Early Work of Porter Ashe

By Porter Ashe

A fictional collection of found works by Porter Ashe, an obscure writer about whom little can be determined. Includes diverse range of short stories, fables, musings, etc.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Antsy Press
• Release date: Mar 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005957018

Book preview

An Introduction

I never met Porter Ashe, I only know him through his work and the scant recollections of the few who remember the writer and his years here.

What they describe is a pleasant man who kept to himself, mostly. He lived on his own, spoke only when spoken to, but always had a smile, and a fondness for whistling. More than one told of his whistling a song from an old movie, Zip A Dee Do Dah, then singing what a beautiful day it was, rain or shine.

He made no close friends, had no visitors, never got any mail as far as anyone knew.  Then, one day he rode his bicycle into town to settle his accounts. He advised he was leaving but expected to return the following spring ...before the redbuds and dogwoods bloom.

That’s as much as I could learn.

My wife and I bought a farm a few years ago, finally realizing our plans to live closer to the land. The place  hadn’t been worked for years; cedars and brambles were starting to take hold in the bottoms.  At the back end, where the old highway bordered the property, there was a shack of a cabin. The seller shared he had planned to tear that place down but never got around to it, and strongly suggested we consider doing the same.

From what he’d heard there was a tenant in that house when his grandparents still worked the farm, but he estimated that had to be at least 20 years ago. All he knew was a man had lived there as their last tenant, never heard of Porter Ashe when I called to ask.

We bought the place in late summer and that October, as things were dying back I finally had a chance to hike the whole place and set off with my dog Roo for a look at that cabin. I found it just as described, almost hidden by weeds, tucked between two small hills on a narrow rise near a slate spring at the very back of our property, within sight of the old road

To be honest, the shack was so far gone, leaning off it’s piers, I hesitated to enter, but Roo walked right in the hanging front door. Then, when he didn’t come to my call I decided I’d have a look too. First I grabbed hold of a porch post and tried shaking the structure but it didn’t move so I eased through that open door.

There were only two good sized rooms and a tiny kitchen which showed signs of being tacked on as an addition of sorts. Finding no bathroom, I realized then the pile of boards beneath the tin I had spied at the far corner of the yard out back had likely served as an outhouse.

The floor of the front room had rotted through in places beneath where the tin roof had curled back. You could see the sky, some holes were that big, and there were layers of wallpaper peeling off the walls down to yellowed newspaper. Then, as my eyes adjusted, I started noticing sheets of paper laying around, all typed, some with pen markings and margin notes like someone wanted to make changes. There were numbers on the bottom of some pages, and none on others, and I didn’t think anything of it. Just trash.

Then, where I found Roo with a possum cornered in the back room, there was a kind of free standing closet tucked back against a wall where the rain and wind r never reached. An old chifforobe, I think that’s what they are called, with two wide doors, a row of drawers and an improvised fold- door at the bottom.

I opened the closet doors to threadbare ghosts of what must have been shirts and a jacket still clinging to wooden hangers. The drawers were all pulled out and empty like they’d been gone through, and when I pressed the door of that bottom section, it just kind of fell forward. There was a big leather suitcase there, big like a trunk, and the rats had started to chew a corner but it showed rusted tin underneath so they never made it through.

I pulled that  suitcase out and had to pry the latch back then force the lid open. Inside, it was filled with papers just like the ones in the front room, only these were gathered in little packets stapled together. Some staples had rusted away, staining the upper left corner of the packet, always the upper left, and others still had the staples intact.

I picked one up and just flipped through it and started reading the neatly typed page, just being nosey, wondering what all this was. I don’t remember which story it was, but I remember thinking it was interesting and I flipped back to the first page.

And that’s when I met Porter Ashe, the first time I saw the name. I don’t remember which story it was, but right below the title it said by Porter Ashe.

And I sat for a while and started reading, then reaching into that suitcase and pulling out other packets, just paging through and reading randomly. The more I read the more impressed I was with how this guy, this Porter Ashe, was speaking directly to  to me over time, talking through the words on the page.  The more I read the more I wanted to read and before I knew it the sun was setting, that place took on a chill to me and Roo had headed home long before I realized he was gone.

I told my wife about it and the next day we went back. She agreed, she had been an English Major, that whoever had written this stuff was serious about writing, judging from all the edits and notes. It was her idea that we take that suitcase, and all the loose papers we could gather up and save them. She thought some of it was worth saving and we should find out who this Porter Ashe was.

In that we failed, I’ve already shared everything we’ve been able to learn about this guy. In the years since I’ve gotten to know the man, or some sense of him, through his work. Over that time, from what I’ve read, I decided his is a voice that deserves to be heard. Here I’ve gathered some of his shorter stuff, and what I believe to be his earliest work.

That’s based on solely the fact these were all typed with a Remington manual typewriter. I later found a rusted one on a shelf in the shed out back, and on many of the original pages you can see some red ink above the typing, because of the type of two colored ribbons those typewriters used. Later, he switched to an IBM Selectric, and favored its elite font, and made good use of its auto correction feature, as seen on the page.

Some of the themes and ideas touched on in these stories are more fully developed in the other stories and novels we found in that trunk, and unfinished projects which I assume he started as novels but abandoned for whatever reason partway through.

The only other hints about the man we found, and I can’t say for sure they are specifically related to him, was a well worn copy of the Tao Te Ching, the Jane English Gia Fu Feng translation, and a small cross carved into the trim of a bay window facing West in the back of the house.  That alcove is the right size for a small table or desk, so maybe he did his writing there where he could look out on his world. 

Undertones of religion, or a sense of spirituality, and the want for meaning is there in a lot of his work, but best you judge for yourself.

A.R.

A Corner Marker

There was a tree at the corner of  the property of Mr. Jones and Mr. Smith. An ancient oak, better than eight feet across with a crown spreading over 100 feet. Left by the pioneers as  boundary marker and no fence ever been nailed to it.

Now Jones was stuck on money, and the tree was his only thing of value left.

Mr. Smith, he said one morning, catching Smith out in the field. We need to talk about that tree.

Smith turned off his tractor and leaned back in the seat. Asked Jones to repeat himself, a tactic he used when he didn't like the direction or tone of a conversation.

I was thinking we should sell that tree, the market for timber being so high and all.

Smith turned to look toward the hill where the tree reigned, towering above everything else in the woods. I kind of like the old tree, he said, then turned back to Jones. Serves me as a marker, too, about who's been here before, and between what's mine and yours.  There ain't many left like it. I'd hate to see it come down.

I'm ready to sell my half, Jones shot back. I need to. That tree ain't good for nothing but to look at standing there.

I bet it bring a tidy sum, drawled Smith.

Several hundred, maybe thousands in timber for just that one tree. Half yours, half mine.

Smith sat and thought a while. Of course, once the money's gone, then the tree's gone too....What could you sell next?

Jones thought a while, gave Smith a hard look but he didn't say anything.

So long as that tree's standing you got something, Smith warned, pursing his lips. "When it's down you got nothing. I'm more worried about sowing than cutting right now.

Trade your shade for sunshine and you won't escape the heat.

Smith started his tractor and got back to work. Jones walked off, bitter.

He never mentioned cutting that tree again.

No Easy Answer

My grandfather, and his grandfather before him and all the men in between and stretching far as back as any one could