Staff That Saved America: The Custodian

By Robert Bryce

Three strikes and you’re out! America’s been down for the count, countless times. Read to discover the legendary staff that pulled her back from the brink.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781682225622

Book preview

Fiction

Chapter 1

Relentlessly persisting, tenaciously guarding, and always nurturing. Bull-headed, if need be. Secretive? If the job warrants it! A slacker? Never! A custodian is a breed apart; custodian from the Latin custodia (watching or keeping safe), is one who having been blessed with the burden of looking after something, guards that thing like a hawk forever refusing to betray it even at the cost of losing his or her life. Could you be a custodian?

Seventy-nine years earlier during the cool morning hours of early April 8, 1787 a bustling baby boy screamed as his young lungs tasted the sweet Georgia air.

Where had the intervening years gone? Lamont Jefferson James lay broken on crumpled linen in the bedroom of the small cottage in the woods on the outskirts of Henderson house off Decatur road in Decatur, Georgia. Decatur is a railroad town in the shadow of Stone Mountain, a stone’s throw to the northeast. While the citizens of Atlanta in Fulton County to the west have voted to secede from the Union, the citizens of Decatur along with a majority of the residents of Dekalb County voted on January 2, 1861 not to secede from the Union. This however would not spare Decatur the wrath of Union General Sherman because the city was home to a railroad, which Sherman decided had to be destroyed in order to capture Atlanta.

The Central Georgia Railroad ran through Decatur. A lot of goods and farm produce flowed across this rail line westward to the city of Atlanta. Roscoe Henderson grew vegetables—watermelon, collards, corn, cabbage and lettuce which he sent to Atlanta for sale. After the war, the James family and other freed Negroes settled in several cabins on the Henderson property. Most were farm hands.

The wiry elder James once served as janitor at Decatur School several miles to the east near Stone Mountain. In the sparsely lit room, Lamont James’ tired body was adrift on the sea of his past. He had given his son, Travis Javon James all the necessary instructions regarding the staff. At 79 years of age, there was nothing most persons his age could do but wait, but LJ wasn’t one to wait; age may have robbed his limbs of their once skillful ability to swing a mop head, make beads of wax dance, the eyes of dull floors sparkle with glee, but his mind remained swift, faster than lightning during a rainy Georgia summer storm. Like a frisky antelope skipping through the dense forest of yesterday, he remembered an incident.

Outside the school where he worked, the seething wind’s icy fingers slithered across ragged treetops which only weeks before bore all the majestic splendor of a fall that would have awakened even the dullest minds and opened the eyes of the blind to dreamlike visions. Now, all that was left to clothe the almost naked maples, pines and oaks were scraggly colored leaves hanging on bravely in the face of a brisk gale slashing across the face of the mountain. A few anxious squirrels scampered, scurrying, hurriedly burying fallen acorns, hastening to the cadence of the retreating sap, and the rhythmic flutter of bird wings beating a path south. Overhead the air was filled with the shrill cry of geese heeding a lead bird’s warning to keep the formation.

LJ’s eyes were drawn toward the granite monolith that is Stone Mountain towering 1683 feet above the school in the foggy mist. In the clear freshwater rock pools on the surface of the mountain, formed by rainfall, clam and fairy shrimp wiggled and splashed performing an ancient ritual passed on from generations earlier. Along the rocky crevices leading up the mountainside, Confederate Yellow Daisies and flowering yucca fluttered in the wind tipping their hats to the loblolly pines which bowed beneath the north face of the mountain, that would later bear the statutes of Stonewall Jackson, Robert E. Lee, and Jefferson Davis. The mist was thick and resembled smoke.

Lamont Jefferson James had finished mopping the floors of the Decatur School. He stood up stiffly, arched his back, and extended his arms heavenward hoping to encourage more circulation in his tired limbs. His short curly hair was grayish white. Beneath the wool cap pulled down over his ears, the puffs of cottony hair which pushed shyly over his large ears earned him the nickname Rabbit. About six feet two inches, Oily or Slick, as the teachers and staff of the school affectionately called Mr. James, was the handle the elderly custodian preferred, although he also went by LJ.

No one in the entire Stone Mountain area could lay down a coat of wax as he could. After a teacher slipped and fell on the mirror-like floor in the school’s hallway, principal Martin Westwood had remarked, in that Georgia twang that he used when speaking to the school laborers; Now, Lamont, we ain’t runnin no ice rink in this here place. I ain’t payin ‘em teachers to skate. No sir! They fit to do one thing, and that’ll be to teach, yuh hear?

Yes-suh LJ had replied, surprised that his hard work had managed to cause such a fuss. After the incident, Lamont James did his best to keep his floor work from embarrassing him again. The Custodian found a way to cut the polishing wax with turpentine, so the floors shone but weren’t slick. Nevertheless, the name Slick stuck.

Carefully, LJ lifted the mop out of the bucket, then returned the braided locks of the cotton mop into a clear bucket of warm water. Steam rose like water spirits above the container as the Custodian gently swirled the wooden-handled mop back and forth in the water hoping to release the last remnants of the wax. Satisfied that the mop head was clean, he lifted the soggy mop like a dutiful mother would her dripping baby from its bath-- a pat here and an ever so gentle squeeze there. Cradling the arm of the mop handle against his long arms, he wrapped his slender fingers around the mop and began wringing the water out. One instant the water was warm, and the next, it had chilled as the marauding wind smothered away the heat that only seconds earlier had called the water home.

The Custodian picked up the rinse bucket, tossed the water onto the reddish pine needle-covered earth, turned, and picked up the mop by its handle. It was getting late, and he was anxious to get on home. Walking along Stone Mountain Road Highway towards Decatur late at night made as much sense as a chicken walking along a fox’s den. Anything, or rather nothing was impossible! The devil was often out walking; just fixin’ to collar the first fool he happened upon. Big Daddy James, Lamont’s father often said, Boy, yuh does yuh job. Then, yuh gits home, yuh hear?

LJ pivoted to open the door at the back of the clapboard school. Boom! Boom! His eyes turned suddenly towards the summit of Stone Mountain. In the darkening sky near the summit, there was a bright glow. What could it be?

Big Daddy often told tales around the old wood-burning stove, while outdoors, time was frozen stiff, clinging to frosty snowflakes drifting aimlessly hitting the rough hewn window shutters of the clapboard house where, huddled around a noisily cackling fire, brown bodies pressed close together to stay warm, never taking their gaze off the large mouth that sat on Big Daddy’s face. A scruffy looking smoke pipe filled with wrinkled fuming tobacco leaves dangled from the corner of that mouth, pulling drops of water across his blood shot eyes, spit drooling at the corner of his mouth--- Daddy James sucked slowly on the foul smoke-breathing pipe and exhaled yarns about ghoulish men on ghostly horses galloping in cadence with the howling wind in the dead of winter on Stone Mountain. Creepy tales of screaming and wretched hollering way into the night. LJ remembered how frightened his mother looked when his father spun those tales. Sometimes she would yell at him: Stop ‘em stupid yarns! Yuh scarin my pretty babes. Don’t yuh know bettah than to scare deh young uns?

LJ recalled how he shivered when his Dad told those spooky tales about pale riders on the prowl around the mountain. But, not once did he have nightmares about those frightening riders. In his mind, he always knew Big Daddy was fibbing. What’s dah use of being afraid of something dat ain’t real? That’s what he told Emma and Rodney, his sister and brother who were younger.

The Custodian clutched the carved handle of the mop in his hand and dislodged the mop head from the mahogany handle. Instantly the mop handle took on another life-- a more dignified function; it became a staff. A shepherd’s staff! Thy rod and staff, they comfort me in the presence of my enemies. That’s what it said in God’s book.

Lamont James leaned on the staff and peered up at the glowing light at the top of the mountain. The booms continued. He was certain it wasn’t thunder. And it most certainly wasn’t rifle or cannon fire. An old man, he still remembered the sound of cannon, Sherman’s cannon. Grandma James had hollered, Dey judgment done come. Save for dey Lawd, we’ all done gone.

Hell fell from the sky and Atlanta went up in flames. The assault on Atlanta on July 22, 1864 was perhaps the most savage and bloodiest of William Tecumseh Sherman’s Atlanta campaign. Sherman’s Union troops took the city on September 2, 1864. From the top of Stone Mountain the city had looked like one big Southern Barbecue.

Caution whispered in LJ’s ear. Head home boy. You’re fixin’ to stick yuh nose where it don’t belong.

But LJ’s eyes were drawn up that mountain. Curiosity? Maybe. Or was it destiny? Leaning on the staff for support, he made his way towards the granite behemoth. Crouching, his elderly knees creaking, he inched his way forward moving like a cat stalking a mouse.

The Custodian made his way to the Stone Mountaintop Trail that led up the mountain, one which the early Indians had used when the mountain was known to them as Lone Mountain. Nothing on the trail was level and no section was downhill. It was one grueling climb, stepping across loose granite and wide crevices lined with yellow daisies. Up and up the steep grade, the trail meandered. Rock hopping was a must. One careless slip on mountain lichen and moss dampened by the mist could spell absolute disaster for even the most skilled climber, which LJ certainly wasn’t.

Half way up the summit, LJ began chastising himself. A foo1, that’s what he was. He had never been to the summit of the mountain before. What was he doing on the exposed side of this barren rock in the middle of the gathering dusk?

Earlier, heading up the rocky path had been easy while the last rays of the sun lingered. With the sun gone, and the descent of the evening shadows, the Custodian soon found himself surrounded by thickening gloom. Eyes useless in the dark, he felt his way forward. Several times he lost his footing. His trousers were ripped in several places, and his knees bled. Cuts across his face stung in the cold air. Still, he pressed upward, clutching his custodial garments to brace his body against the cold air. The wind picked up as he neared the summit. Another tumble! He lost his grip on the staff and fell hard smacking his already raw knees against the exposed roots of a shrub. His heart throbbing, choking back despair, even the fear that the staff had slid down the mountainside, he groped about in the dark mess of leaves and rocks near his body; a prayerful sigh escaped his lips when after a few anxious moments he felt the familiar carved handle of the staff. Regaining his posture, he continued a few hundred feet, stumbling, grunting softly, and sometimes swearing under his breath. Suddenly! A miracle!

Vision returned. His eyes became useful; he had neared the source of the glow at the summit: a large bonfire! The largest bonfire he’d ever seen. Must have been close to a hundred trees on that pile. And around the fire, danced a throng of men clad in white sheets. Next to the large fire was a cross on fire. Mah Lawd, LJ gasped, Look what did done did to yuh cross! Beneath the cross was a large man dressed in red, mouthing all kinds of strange words. The grand dragon! The devil himself, LJ muttered.

LJ rubbed his limbs and cupped his hands over his eyes. He noticed he was beginning to feel warm all over, and it wasn’t because he was excited. The swirling wind was blowing heat from the fire above towards him warming his aching knees and chasing the cold from his limbs.

In a nearby crevice, he placed some fallen leaves and pine needles -- a resting place against the hard granite. From the sanctuary of the cleft in the rock, he stared at the spectacle above.

It was as if he was watching a play. He remembered taking part in plays at church. He wanted to be little David. The best part was when he pretended to sling his stone against the forehead of the giant Goliath.

The fire above crackled. A huge shower of sparks dancing like fireflies rose towards the heavens. Clutching the staff as he lay on the bed of leaves, LJ came to the realization that those yarns of Big Daddy James weren’t the musings of an old man whose mind had lost the difference between fact and fiction. He wanted to scream from the top of Stone Mountain all the way to downtown Decatur: Mama, Big Daddy was right! Dem men in sheets are real as grits. I seen dem wit my own eyes. But LJ knew he only had to make a sound, and he would never come down off that mountain. So, he kept his mouth shut, cold fear rattling his ribs, pushing against the tightness balled in his stomach. Watched the Grand Dragon and his followers, he did until…

A piece of granite loosened perhaps by countless seasons of winter thawing, rain, and wind suddenly rolled off the crevice where LJ was hiding. Roosting birds took to the air annoyingly, caught off guard by the crashing of the rock as it tore down the mountain.

Above, one of the men pointed down towards the crevice where LJ lay cringing. The grand dragon waved his hands and a couple of men came running in the direction of the crevice. One held a torch as they investigated the area.

Just a boulder that come loose. That’s all y’all! The two men waved their hands back at the others signaling everything was okay and returned to the bonfire.

As the men had approached the area where LJ hid, fearing he might be found, LJ had completely covered himself with leaves, lying still as possible. It was a trick Big Daddy said was used in the Underground Railroad to hide from bounty hunters. It worked only if the hunters didn’t have bloodhounds. Tucked under bushels of pine straw or oak leaves, a person could play dead while breathing gently through the air pockets among the leaves.

After a while, the loud booms and rowdy dancing stopped on the mountain and the men got really quiet as a huge covered wagon pulled by eight men was brought to the center of the gathering. The Grand Dragon walked to the wagon and uncovered it. LJ could not make out all the contents from where he lay. But he was certain he saw a book from which the Grand Dragon read.

Then, there was a sword the Dragon raised towards the heavens. All the men came forward and kissed the blade of the sword.

In the center of the wagon was a large mysterious chest, which was not opened or touched, but revered as if it was something to be worshipped and at the same time feared.

When the ceremony of the blade was over, the wagon was covered and pulled towards a secret passage in the mountain. The passage was behind a clump of trees. LJ strained his neck to see where it led, but knew he could not raise his head, or get any closer without risking discovery. After the wagon was tucked out of sight, some men on horseback came forth with pails of water and doused the fire. The grand dragon and the men melted into the night. With the disappearing of the fire, the mountain air began to chill and the wind chased the last remnants of warmth away from the crevice where LJ rested.

It was then too late to get down the mountain. In