for the necessities - every few weeks he will take a walk down the street to Wise’s Drug Store accompanied by one or two of the church elders. He smiled over at me and said, “Richard will stay here until he passes on.”
I wondered why it always seemed that church people could not say “die,” and then wondered how old the reverend was; probably in his 70’s, I guessed. I nodded and murmured, “That is awfully good of the church.”
Thinking about how to address the subject, I shifted on my chair and finally said, “Mr. Northam is considering allowing me to spend time with him, and will let me know Saturday. If he agrees, I would like to be able to talk with him next week, and possibly longer, to record what he has to say. I will meet with him in his house. If it is possible, could a sort of leave time be arranged for him?”
“Exactly the word I shall use. And I am certain Richard is astute enough to know that it is a euphemism for the time off he already has.” The reverend rose from his chair. “I wish you a successful interview. I suspect that you will find that old, old man quite remarkable, as we all do.”
As we walked to the door Reverend Pollers asked, “If you do reach an agreement with Richard have you made any plans as to where you will be staying?”
“I have a room at Whispering Pines north of Onley; I didn’t want to register in town, and be asked questions. Also, I didn’t want to settle in until I found out whether or not Mr. Northam was receptive to talking with me.”
The minister smiled, “If he agrees to your plans you are welcome to stay here. I have extra bedrooms, and I would enjoy company of an evening or two.” He smiled again, “You will find that there is not much to do evenings in Onancock except conversation.”
I was most pleased with the suggestion. “Thank you, I do appreciate it. I must say, however, it may be that Mr. Northam will not want me talking about our discussions with anyone, and possibly especially yourself.”
“I can believe that to be so, and I certainly will not expect any such revelations from you. You may tell Richard that his confidence will be respected. If all goes well, I will look for your return on Saturday and will advise Letty that you will be staying with us. Unfortunately, I cannot interrupt our routine here so much as to include meals, if you don’t mind.”
“Actually, Reverend Pollers, I prefer eating alone. It is my time of thinking over the day. I thank you for your kindness about the room; if things work out I will enjoy staying here.” We shook hands, and I was shown out by Letty.
* * *
On Saturday morning I turned into the church grounds at two minutes before 9:00 and walked back to the old slave cabin at the rear. I was surprised to find I was nervous with anticipation. As I neared the one room house I saw the curtains stir, and knew Uncle Richard had seen me coming. I shifted my briefcase to my left hand and had reached up to knock when the door opened.
“On time you are,” said Richard as he turned aside for me. As I stepped inside I saw two cups of coffee on the table, the steam lightly coiling into the still air of the room. I placed the briefcase at the end of the table and sat down in a chair. “The coffee is welcome,” I said picking up the cup.
The old man closed the door, slowly moved to the table, picked up the other cup, and moved over to his easy chair. He very carefully placed his cup on the end table and then eased himself into the chair and looked at me. I sipped my coffee and smiled at his inspection. I finally said, “Good coffee. Thanks,” and put the cup down. I considered how to introduce the subject of the interview and decided to be blunt. “I hope you have decided to talk with me.”
He gave me a contemplative look for a few moments, the corner of his mouth twitching into a slight smile. “I’ll do it ‘til I become sufficiently irritated by your questions.”
I smiled in return, nodded, and said, “I think I should tell you just how this will work … the type of things I want to ask you.” Richard nodded. ”First, I would like to record what you say on this digital recorder,” and I reached into the briefcase and withdrew my small battery-operated unit.
“Hoped you didn’t have the temper to write notes,” the old man said tartly. “If what I say is to get printed then I will have final say on it all … if anything gets printed.” He squinted at me, “You’ll give me a contract about that last. Not that I don’t trust you; in today’s world I don’t trust those who might be publishing something.”
“Of course, Mr. Northam. I have one prepared and will leave it with you. I suggest that if you sign it you have Reverend Pollers sign also as a witness. I will tell you, though, that there is no one else but me who has any interest in this.” I smiled and said, “I’m doing this on my own just because I want to. But, of course, if you have things to say that would be of interest to others, it very well may be that I will want to publish some or maybe all of what you say, but only if you agree to that.” I thought for a moment about a publication, and then offered, “You have final approval rights to everything that goes into print, as you will see in the contract.” I hesitated to bring money into this tenuous confrontation, but said, “The contract calls for a royalty for you if we both feel it would be worthwhile to publish your conversation.” I gave a short laugh, “If we can find a publisher. I have written in the minimum of 10% that they usually offer, but I am going to try and get more for you. I will be your editor and agent, as it were, and probably book promoter as well, so I have written in 25% of your royalty as a fee for myself if and when things get to a publisher - it will cover some of my expenses. You may not know that the publishing business is pretty much weighted in favor of the publisher.”
“The money always controls every effort in this country,” said Northam taking up his coffee cup. “What gave you the thought to come down here?” He drained the last of his coffee, and placed it on the end table.
I smiled and said, “I have been looking into family records for a long time, and I got intrigued when I came across your name but no deceased date; also that you had three different birth dates. I began doing more pointed research and came across the ancestral homestead in Onancock. It took me a long time, but I finally found enough records in the state archives in Richmond that possibly located you here, and so I left home in Arlington, and here I am.” I smiled as I said, “I should tell you that Reverend Pollers checked all my identification thoroughly. I am very pleased that I was able to narrow it down that a Richard Northam just might still be alive at the old family homestead location. Actually, I initially thought you would be a descendent of the first Richard Northam; I really didn’t expect to find you alive, much less alert and knowledgeable.” I waved my hand toward all the books, “You are a much different man than anyone could imagine, given your age.”
I finished my cup of coffee and took out papers consisting of the contract, documentation, and some records and handed them to Northam. “What I would like to do is meet with you here at 9:00, or earlier if you wish, and we, mostly you, will talk for an hour or two, then take a break for a time, and get back to talking again for a few more hours. I don’t know your habits, but I think you are going to find this a bit more draining than you might believe, so I suggest you might want to take a rest in the afternoon. And if ever you feel tired, or not wanting to talk on a day, I can leave and come back the next morning; I am not on any time requirement. I won’t stay longer than say around 5:00, and you will have time for a rest before your dinner.” I waited for some response but the old man just looked at me. I said, “What do you think?”
After a long pause he said, “I take my rest every afternoon. Sometimes two hours, sometimes less. Other than that it suits. You come by at 8:30.” He waved at the center table and said, “I’d appreciate it if you handed me my glasses.” When I retrieved them and gave them to him, he picked up the papers and read the one page contract. “Straightforward. You write this?”
“I did. I have little appreciation for attorneys, and I’ve written simple legal documents before. I want to be the person to get your story told. A man of your long experience and understanding has something to say.”
He snorted. “Humph. I have opinions. But I’ll say it right up front that I don’t walk ‘round Robin Hood’s barn like most today. I say straight out, and if something rankles I want it left that way.”
“I understand. The only thing that will cause any possible concern, or change in language, would be something that legally can be challenged as libel or slander, and that might get the church involved as well as both of us.” I thought of how to say what I wanted, then I shrugged, “Your opinions are just fine if they are backed up by facts. I mean, for instance, if you say such and such a company puts out a poor product, you have to be able to substantiate it or it could not be printed. If you have strong opinions about some individual, they are your personal opinions, and that is fine so long as you don’t mind that person possibly getting upset enough to sue. I doubt that will happen, though”. I laughed and said, “I have nothing to lose and maybe you don’t either, so I guess you can pretty much say what you think.”
“I intend to. If you start telling me I can’t say something because of what these days they call being ‘political correct’ I’ll reconsider this whole thing.”
“That won’t be a reason for taking something out; I feel the same way,” I replied with some intensity. As I closed the briefcase I mentioned, “The Reverend Pollers offered me a room in the parsonage if you and I came to an agreement this morning. I told him I would not discuss anything you had to say with him, and he assured me that your confidence would be respected. Is that all right with you?”
“Don’t care where you stay.” He looked steadily at me, “The way I see it is that I’ll talk into your recorder gadget, then you type it all out. When it is done you will bring it to me to read over. If everything is the way you say it will be I will sign off on it, and maybe you will print it, maybe not. That about right?”
“That is exactly right. I expect Reverend Pollers will arrange to relieve you of whatever church duties you might have over the next few weeks.” I fumbled with what to say in closing, and then said simply, “I’ll see you on Monday morning at 8:30.” I smiled a goodbye and left, my emotions singing with anticipation.
~ ~ ~
RICHARD NORTHAM
Recording Session No.1, Morning, October 18, 2010
I approached the cabin door on Monday exactly at 8:30. The door was slightly ajar; I knocked and pushed it open a bit further. My Uncle Richard was sitting in his chair holding a cup. He waved me in and checked his wrist watch.
“Your cup is on the table. Black. Fixin’s on the counter.”
I got my cup and sat sipping it in silence before I got out the recorder and set my papers on the table. I was ready to proceed and involuntarily took a deep breath. I said, “Mr. Northam, although I am sure you must have been asked this many times, and may be impatient with it, I might as well get the question of your age out of the way at the start. So, I ask: To what do you attribute your extraordinary Longevity?”
“Mostly it’s a damn fool question because everything contributes to a short or a long life. To wit, the food I eat, the fact that I lived without stress, that I laughed a lot never taking much seriously, my staying away from doctors which means no chemical medicines, and that I didn’t live in fear the way all do today.” He gave a slight chuckle. “I never carried insurance for anything.” It seemed that he was about to say something else, then changed his mind, and then started again to tell me something.
“You seem hesitant, Mr. Northam. Is there another reason for your long life?”
“Well, now, today they say the a body’s genes have something to do … well, since I don’t have any proof other than what I’ve heard when a boy, mostly rumors understand, and hearsay, but nonetheless it’s something that maybe should be said if you want the whole story about this family. This being the South, it’s been whispered, not spoken, all my lifetime.” We sat for over a minute in silence while Mr. Northam considered what he wanted to say. “Well, young fellow, since I was a child there’s been a rumor floating through the family that way back there, somewhere in the Cherokee Nation around the late 1700’s or early 1800’s, the proud Northams had an offspring by one of the daughters that was fathered by a full blooded Cherokee Indian. My mother spent some time tracing through the lineage, and I do believe there is a notation in one of the family Bibles that makes me 1/64th Cherokee.”
He laughed a thin, crackling, low range utterance. “Sixty-fourth. Don’t seem a big enough amount to count, does it? But in the South it does. Since I’ve spent my life being white, and since all the other Northams I knew look as white as I do, I had no thought to make a big declaration. But it could be something, because when the native Indians are left to their own devices and lives, and without western man’s influences or medicine, well, they were generally a long-lived people. But I don’t know that it has anything to do with my life.” He laughed again, this time with more gusto. “Wouldn’t it be a pickle if a man can live longer if he has mixed blood? That would stir things up! Hah.”
I didn’t know what to say, and I didn’t know if I should ask who traced it, so I waited. I finally said, “Yes, I would say it surely would. You mentioned ‘the food you eat’ and you not taking any prescription medicines, and not living with stress or fear; those are the elements for a long life?” My uncle only nodded. I changed the direction of my questions.” Mr. Northam, I compiled a set of words that cover a range of issues, some major and some not so important.. They are in no particular order.” I looked at my list of words. “All right sir, Language. What do you think of the language that is used today by the general public, in the entertainment world, and by the media?”
“I think disgusting. How a people speak reflects their culture, and any fool can listen to the young people talk and know that this country has gone down the slope and arrived at the station of mediocrity, the size of this economy notwithstanding.”
“Are you referring to the use of swearing and vulgarity?”
“I am not. Such needs a whole book on its own. I am talking about the sloppy language and poor diction even by radio and television commentators who say things like ‘at’ at the end of a question …‘Where is he at?’ Takes a really stupid man to talk like that. I also find it difficult to understand actors on the TV and in the movies which I seldom attend. They have no diction or articulation; they talk so fast, without moving their lips, a body cannot understand what they are saying. While I cannot speak about the U.S. Congress because I don’t listen to them any more, I would bet poor grammar is heard every day on the floor of the `house.” He thought for a minute. “The ignorance of saying ‘know what I mean’ or ‘nomeen’ at the end of every sentence. And ‘you know?’ every time they say a phrase. I hear people on TV saying ‘you know’ three times in one sentence. Somebody says ‘you know’ to me I say no I don’t! Where did they go to school? Or do the teachers talk like that now? And some people say ‘um’ at the end of every sentence. Even heard the First Lady do it on the TV. As to children in their teens, it is incomprehensible to me how they can understand the words of the songs they listen to … that chatter is not music. I would urge all those alleged singers to take the pebbles out of their mouths - Greek they are not.” He looked at me with a grimace. “And young man, I will wager not one young person in a thousand today would understand the reference. Education? Humph.
“Saw on the TV where some fool company advertised a ‘free gift.’ Willing to bet the ad agency does not know that a gift means that it’s free. And then there is the word ‘like’ that is used by mostly young people, and used in the wrong places. People say ‘I like went to the store.’ Sounds as if they weren’t sure if they did or not. Makes them sound dimwitted. Flutter talk. And that kind of talk is tolerated, probably even encouraged in schools because the children are not corrected. Purely bad language.”
He paused and thought for a moment. I noticed the pitch of his voice had risen in tone. “Why? Is it because the teachers are also dumbed down now? I think so.” He settled back in his chair and I realized he was impassioned about the subject. He spoke quietly, slowly, almost musing to himself. “I say it is because the unions control the teachers and the town or the state can’t do anything about poor teaching. They can’t fire a bad teacher. That is a key indicator of what has happened to America.” He looked over at me. “Hear that young man? Poor education, I say, is the key indicator of why we are where we are.”
I was tempted to continue on this theme by asking my uncle what he meant by “what has happened” but decided that if I stuck to the 30 words I wanted to ask I would get the answers to anything I might think about. “Well,” I said, “we will get back to education a bit later. In reality, is there more vulgarity today than in the past? I mean, haven’t people always used swear words, but in the past was it done more in private, and that is the difference?”
“The way things are going a body would think someone was practicing to be a celebrity; they are all without grace.” He looked over at me again. “Now there’s an old fashioned expression. Yes, I’ll say people used to swear more in private than in public, but that is not anything to remark on. What is remarkable is that there are no more ‘bad’ words in our language. Why? Because all the offensive, vulgar, and insulting words that were obscene or vulgar in the last century, are now part of our everyday speech. It is common, and I mean common in the southern sense, the lowest denominator. The worst of it today is that the writers and producers of movies and the television, good and bad, have the characters using awful vulgarity, swearing all the time.” He shook his head. “Seems like every third word in some movies is a vulgarity in films made for the young people. I have seen shows on TV of comedians who use the ‘f’ word constantly and the awful `m-f’. “
He sat silent for moments. “Disgusting. And the public accepts it, and even likes it - that’s the bad thing. But nobody has the intestinal fortitude to stand up and tell these really bad actors with awful language to stop. Why not?” He looked at me with belligerence. “Political correctness has made everybody tongue-tied.” He mumbled. “Not to mention the idiots who chant that rap talk and call it music. Films are said to mirror the public taste. The TV surely does.