He was always called OldJohn - not Old John, as that would have missed
the slide of the pronunciation that defined the man.

OldJohn.

He lived on a path that lead to a dirt road that lead to a county road
that lead to a state road that lead to the turnpike - so he was well
located in SouthEast Pennsyltucky, where I grew up.

Some say that OldJohn is naught but a myth.

Most of those people are from Away.

I met him.

He was a great big burly grey haired man who seemed ancient to me when
I was twelve - he looked probably as old then as I do now.

He lived alone, that much is true - but it is not true that he cooked
and ate children - because he neither cooked, nor ate me.

I met him.

He was a nice man.

On the south side of town there was an expanse of trees uninterrupted
by development and not thought fit for agriculture, which was the main
activity of my small town.

It was called, "The Big Woods".

There were rumored to be several hermits living in those woods - and a
few of those rumors were true.

There was Nature Boy, who chose to live his whole life naked, even
though the Winter would make such a choice hard. Every once in a
while he would run into the South End of town and cause a ruckus.

There was Charlie Harple, who was said to be so crazy that he could
not ever go to town.

I lived three doors up from his Mom - I believed that.

Then, there was OldJohn - rumored to cook and eat children.

The Big Woods was owned by several families, as you would imagine.

The wonderful thing about it was that everyone was allowed to hunt and
fish there. There were no warning signs to keep anyone off - which
was not the case with most of the farm land around the town.

This was before we heard much of lawyers and insurance men. The truly
scary people.

As a child, I could walk out of my house and be in hunting country in
about fifteen minutes.

On a clear and cold November morning in 1962 I found myself off of the
county road and onto the dirt road - and finally onto the path that
lead to OldJohn's place.

I had a single shot Ithaca 12 Gauge with me, so I felt pretty safe -
for a bit.

In those days we still hunted ruffed grouse, although they were losing
their territory, even then. The unsophisticated among us hunted the
Chinese imported pheasant, although I had no taste for them, even
then.

I was an epicure of twelve years and only wanted a timberdoodle for my
bag - the Woodcock - an elusive little ******* who favored
bottomlands.

That is how I wound up in OldJohn's yard.

He lived along the only creek that ran through The Big Woods - and he
had two buildings there.

On this day, in November of 1962, I was working the marsh lands that
bordered the creek near OldJohn's domicile.

"Who is that?"

A voice cried while I stood, stock still, beside a Pin Oak.

"Who is that?"

Again. I had no sense of where the voice came from.

"It's Tom Watson, Sir, hunting woodcock."

"You'll get no woodcock here, young fella - they've been poisoned by
the town."

"That's not true. I shot one here a week ago."

"Did you now - step out from behind that tree."

I didn't think myself to be behind a tree but I moved a short distance
away from the Pin Oak.

"Was it a long beak?"

"Was it what?"

"Was it a long beak, child, or was it a female?

"Are you LongJohn?"

When he moved into my sight it was all of a sudden, as though he was
not there one second and was the next.

"Was it a female, child?"

I was so much entranced by his bigness and his burliness and his
greyness that I may have stepped back a bit.

"Yes, child, I am whom you call LongJohn."

I swear that I was not frightened - he seemed, on the face of it, such
a pleasant looking man.

And then he laughed.

What a great and wonderful laugh. Not the careful and restrained
laugh of my uncles - but something open and free and embracing.

The laugh of a truly happy man.

Was this the man who cooked and ate children?

"Port arms. boy - and why are you hunting woodcock with a twelve
gauge."

He seemed so big, yet so full of good feeling.

"That's all I own, LongJohn."

"Well, that's good enough for me. Come to the hut, you look in need
of a drink."

And so I walked to the hut of the child eating LongJohn, with a
shotgun in my hand and nothing but curiosity in my heart.

"You are Tom?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You are Tom Watson's son?"

""His grandson, Sir."

"Well enough - I went to Grammar School with him."

"Yes, Sir."

"Is he well?"

"He's dead, Sir."

"He never ate well."

"No, Sir."

"Thomas, I am seventy eight years old and I have lived in these woods
for more than fifty years."

"Yes, Sir."

"And every year there has been a young fellow like you who has walked
into my woods to pick up my goods."

"Your goods, Sir?"

"My goods, indeed. Let's walk to the shop."

And so we did, into a shop such as I have never seen before or since.

OldJohn had harnessed up the little creek that ran through his place
and set it to running as many slapwheels and jillywogs as you could
see in the most modern Amish shop (although I learned later that
OldJohn had been born and raised an Episcopalian) and on each and
every table and each and every bench there were wooden toys and parts
of toys sitting, either fully painted, or waiting for paint - in all
the colors of Christmas - Red, Green and White.

He had two tablesaws and two bandsaws and three lathes and everything
was spinning and working - with no apparent help from a living being.

It was obvious that the slapwheels ran continuously and their
susserant slapping sound was of such volume and insistence that I felt
that I must walk outside, to catch my bearings.

"Every late November, for more than fifty years, a young man such as
yourself has come to my shop to take away my goods."

"Yes, Sir. But there are so many."

"Tom Watson. You are only twelve years old. Have you already lost
your belief in magic?"

"Yes, Sir. I mean, no, Sir"

"Hold out your hand."

I did, but my eyes were closed, as I feared to look."

"Close your hand and open it when you get home."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.

And he was gone.

I walked directly back home - keeping my fist closed and paying as
little attention the apparent laughter of the trees as I could.

When I was home and in my room, I let my hand open.

I swear that I saw a puff of frost of white and red and green - and
full of laughter. And it was gone so fast that I wondered if I'd ever
seen it.


I never saw LongJohn again. They say that those that see him only see
him once.

When the newspaper came out the following Saturday, it said that, as
usual, the Orphan's Home on the North side of town had been visited
with a great lot of wooden toys, from an anonymous donor - just as it
had been for more than fifty years.


You can say what you want.

But I swear that this is true.


(Merry Christmas)













"


Tom Watson - WoodDorker
tjwatson1ATcomcastDOTnet (email)
http://home.comcast.net/~tjwatson1/ (website)

Well done, Tom ... Thanks!

--
www.e-woodshop.net
Last update: 11/06/05

"Tom Watson" wrote in message
He was always called OldJohn - not Old John, as that would have missed
the slide of the pronunciation that defined the man.

On Tue, 22 Nov 2005 22:19:55 -0500, with neither quill nor qualm, Tom
Watson quickly quoth:

He was always called OldJohn - not Old John, as that would have missed
the slide of the pronunciation that defined the man.

OldJohn.

He lived on a path that lead to a dirt road that lead to a county road
that lead to a state road that lead to the turnpike - so he was well
located in SouthEast Pennsyltucky, where I grew up.

Some say that OldJohn is naught but a myth.

"Yes, child, I am whom you call LongJohn."

Um, why was he OldJohn until you met him naked and then
he was LongJohn, or is that self-explanatory?

Fun story, Tom. Kudos.



-----------------------------------------------------------------
When I die, I'm leaving my body to science fiction. --Steven Wright
----------------------------
http://diversify.com Comprehensive Website Development

As is the case with many of your great stories, there
are lessons for living throughout this one and an
affirmation of the basic goodness of people (in spite
of what's constantly told to us by The Media), young
and old. It seems as though the young and old can
find more common ground than they can with the
In Betweens. It could be that the old and the young
have the time to explore things and appreciate what
they find. The In Betweens, well, they have their
hands full most of the time, and when they do have
some "spare time", often use it to just rest up for
the next task.

Great story Tom.

charlie b

On Tue, 22 Nov 2005 22:19:55 -0500, Tom Watson wrote:

He was always called OldJohn - not Old John, as that would have missed the
slide of the pronunciation that defined the man.


snip of great story


"Are you LongJohn?"


OK, was he LongJohn or was he OldJohn?

Close your eyes everyone and envision what it would be like listening to
stories like these while sitting in Tom's shop, with a fire roaring in the
old pot-belly stove that he most surely must have, pot of coffee sitting on
top, lot's of snow outside and nowhere to go...

Bring the kids and we'll meet at Tom's place in Pennsyltucky, where he grew
up for some Christmas stories and a wee bit of Holiday Cheer...

Your children may not realize it now Tom but these are the best years of
their young lives and they will forever remember your stories and hopefully
pass them along to their own children one day.

Wishing you all a great Thanksgiving and Holiday Season,

Bob S.


"Tom Watson" wrote in message
...
He was always called OldJohn - not Old John, as that would have missed
the slide of the pronunciation that defined the man.

OldJohn.

He lived on a path that lead to a dirt road that lead to a county road
that lead to a state road that lead to the turnpike - so he was well
located in SouthEast Pennsyltucky, where I grew up.

Some say that OldJohn is naught but a myth.

Most of those people are from Away.

I met him.

He was a great big burly grey haired man who seemed ancient to me when
I was twelve - he looked probably as old then as I do now.

He lived alone, that much is true - but it is not true that he cooked
and ate children - because he neither cooked, nor ate me.

I met him.

He was a nice man.

On the south side of town there was an expanse of trees uninterrupted
by development and not thought fit for agriculture, which was the main
activity of my small town.

It was called, "The Big Woods".

There were rumored to be several hermits living in those woods - and a
few of those rumors were true.

There was Nature Boy, who chose to live his whole life naked, even
though the Winter would make such a choice hard. Every once in a
while he would run into the South End of town and cause a ruckus.

There was Charlie Harple, who was said to be so crazy that he could
not ever go to town.

I lived three doors up from his Mom - I believed that.

Then, there was OldJohn - rumored to cook and eat children.

The Big Woods was owned by several families, as you would imagine.

The wonderful thing about it was that everyone was allowed to hunt and
fish there. There were no warning signs to keep anyone off - which
was not the case with most of the farm land around the town.

This was before we heard much of lawyers and insurance men. The truly
scary people.

As a child, I could walk out of my house and be in hunting country in
about fifteen minutes.

On a clear and cold November morning in 1962 I found myself off of the
county road and onto the dirt road - and finally onto the path that
lead to OldJohn's place.

I had a single shot Ithaca 12 Gauge with me, so I felt pretty safe -
for a bit.

In those days we still hunted ruffed grouse, although they were losing
their territory, even then. The unsophisticated among us hunted the
Chinese imported pheasant, although I had no taste for them, even
then.

I was an epicure of twelve years and only wanted a timberdoodle for my
bag - the Woodcock - an elusive little ******* who favored
bottomlands.

That is how I wound up in OldJohn's yard.

He lived along the only creek that ran through The Big Woods - and he
had two buildings there.

On this day, in November of 1962, I was working the marsh lands that
bordered the creek near OldJohn's domicile.

"Who is that?"

A voice cried while I stood, stock still, beside a Pin Oak.

"Who is that?"

Again. I had no sense of where the voice came from.

"It's Tom Watson, Sir, hunting woodcock."

"You'll get no woodcock here, young fella - they've been poisoned by
the town."

"That's not true. I shot one here a week ago."

"Did you now - step out from behind that tree."

I didn't think myself to be behind a tree but I moved a short distance
away from the Pin Oak.

"Was it a long beak?"

"Was it what?"

"Was it a long beak, child, or was it a female?

"Are you LongJohn?"

When he moved into my sight it was all of a sudden, as though he was
not there one second and was the next.

"Was it a female, child?"

I was so much entranced by his bigness and his burliness and his
greyness that I may have stepped back a bit.

"Yes, child, I am whom you call LongJohn."

I swear that I was not frightened - he seemed, on the face of it, such
a pleasant looking man.

And then he laughed.

What a great and wonderful laugh. Not the careful and restrained
laugh of my uncles - but something open and free and embracing.

The laugh of a truly happy man.

Was this the man who cooked and ate children?

"Port arms. boy - and why are you hunting woodcock with a twelve
gauge."

He seemed so big, yet so full of good feeling.

"That's all I own, LongJohn."

"Well, that's good enough for me. Come to the hut, you look in need
of a drink."

And so I walked to the hut of the child eating LongJohn, with a
shotgun in my hand and nothing but curiosity in my heart.

"You are Tom?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You are Tom Watson's son?"

""His grandson, Sir."

"Well enough - I went to Grammar School with him."

"Yes, Sir."

"Is he well?"

"He's dead, Sir."

"He never ate well."

"No, Sir."

"Thomas, I am seventy eight years old and I have lived in these woods
for more than fifty years."

"Yes, Sir."

"And every year there has been a young fellow like you who has walked
into my woods to pick up my goods."

"Your goods, Sir?"

"My goods, indeed. Let's walk to the shop."

And so we did, into a shop such as I have never seen before or since.

OldJohn had harnessed up the little creek that ran through his place
and set it to running as many slapwheels and jillywogs as you could
see in the most modern Amish shop (although I learned later that
OldJohn had been born and raised an Episcopalian) and on each and
every table and each and every bench there were wooden toys and parts
of toys sitting, either fully painted, or waiting for paint - in all
the colors of Christmas - Red, Green and White.

He had two tablesaws and two bandsaws and three lathes and everything
was spinning and working - with no apparent help from a living being.

It was obvious that the slapwheels ran continuously and their
susserant slapping sound was of such volume and insistence that I felt
that I must walk outside, to catch my bearings.

"Every late November, for more than fifty years, a young man such as
yourself has come to my shop to take away my goods."

"Yes, Sir. But there are so many."

"Tom Watson. You are only twelve years old. Have you already lost
your belief in magic?"

"Yes, Sir. I mean, no, Sir"

"Hold out your hand."

I did, but my eyes were closed, as I feared to look."

"Close your hand and open it when you get home."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.

And he was gone.

I walked directly back home - keeping my fist closed and paying as
little attention the apparent laughter of the trees as I could.

When I was home and in my room, I let my hand open.

I swear that I saw a puff of frost of white and red and green - and
full of laughter. And it was gone so fast that I wondered if I'd ever
seen it.


I never saw LongJohn again. They say that those that see him only see
him once.

When the newspaper came out the following Saturday, it said that, as
usual, the Orphan's Home on the North side of town had been visited
with a great lot of wooden toys, from an anonymous donor - just as it
had been for more than fifty years.


You can say what you want.

But I swear that this is true.


(Merry Christmas)













"


Tom Watson - WoodDorker
tjwatson1ATcomcastDOTnet (email)
http://home.comcast.net/~tjwatson1/ (website)

Enjoyed your story, don't ever stop.

Tom Cavanagh
"Tom Watson" wrote in message
...
He was always called OldJohn - not Old John, as that would have missed
the slide of the pronunciation that defined the man.

OldJohn.

He lived on a path that lead to a dirt road that lead to a county road
that lead to a state road that lead to the turnpike - so he was well
located in SouthEast Pennsyltucky, where I grew up.

Some say that OldJohn is naught but a myth.

Most of those people are from Away.

I met him.

He was a great big burly grey haired man who seemed ancient to me when
I was twelve - he looked probably as old then as I do now.

He lived alone, that much is true - but it is not true that he cooked
and ate children - because he neither cooked, nor ate me.

I met him.

He was a nice man.

On the south side of town there was an expanse of trees uninterrupted
by development and not thought fit for agriculture, which was the main
activity of my small town.

It was called, "The Big Woods".

There were rumored to be several hermits living in those woods - and a
few of those rumors were true.

There was Nature Boy, who chose to live his whole life naked, even
though the Winter would make such a choice hard. Every once in a
while he would run into the South End of town and cause a ruckus.

There was Charlie Harple, who was said to be so crazy that he could
not ever go to town.

I lived three doors up from his Mom - I believed that.

Then, there was OldJohn - rumored to cook and eat children.

The Big Woods was owned by several families, as you would imagine.

The wonderful thing about it was that everyone was allowed to hunt and
fish there. There were no warning signs to keep anyone off - which
was not the case with most of the farm land around the town.

This was before we heard much of lawyers and insurance men. The truly
scary people.

As a child, I could walk out of my house and be in hunting country in
about fifteen minutes.

On a clear and cold November morning in 1962 I found myself off of the
county road and onto the dirt road - and finally onto the path that
lead to OldJohn's place.

I had a single shot Ithaca 12 Gauge with me, so I felt pretty safe -
for a bit.

In those days we still hunted ruffed grouse, although they were losing
their territory, even then. The unsophisticated among us hunted the
Chinese imported pheasant, although I had no taste for them, even
then.

I was an epicure of twelve years and only wanted a timberdoodle for my
bag - the Woodcock - an elusive little ******* who favored
bottomlands.

That is how I wound up in OldJohn's yard.

He lived along the only creek that ran through The Big Woods - and he
had two buildings there.

On this day, in November of 1962, I was working the marsh lands that
bordered the creek near OldJohn's domicile.

"Who is that?"

A voice cried while I stood, stock still, beside a Pin Oak.

"Who is that?"

Again. I had no sense of where the voice came from.

"It's Tom Watson, Sir, hunting woodcock."

"You'll get no woodcock here, young fella - they've been poisoned by
the town."

"That's not true. I shot one here a week ago."

"Did you now - step out from behind that tree."

I didn't think myself to be behind a tree but I moved a short distance
away from the Pin Oak.

"Was it a long beak?"

"Was it what?"

"Was it a long beak, child, or was it a female?

"Are you LongJohn?"

When he moved into my sight it was all of a sudden, as though he was
not there one second and was the next.

"Was it a female, child?"

I was so much entranced by his bigness and his burliness and his
greyness that I may have stepped back a bit.

"Yes, child, I am whom you call LongJohn."

I swear that I was not frightened - he seemed, on the face of it, such
a pleasant looking man.

And then he laughed.

What a great and wonderful laugh. Not the careful and restrained
laugh of my uncles - but something open and free and embracing.

The laugh of a truly happy man.

Was this the man who cooked and ate children?

"Port arms. boy - and why are you hunting woodcock with a twelve
gauge."

He seemed so big, yet so full of good feeling.

"That's all I own, LongJohn."

"Well, that's good enough for me. Come to the hut, you look in need
of a drink."

And so I walked to the hut of the child eating LongJohn, with a
shotgun in my hand and nothing but curiosity in my heart.

"You are Tom?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You are Tom Watson's son?"

""His grandson, Sir."

"Well enough - I went to Grammar School with him."

"Yes, Sir."

"Is he well?"

"He's dead, Sir."

"He never ate well."

"No, Sir."

"Thomas, I am seventy eight years old and I have lived in these woods
for more than fifty years."

"Yes, Sir."

"And every year there has been a young fellow like you who has walked
into my woods to pick up my goods."

"Your goods, Sir?"

"My goods, indeed. Let's walk to the shop."

And so we did, into a shop such as I have never seen before or since.

OldJohn had harnessed up the little creek that ran through his place
and set it to running as many slapwheels and jillywogs as you could
see in the most modern Amish shop (although I learned later that
OldJohn had been born and raised an Episcopalian) and on each and
every table and each and every bench there were wooden toys and parts
of toys sitting, either fully painted, or waiting for paint - in all
the colors of Christmas - Red, Green and White.

He had two tablesaws and two bandsaws and three lathes and everything
was spinning and working - with no apparent help from a living being.

It was obvious that the slapwheels ran continuously and their
susserant slapping sound was of such volume and insistence that I felt
that I must walk outside, to catch my bearings.

"Every late November, for more than fifty years, a young man such as
yourself has come to my shop to take away my goods."

"Yes, Sir. But there are so many."

"Tom Watson. You are only twelve years old. Have you already lost
your belief in magic?"

"Yes, Sir. I mean, no, Sir"

"Hold out your hand."

I did, but my eyes were closed, as I feared to look."

"Close your hand and open it when you get home."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.

And he was gone.

I walked directly back home - keeping my fist closed and paying as
little attention the apparent laughter of the trees as I could.

When I was home and in my room, I let my hand open.

I swear that I saw a puff of frost of white and red and green - and
full of laughter. And it was gone so fast that I wondered if I'd ever
seen it.


I never saw LongJohn again. They say that those that see him only see
him once.

When the newspaper came out the following Saturday, it said that, as
usual, the Orphan's Home on the North side of town had been visited
with a great lot of wooden toys, from an anonymous donor - just as it
had been for more than fifty years.


You can say what you want.

But I swear that this is true.


(Merry Christmas)













"


Tom Watson - WoodDorker
tjwatson1ATcomcastDOTnet (email)
http://home.comcast.net/~tjwatson1/ (website)

Thanks Tom - Happy Thanksgiving and Merry Christmas to ya from another
Pennsylvanian from your neck of the woods.

"Tom Watson" wrote in message
...
He was always called OldJohn - not Old John, as that would have missed
the slide of the pronunciation that defined the man.

OldJohn.

He lived on a path that lead to a dirt road that lead to a county road
that lead to a state road that lead to the turnpike - so he was well
located in SouthEast Pennsyltucky, where I grew up.

Some say that OldJohn is naught but a myth.

Most of those people are from Away.

I met him.

He was a great big burly grey haired man who seemed ancient to me when
I was twelve - he looked probably as old then as I do now.

He lived alone, that much is true - but it is not true that he cooked
and ate children - because he neither cooked, nor ate me.

I met him.

He was a nice man.

On the south side of town there was an expanse of trees uninterrupted
by development and not thought fit for agriculture, which was the main
activity of my small town.

It was called, "The Big Woods".

There were rumored to be several hermits living in those woods - and a
few of those rumors were true.

There was Nature Boy, who chose to live his whole life naked, even
though the Winter would make such a choice hard. Every once in a
while he would run into the South End of town and cause a ruckus.

There was Charlie Harple, who was said to be so crazy that he could
not ever go to town.

I lived three doors up from his Mom - I believed that.

Then, there was OldJohn - rumored to cook and eat children.

The Big Woods was owned by several families, as you would imagine.

The wonderful thing about it was that everyone was allowed to hunt and
fish there. There were no warning signs to keep anyone off - which
was not the case with most of the farm land around the town.

This was before we heard much of lawyers and insurance men. The truly
scary people.

As a child, I could walk out of my house and be in hunting country in
about fifteen minutes.

On a clear and cold November morning in 1962 I found myself off of the
county road and onto the dirt road - and finally onto the path that
lead to OldJohn's place.

I had a single shot Ithaca 12 Gauge with me, so I felt pretty safe -
for a bit.

In those days we still hunted ruffed grouse, although they were losing
their territory, even then. The unsophisticated among us hunted the
Chinese imported pheasant, although I had no taste for them, even
then.

I was an epicure of twelve years and only wanted a timberdoodle for my
bag - the Woodcock - an elusive little ******* who favored
bottomlands.

That is how I wound up in OldJohn's yard.

He lived along the only creek that ran through The Big Woods - and he
had two buildings there.

On this day, in November of 1962, I was working the marsh lands that
bordered the creek near OldJohn's domicile.

"Who is that?"

A voice cried while I stood, stock still, beside a Pin Oak.

"Who is that?"

Again. I had no sense of where the voice came from.

"It's Tom Watson, Sir, hunting woodcock."

"You'll get no woodcock here, young fella - they've been poisoned by
the town."

"That's not true. I shot one here a week ago."

"Did you now - step out from behind that tree."

I didn't think myself to be behind a tree but I moved a short distance
away from the Pin Oak.

"Was it a long beak?"

"Was it what?"

"Was it a long beak, child, or was it a female?

"Are you LongJohn?"

When he moved into my sight it was all of a sudden, as though he was
not there one second and was the next.

"Was it a female, child?"

I was so much entranced by his bigness and his burliness and his
greyness that I may have stepped back a bit.

"Yes, child, I am whom you call LongJohn."

I swear that I was not frightened - he seemed, on the face of it, such
a pleasant looking man.

And then he laughed.

What a great and wonderful laugh. Not the careful and restrained
laugh of my uncles - but something open and free and embracing.

The laugh of a truly happy man.

Was this the man who cooked and ate children?

"Port arms. boy - and why are you hunting woodcock with a twelve
gauge."

He seemed so big, yet so full of good feeling.

"That's all I own, LongJohn."

"Well, that's good enough for me. Come to the hut, you look in need
of a drink."

And so I walked to the hut of the child eating LongJohn, with a
shotgun in my hand and nothing but curiosity in my heart.

"You are Tom?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You are Tom Watson's son?"

""His grandson, Sir."

"Well enough - I went to Grammar School with him."

"Yes, Sir."

"Is he well?"

"He's dead, Sir."

"He never ate well."

"No, Sir."

"Thomas, I am seventy eight years old and I have lived in these woods
for more than fifty years."

"Yes, Sir."

"And every year there has been a young fellow like you who has walked
into my woods to pick up my goods."

"Your goods, Sir?"

"My goods, indeed. Let's walk to the shop."

And so we did, into a shop such as I have never seen before or since.

OldJohn had harnessed up the little creek that ran through his place
and set it to running as many slapwheels and jillywogs as you could
see in the most modern Amish shop (although I learned later that
OldJohn had been born and raised an Episcopalian) and on each and
every table and each and every bench there were wooden toys and parts
of toys sitting, either fully painted, or waiting for paint - in all
the colors of Christmas - Red, Green and White.

He had two tablesaws and two bandsaws and three lathes and everything
was spinning and working - with no apparent help from a living being.

It was obvious that the slapwheels ran continuously and their
susserant slapping sound was of such volume and insistence that I felt
that I must walk outside, to catch my bearings.

"Every late November, for more than fifty years, a young man such as
yourself has come to my shop to take away my goods."

"Yes, Sir. But there are so many."

"Tom Watson. You are only twelve years old. Have you already lost
your belief in magic?"

"Yes, Sir. I mean, no, Sir"

"Hold out your hand."

I did, but my eyes were closed, as I feared to look."

"Close your hand and open it when you get home."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.

And he was gone.

I walked directly back home - keeping my fist closed and paying as
little attention the apparent laughter of the trees as I could.

When I was home and in my room, I let my hand open.

I swear that I saw a puff of frost of white and red and green - and
full of laughter. And it was gone so fast that I wondered if I'd ever
seen it.


I never saw LongJohn again. They say that those that see him only see
him once.

When the newspaper came out the following Saturday, it said that, as
usual, the Orphan's Home on the North side of town had been visited
with a great lot of wooden toys, from an anonymous donor - just as it
had been for more than fifty years.


You can say what you want.

But I swear that this is true.


(Merry Christmas)













"


Tom Watson - WoodDorker
tjwatson1ATcomcastDOTnet (email)
http://home.comcast.net/~tjwatson1/ (website)

Tom Watson wrote:

SNIP

Tom Watson - WoodDorker
tjwatson1ATcomcastDOTnet (email)
http://home.comcast.net/~tjwatson1/ (website)

Tom:

As always, excellent.

~Mark.

"Tom Watson" wrote in message
...
He was always called OldJohn - not Old John, as that would have missed
the slide of the pronunciation that defined the man.

OldJohn.

He lived on a path that lead to a dirt road that lead to a county road
that lead to a state road that lead to the turnpike - so he was well
located in SouthEast Pennsyltucky, where I grew up.


As a former Pennsyltuckian from Erie, I thank you Tom. It's sad that many of
today's young people miss out on the joy of reading a good story. The
imagination supplies visions that CGI will never attain.

Please don't stop posting these gems - they are a joy to read.

Happy Holidays,

Vic

"Tom Watson" wrote in message

Yes. Superb.

Tom - Yet another home run.

One of your better stories. Thanks.
Happy Holidays from a boy next door (Ohio).


Tom Watson wrote:
He was always called OldJohn - not Old John, as that would have missed
the slide of the pronunciation that defined the man.

OldJohn.

He lived on a path that lead to a dirt road that lead to a county road
that lead to a state road that lead to the turnpike - so he was well
located in SouthEast Pennsyltucky, where I grew up.

Some say that OldJohn is naught but a myth.

Most of those people are from Away.

I met him.

He was a great big burly grey haired man who seemed ancient to me when
I was twelve - he looked probably as old then as I do now.

He lived alone, that much is true - but it is not true that he cooked
and ate children - because he neither cooked, nor ate me.

I met him.

He was a nice man.

On the south side of town there was an expanse of trees uninterrupted
by development and not thought fit for agriculture, which was the main
activity of my small town.

It was called, "The Big Woods".

There were rumored to be several hermits living in those woods - and a
few of those rumors were true.

There was Nature Boy, who chose to live his whole life naked, even
though the Winter would make such a choice hard. Every once in a
while he would run into the South End of town and cause a ruckus.

There was Charlie Harple, who was said to be so crazy that he could
not ever go to town.

I lived three doors up from his Mom - I believed that.

Then, there was OldJohn - rumored to cook and eat children.

The Big Woods was owned by several families, as you would imagine.

The wonderful thing about it was that everyone was allowed to hunt and
fish there. There were no warning signs to keep anyone off - which
was not the case with most of the farm land around the town.

This was before we heard much of lawyers and insurance men. The truly
scary people.

As a child, I could walk out of my house and be in hunting country in
about fifteen minutes.

On a clear and cold November morning in 1962 I found myself off of the
county road and onto the dirt road - and finally onto the path that
lead to OldJohn's place.

I had a single shot Ithaca 12 Gauge with me, so I felt pretty safe -
for a bit.

In those days we still hunted ruffed grouse, although they were losing
their territory, even then. The unsophisticated among us hunted the
Chinese imported pheasant, although I had no taste for them, even
then.

I was an epicure of twelve years and only wanted a timberdoodle for my
bag - the Woodcock - an elusive little ******* who favored
bottomlands.

That is how I wound up in OldJohn's yard.

He lived along the only creek that ran through The Big Woods - and he
had two buildings there.

On this day, in November of 1962, I was working the marsh lands that
bordered the creek near OldJohn's domicile.

"Who is that?"

A voice cried while I stood, stock still, beside a Pin Oak.

"Who is that?"

Again. I had no sense of where the voice came from.

"It's Tom Watson, Sir, hunting woodcock."

"You'll get no woodcock here, young fella - they've been poisoned by
the town."

"That's not true. I shot one here a week ago."

"Did you now - step out from behind that tree."

I didn't think myself to be behind a tree but I moved a short distance
away from the Pin Oak.

"Was it a long beak?"

"Was it what?"

"Was it a long beak, child, or was it a female?

"Are you LongJohn?"

When he moved into my sight it was all of a sudden, as though he was
not there one second and was the next.

"Was it a female, child?"

I was so much entranced by his bigness and his burliness and his
greyness that I may have stepped back a bit.

"Yes, child, I am whom you call LongJohn."

I swear that I was not frightened - he seemed, on the face of it, such
a pleasant looking man.

And then he laughed.

What a great and wonderful laugh. Not the careful and restrained
laugh of my uncles - but something open and free and embracing.

The laugh of a truly happy man.

Was this the man who cooked and ate children?

"Port arms. boy - and why are you hunting woodcock with a twelve
gauge."

He seemed so big, yet so full of good feeling.

"That's all I own, LongJohn."

"Well, that's good enough for me. Come to the hut, you look in need
of a drink."

And so I walked to the hut of the child eating LongJohn, with a
shotgun in my hand and nothing but curiosity in my heart.

"You are Tom?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You are Tom Watson's son?"

""His grandson, Sir."

"Well enough - I went to Grammar School with him."

"Yes, Sir."

"Is he well?"

"He's dead, Sir."

"He never ate well."

"No, Sir."

"Thomas, I am seventy eight years old and I have lived in these woods
for more than fifty years."

"Yes, Sir."

"And every year there has been a young fellow like you who has walked
into my woods to pick up my goods."

"Your goods, Sir?"

"My goods, indeed. Let's walk to the shop."

And so we did, into a shop such as I have never seen before or since.

OldJohn had harnessed up the little creek that ran through his place
and set it to running as many slapwheels and jillywogs as you could
see in the most modern Amish shop (although I learned later that
OldJohn had been born and raised an Episcopalian) and on each and
every table and each and every bench there were wooden toys and parts
of toys sitting, either fully painted, or waiting for paint - in all
the colors of Christmas - Red, Green and White.

He had two tablesaws and two bandsaws and three lathes and everything
was spinning and working - with no apparent help from a living being.

It was obvious that the slapwheels ran continuously and their
susserant slapping sound was of such volume and insistence that I felt
that I must walk outside, to catch my bearings.

"Every late November, for more than fifty years, a young man such as
yourself has come to my shop to take away my goods."

"Yes, Sir. But there are so many."

"Tom Watson. You are only twelve years old. Have you already lost
your belief in magic?"

"Yes, Sir. I mean, no, Sir"

"Hold out your hand."

I did, but my eyes were closed, as I feared to look."

"Close your hand and open it when you get home."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.

And he was gone.

I walked directly back home - keeping my fist closed and paying as
little attention the apparent laughter of the trees as I could.

When I was home and in my room, I let my hand open.

I swear that I saw a puff of frost of white and red and green - and
full of laughter. And it was gone so fast that I wondered if I'd ever
seen it.


I never saw LongJohn again. They say that those that see him only see
him once.

When the newspaper came out the following Saturday, it said that, as
usual, the Orphan's Home on the North side of town had been visited
with a great lot of wooden toys, from an anonymous donor - just as it
had been for more than fifty years.


You can say what you want.

But I swear that this is true.


(Merry Christmas)













"


Tom Watson - WoodDorker
tjwatson1ATcomcastDOTnet (email)
http://home.comcast.net/~tjwatson1/ (website)

On Wed, 23 Nov 2005 06:11:40 -0800, Larry Jaques
wrote:


Um, why was he OldJohn until you met him naked and then
he was LongJohn, or is that self-explanatory?


One of these days I'll do a second draft of things, rather than just
typing them out of my head and hitting Send.

Nah.



Tom Watson - WoodDorker
tjwatson1ATcomcastDOTnet (email)
http://home.comcast.net/~tjwatson1/ (website)

On Thu, 24 Nov 2005 06:52:42 -0500, with neither quill nor qualm, Tom
Watson quickly quoth:

On Wed, 23 Nov 2005 06:11:40 -0800, Larry Jaques
wrote:

Um, why was he OldJohn until you met him naked and then
he was LongJohn, or is that self-explanatory?


One of these days I'll do a second draft of things, rather than just
typing them out of my head and hitting Send.

Nah.

Ah, 'twas SomesHeimers. Got it. But you do yourself a disservice by
not doing the first draft, correcting, and sending the second. Please
remember that your stories are immortalized in Usenet, warts and all.

P.S: Fire your Continuity Manager, eh?


--
A: Because it messes up the order in which people normally read text.
Q: Why is it such a bad thing?
A: Top-posting.
Q: What is the most annoying thing on usenet?

Tom Watson said:

He was always called OldJohn - not Old John, as that would have missed
the slide of the pronunciation that defined the man.
snip of kindly Long John tale...

Good Story, Tom. I had to set aside time to read it in it's entirety.
One of these days you're going to have to share whatever it is you're
smoking up there in Philly... g

(Merry Christmas)

It's a little early yet, kinda like seeing reindeer on the K-Mart
before Halloween, but Merry Christmas to you as well. g


Greg G.