I was asked to repost this short story with the additional poem that was included in my book Twelve Tall Tales published in February 2009.
Basin, Mississippi in 1975 was like any small river settlement in the deep South along the Pascagoula River. The brown water of the Pascagoula flowed southward to the Gulf of Mexico as it passed by the two hundred or so homes located along the sand bars of the "Singing River". Old timers called the river the "Singing River" named that for the Pascagoula Indian tribe that lived along the waterway until the early 1800's. The fate of the Pascagoula Indians is in dispute but a story of their demise persists to this day. It appears the Pascagoula Indians rather than face death and imprisonment from an opposing warlike tribe chose instead to march into the river and drown. If you believe this story you can almost hear the death songs of the Indian men, women and children as they took their own lives rather than face dishonor.
I turned 20 years of age that year. Two years at a junior college did nothing for me except make me question who I was, and where I was heading. It would have been easy to blame my sense of uncertainty on drugs, as it was the 70's, but I never did fall into that scene. It was an uncertainty I still don't seem to quite have an answer for. My longing for direction told me to find myself that year. I quit school, joined the Navy on a delayed entry program, and bought a boat. I had always wanted to be the captain of my own boat, and now I was going to be. Would I hear the singing of the river and experience what so many of the old timers speak of? Would buying a boat be a failure? I didn't know, but I did understand that I needed a change and this was how I was going to express myself, at least for the summer of 1975.
With all my uncertainty in navigating a boat on a mighty river like the Pascagoula, I set off on a Saturday morning to test the used boat that I had purchased. After launching the boat at Smith's Landing I headed south for about ten miles before I heard the clunk, clunk, clunk of the engine. I could see the next bend in the river coming up as my motor shut down and I drifted with the current. After this bend in the river there were no other homes until it emptied into the Gulf of Mexico. It was by sheer luck that I spotted a cabin through the thick stand of scrub oaks, and river willows. A barking dog ran out from the lone cabin and stopped just short of the water's edge as if to say, "Don't even think of coming here." As I considered my options of making a landing or not, an old man appeared out of the cabin, waved off the dog, and signaled me to paddle ashore. It was a man I had always been told to avoid. I had heard stories about him from my parents and friends. It was Wes Gibson. A man who was known throughout the county as a recluse and scoundrel.
Old Wes Gibson had lived along the river since 1959. He built his own cabin that year on the banks of the Pascagoula. With no electricity, and no running water, he had lived a life of chosen seclusion for 16 years. The only time he had come into town was to complain to the health department that they should come out to his home and spray for mosquitoes. I only know this from direct conversation with someone who worked at the health department. Yes, Wes Gibson was a quirky individual, and I was afraid when I saw him.
I had no choice but to come ashore. If I didn't I would be floating into the Gulf of Mexico within a few hours. This was not acceptable. How would I explain to my Navy recruiter that I wouldn't be there for duty in November? How could I tell my family that I chose not to face my fears and try, at least try to rescue myself from drifting out to sea? I chose to drift toward Wes Gibson and as I threw him my line, I asked him to tie me off so I could come ashore.
Wes was a man who stood about five feet five and weighed around one hundred and thirty pounds. Not an intimidating persona, but a rough looking sort of man. His face was weathered and wrinkled and he sported a beard that reached down to the middle of his chest. As he called me ashore I could see from his open mouth that all of his front teeth, top and bottom, were missing. I wondered if that was from neglect or from the many stories I had heard about him from his younger days as a boxer and a scrapper. Needless to say, I was afraid.
I jumped out onto the river bank as soon as Wes had tied off the boat to a tree along the river. I was surprised that he offered his hand in friendship. He greeted me kindly and said that he hadn't seen another person for over a month. When I asked him if he had a telephone he smiled, and I knew the answer, of course he didn't. After all I was in the presence of Wes Gibson. I was in Mississippi. It was 1975. I felt more at ease from his greeting as we spoke about my need for finding a mechanic to fix my motor. He knew I wouldn't be finding any mechanic here. Inviting me to come inside his cabin, I felt a little anxious, but something drew me towards the house. Walking up the bank of the river towards his cabin, I could see smoke coming from the chimney. My sense of fear eased slightly as the smell of coffee wafted from the open door.
As I walked inside his cabin, my first sense was that of dirt below my feet. The dog had since taken a place near the stove and was eerily eyeing me. Wes offered me his cot to rest, and after drinking a cup of hot coffee I lay down and slept. It rained hard while I napped. I would never have guessed I would be sleeping inside a dirt floor cabin in the presence of such a much maligned individual. Upon awakening I realized that if Wes would have meant harm to me it would have happened while I slept. At that moment I heard the sputtering sound of my outboard motor running in the background. As I walked down to the river's edge, I saw Wes in my boat. He had the motor running like new. Wes smiled a toothless grin. When he saw me he said, "Neighbor, you better git before your Pappy thinks your dead."
As Wes untied my boat from the tree that he had hitched me to earlier that morning I gave him a nod and a smile. I think that is all that he wanted. To be acknowledged as a person. Someone who had value. I was beginning to see the larger picture. Everyone has a purpose and need in this life. It didn't matter if you were a banker, or a hermit. It didn't matter if you were a successful University student, or someone going off to the Navy in search of identity. We all have purpose and needs.
Gunning the motor towards Smith's Landing I broke into a wide smile and began singing out loud. I sang an impromptu song of my meeting the hermit Wes Gibson. I wondered if my voice would be heard over the drone of my outboard, over the song of the Pascagoula Indian’s death march? History was repeating itself; the song was back on the water. I will forever remember this moment and the link I felt to the river and its history, and maybe, just maybe, a little understanding of friendship, acceptance, and purpose of life.
River Chant
I heard Wes Gibson was a mighty mean man
a lazy right eye and lightening quick hands.
He’ll drop you down upon your knees,
spit mud in your eye then do as he pleases.
The tale has been told for at least twenty years
of how old Wes Gibson ain’t got no fears.
He lives on the river in a tiny wood shack,
eats fish for breakfast and squirrels for snacks.
Well I don’t care what the town folk say
I’m gonna shake hands with Wes someday.
They say please don’t go, don’t take that chance,
but listen to me sing my river chant.
The song’s on the water back where it belongs,
from the Pascagoula Indians long since gone.
To the young man singing ‘round the river bend,
old Wes Gibson is now my friend.
I took along a few dollars worth of quarters in my pocket while walking the beach with my wife in Naples Florida this past Sunday evening. I knew that Steven Spielberg lived in one of the homes located along this stretch of beach. I had hoped to throw a few of the quarters onto his property. Actually I had hoped that he would notice and ask me what I was doing. When Steven was a young man he would ask for a quarter admission to view one of his home movies. I thought it only appropriate that a quarter be my token homage to this great film maker. I did get near his home, but the quarters remained in my pocket as I didn't get within throwing distance.
