The Wisdom of Ages

MAYBE SOMEDAY

AUTHOR"S NOTE: this story was inspired when my husband and I were on a road trip, and I saw an old black man sitting under a tree watching the cars go by. The story was one of those rare gifts from my muse, and came to me in one great rush that needed little rewrite or editing. The story placed third in the Page Edward's Short Fiction contest in 2004.

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Samson sat in the meager shade of the small Mimosa tree that graced his front yard, watching the traffic on old highway 79.  Granted, there wasn’t much, but every now and then a shiny new car would pass, heading toward the resort Samson knew was somewhere down the road. Or a car full of teenagers would zoom by, the boys laughing and tossing their empties out the window. And as many afternoons as he’d spent out here, it never failed to surprise Samson how much things had changed. On a good day he could count up to a hundred cars going by. Times used to be when one donkey cart coming down the road was cause for celebration. 

Those had been the good years. The years Samson had worked for Mr. Watson until he’d given Samson this little piece of land for his own. Some folks thought Watson had lost his mind, giving away his land like that, especially to a black man. But Watson had never treated Samson like most white folks did, the ‘good ol’ boy’ routine that never quite covered the slight hesitation as white flesh met black in a handshake. Watson never hesitated as a man or a friend, and the memory creased Samson’s weathered face in a smile.

But the smile wasn’t just for Watson. It was for Molly and those six youngsters who had been so much a part of the goodness of those years. He wished he could have filled their bellies as easily as they’d filled his heart, but they’d never seemed to mind. They’d always laughed the place up, and any occasion, large or small turned into an opportunity for fun. When the peddler came down the road, the pots and pans clanking in time to the clip clop of his horse’s hooves on the dirt road, the children ran out clutching their dimes, eager to see what new toy or sweet the old man had. You’d’ve thought a carnival had come to their front door.

Then all too soon those