Tales of Harper

By Malcolm L. Wilkinson

Tales of Harper is a collection of short stories and poems about the fictional town of Harper, Mississippi. The time setting is approximately from the early twentieth century until today. While none of the characters are real you will recognize some of the people you grew up with if you lived in a small town or visited relatives in small towns. Even city dwellers will be able to relate to some of the stories and characters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493185832

Malcolm L. Wilkinson

Malcolm L. Wilkinson is a retired pharmacist and pharmacy owner. He was born and raised in Southwest Mississippi and now lives in Atlanta, Georgia. His book of short stories and poems, Tales of Harper, was published in 2014.

Book preview

The Importance of Story

My father never spoke of his father.

The few things I learned about my grandfather

came from little things my mother said.

Once during an argument she told my dad,

"You’re just like Old Hank, you’re probably keeping

a woman up in Tottertown too."

When I asked my dad about this he had nothing to say.

I have seen pictures of grandfather and he looks like a kind man.

But he left his family and moved to another state with a woman named Parmee.

She inherited his money and left it to her brother.

That’s all I know about grandfather.

You, my son, should know more of your grandfather.

So sit back and listen.

Take off your shoes if you want.

I guarantee you will be glad we talked.

Maybe not today, but one day when you have children

and you tell them the story of me.

How Grandpa Wheeler Came to Stay in Harper (1910)

The urge to break free came during summer vacation after he had completed the eighth grade. Each night he found it harder to come in from the fields surrounding his house, often lying on his back fully awake, learning from the various skies. As September approached he sensed a destiny that lay beyond the confines of home. The night before the first day of the new school year he labored over a farewell letter, finally giving up on explanations and settling for a two-word promise, I’ll write.

From the beginning he used the rails, hopping trains with unknown destinations, always glad to arrive where they took him. He spent countless nights in hobo camps sleeping under whatever sky nature offered, often cold and hungry, but always thankful for the freedom he had chosen. Many mornings he awoke confused and bewildered by his solitude, longing for old friends or family, only to shrug it off while gathering his things for a quick departure.

Around campfires late into the night, the men shared tales of big cities and open spaces, of strangers who had befriended them and family members left behind, of lonely nights and rip-roaring adventures. Their stories accompanied by cricket songs took on the measure of poetry and sent him to sleep having sufficiently dreamed for the night.

During his sixth year out, for some reason, perhaps to see first hand the places he had heard about, he began to plan his travels. Discipline crept into his life. At first he resisted and gave up on some plans so he could stay longer with certain comrades, but gradually he fell into a pattern of scheduling his time and setting priorities. Somewhere in this transformation he took a real job; not working a few hours a day for a meal or a piece of clothing, but duty with set hours and responsibilities. He promised himself he would stay only until he made enough to finance his next adventure.

Six months later, he remained in the employment of the Illinois Central Railroad, loading baggage on and off passenger trains. In a town named Harper, located almost halfway between Jackson, Mississippi and New Orleans, he took up citizenship. He met a girl. In her he felt some of the same fascination he had experienced on the road. One night, being particularly vulnerable to the effect of the stars, he told her he loved her and could not live without her and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. Perhaps she saw no better opportunity so she married him.

They lived with her parents, a situation which prompted him to solicit the help of a fellow baggage-loader who was skilled in carpentry. Together, each evening after work, the two constructed a three-room house. Within a year he and his wife moved into their new home, and over the next few years, she gave birth to three children.

At first, his responsibility as a father kept his mind off the road. But when the youngest child finished high school, the urge to move on grew stronger. He fought it, telling himself he really did love her.

One night they were sitting in the front porch swing, his arm around her shoulder, talking about nothing in particular. As the moon forced its way past a low, thick cloud, bringing a dim color to the world around them, she reached for his hand and took it to her lap. They sat motionless in the swing, neither speaking.

After a while, she stood and turned, gazing into his eyes. He had not spoken his feeling for her in many years, but tonight his look and touch seemed to give her a renewed confidence. As was their habit, she went to bed, leaving him to his adoration of the night.

In the morning, when she realized he had not come to bed, she hurried barefoot and robeless into the kitchen. She found him seated at the table, staring ahead, unaware of her arrival. As she walked toward him, he turned to her and he smiled.

Later that day while tending to some brush that needed burning, he took from his pockets several wads of paper, failed attempts to justify his yearning, and added them to the fire, sending their message on the journey he could not take.

One Summer Evening in 1944

The old man took his place

in the adirondack chair down by

the victory garden and looked up

at the house where he had lived his life.

In the kitchen window his wife,

pink in the light of a hanging 40 watt bulb,

stood at the sink peeling potatoes for his dinner.

Surrounded by the sounds of early evening

he thought of love and how it had come back

to the simplicity of his childhood.

The old woman stood in the kitchen

making dinner for her husband.

She could see him in his usual place,

down by the victory garden.

A recent frailty seemed to have taken him over.

He seemed smaller, dimmer in approaching dark.

A little shiver ran her spine.

And for the first time came

acceptance of Fate, hers and his.

For the first time she forgave.

Legion

1949

And Jesus asked him, saying, What is thy name? And he said, Legion: because many devils were entered into him.

They came for Uncle Legion on a mild December day in 1947; three men in a dark green sedan with license plates issued by the state of Louisiana to a car purchased for transporting crazy people to the asylum. Please do not bristle at my term for describing my uncle’s illness for this was a common description for any ailment with behavior not conforming to that expected from a normal citizen of the community. Many people were never called for by the state employees nor moved away from the normals. Uncle Legion was not so lucky.

The next year on the first of June, Uncle Legion’s birthday, we (his mother, father, and I) came to visit him. He was thirty-six years old. Though I had not reached my twelfth year on earth, it had been much on my mind—this thing about Legion’s confinement—for I remember him when his actions were not to be questioned.

John Legion Campbell was born into a happy home, blessed with a loving mother and a father hell bent on providing for his wife and children, often working extra hours or extra jobs to overcome his inability to enter into a profession, which would automatically insure wealth. His lack of advanced education had seen to that. They called him Legion; his father was called John, to avoid confusion in the community. Grandmother Campbell issued a warning. The name Legion was in her mind associated with demons and she would not call him that. She was the one who cautioned them about making faces that could be frozen by some cosmic frost into a permanent disfiguration. They were not to sit in wheelchairs or walk with a limp or in any way mimic a disease or infirmity of any nature. So no one really took her seriously about the name.

Legion grew straight and tall and by high school, his speed and strength enabled him to participate in team sports. His strong throwing ability made him first choice for quarterback in the fall and pitcher in the spring. The citizens of Harper agreed he was the All-American boy. A scholarship to the state university was offered to him and he accepted. I heard little of his college days for these were times Legion did not share with family. They were surely his own years not to be distributed to the scrutiny of others.

When Legion came back to Harper from the university, he brought with him a bride. He called her Lila and introduced her as my wife, Delilah. She was all glitter and flamboyance, what seemed to be a bright star in the dark skies of Harper life. They seemed happy, at least for the first year. About six months after they returned to our town, Uncle Legion rushed Aunt Lila to the hospital in the next county and there she presented him with a baby girl. They called her Margie. Everyone said she was the prettiest baby ever born in the state of Mississippi. Another little girl, they named her Deborah, came a little over a year later. When she was just a year old the war came from out of nowhere.

It was December the seventh, 1941, and we were sitting in the living room of grandfather’s house listening to a New York concert on his Philco radio. You know what happened: the announcement of an attack on Pearl Harbor. We were suddenly at war. This is not to say there weren’t warning signs, but the finality of the commentator’s words came as unexpected as a tornado when all we had looked for was dark clouds and perhaps a stiff breeze.

Within a few months Legion joined several young men from Harper as they were called to duty. A star was placed in the front window of grandfather’s house. When we heard from Uncle Legion it was clear he was somewhere in Europe; the details were cloaked in secrecy. Aunt Lila cried when he left, but within a year she was bouncing around the few nightspots Harper had to offer. This was a circumstance which could not be confined from the attention