Folksinger’s Corner- Out In The American Wilderness-Greg Brown’s “Walkin’ Daddy”

 

 

… he walked into the town, into the winter snow drift town, all shivering and cold, all buck in his pocket all in change , not more, all life’s possessions on his back, rucksack some odds and ends hanging  from a couple of  straps to make walking daddy walk easier out on that desolate hitchhike highway, bedroll, a stray bag or two carried in every arm, things recently bought, or recently “clipped,” and not fit-able in solely essentials rucksack, all hell fire and brimstone cursing against that damn truck driver who had dumped him off the Interstate rather than as he had planned stopping off in this winter snow drift town. And so walking daddy, for the one hundredth, or maybe one thousandth time, was walking into some place town (Prestonsburg ,Gallup, Neola, Racine, Fargo, hell, all the Dakota towns, Pacifica, Two Rivers, Three Rivers, Boise, Helena, Nashua back east, Olde Saco up in start up Maine, the names kept rolling off to keep him rolling warm) after some off-beat angel ride to some exit six, or sixty-six, or six hundred and sixty- six.       

A few flakes on his collar causing another shiver, a few flakes on his greying beard making him look more like some old time  patriarch, some old testament prophet in sack cloth and ashes, he entered Aunt Milly’s Diner (amazed as always at the number of aunts, good christian aunts for the most part, of sturdy yeoman stock, whose names were attached to these small winter snow drift town diners  and amazed too that they all served generous portions of  food fit for kings and prophets, new and old , and cheap too, or to be had for a few dishes washed in trade), and began  his spiel, his “hi, how are you’s,”  his small snow drift town version of brother can you spare a dime (that dish-washing in lieu of cash picked up in hard knocks early road time where  he learned that on route 6, 66,666 the coin of the realm was if you wanted to eat you had better work). No commie red mad monks run amok on the western plains and hills (back east don’t even bother, just pan-handle or con because that land is fresh out of angel aunts). 

After a successful negotiation (one hour’s pearl-diving for one big entrée, ha, meal, plus dessert, fair enough) now setting himself up as walking daddy after the warmth of the diner took that damn chill of his chest he sat down at the counter (as always, and as always on the single swivel stool red vinyl seat, on the formica counter a paper place setting with some god awful advertisements for local this and local that, hog feed, real estate, guns, you name it, and, maybe suggestions for the local attractions, Jimmy’s Ant Farm or something, utensils wrapped around paper napkin and a  patiently waiting downturned coffee cup, ceramic) and was, as usual, asked by some curious lonesome local where he, the lonesome hobo (road moniker –Charles River Blackie, but not used in the aunt diners of the world) was from (knowing everyone in the aunt diner local and not him) and what was his business. And as the diner began filling up with good local farmers and ranch hands he had this to say in his laconic way so that everybody could hear:        

“I have walked this country shoe leather bare ever since I started out some years back east in Olde Saco, that’s up in ocean Maine [thus solving the “from” question], hitching and hiking, hitch-hiking, riding flatbed rails, hell a couple of times riding horses across Wyoming when you could do that without frightening the damn beasts with all that damn traffic. I have been to Helena, and hell, Boise, and batty, Cheyenne, and corralled (jailed, okay), and so if you ask me my profession just say I am a walking daddy (except that hour I will be putting in for Aunt Milly after this fine meal), a pure walking daddy, walking now just to keep walking. And to keep spreading the good word, if you know what I mean.” And that seemed to satisfy the diner crowd, mainly at that time of day men as they thought about their own long gone walking daddy dreams…         

Walkin' Daddy

i'm walkin' daddy  in the steps that you put down

i'm walkin' daddy  & i know not where I'm bound

i'm walkin' daddy  this road is dark & long

i'm walkin' daddy  & your blood is in me strong

i'm walkin' daddy  where the jack's fork river bends

down in missouri  where the jack's fork river bends

with you & ma & my sister  & with all my dear friends

you're walkin' daddy  off through the woods you old hillbilly

you said "this is my son in whom I am well pleased"

ain't no road a good road until it's free to everyone

we're walkin' daddy  father holy ghost & son

ain't no sorrow can dim the love comes shining through

i'm walkin' daddy  I know what I am here to do

to be of use  try to help the deal along

i'm walkin' daddy  & i'm just gonna keep walkin' on