The Legend Of Jake The Hermit

From the time I was old enough to play in the yard—and I started early—there had been stories about the old man seen, briefly and on a few occasions, slipping wraithlike past my grandparent’s house. He would move slowly out of the woods and walk the dirt road almost as if he disdained to touch it even with the soles of his feet. His name was Jake, but I was taught to fear him as if he were Lucifer.

It’s amazing how time and getting to know someone changes things.

Roughly 2 miles directly in front of my grandparent’s home was a golf course. Why anybody would want to situate such an abomination smackdab in the middle of some of the most gorgeous woods, creeks and fields I’ve ever seen is beyond me, but there is one nonetheless. Jake allegeedly lived somewhere back in those woods, which went for miles and miles around the fairways and greens. I could never picture him out on the course itself because he shied from civilization of any type. He was, as my grandmother, Ma, said, “A hermit.”

Ma said other things about Jake, none of them good. I remember one evening when I caught a glimpse of Jake exiting the wood and in the friendly innocence of a 5-year-old, yellwed “howdy.” You’d ‘a thought Ma’d been dipped in turpentine!

“BOY! GET IN THIS HOUSE THIS INSTANT!”

In that instant I did, but not before catching a fleeting grin from Jake’s heavily bearded face. Ma promptly commenced to setting me straight about Jake and made no bones about it!

“Next thing I know you’ll have that old varmint snuffling right up here to the house,” she wailed. “Why, why he fairly reeks!”

Now, Ma couldn’t make herself too plain under the best of circumstances, and it so happened that she had just taken her teeth out for a soaking so you’ll see how I might could have gotten things a mite mixed up.

“Jake don’t leak, Ma, or I’d a seen a trail when he crossed the road,” I sagely advised.

Pa, a true hunter, had been teaching me all about tracking. Whatever other shortcomings Jake may have had, I was certain sure he hadn’t sprung no leaks. Speaking of Pa, he had been calmly sitting in his rocker through the discussion, but when I spoke up, he grabbed his mouth and burst from the room. Guess his teeth had started bothering him, too.

A few days later, a neighborhood friend and idiot, Jerry, and I decided to hike into the wonderful wilderness that surrounded our cotton mill village. We scouted down the Jer-Gay River, rushing along about 3 feet wide at its broadest point, and slipped as silently as Sioux all the way to the edge of the golf course, where we lay under some azaleas plotting our strategy. Jerry had come up with the brilliant idea that we should kidnap a golf ball and hold it for ransom, so we hashed out the plan. Thus, at the ripe old age of 5, my bitter life of crime began.

Jerry, being somewhat older and more familiar with the game of golf—I still ain’t figured it out—deduced that he would watch from his present vantage point whilst I made for the green before the next golfers arrived. If any of the golfers was fortunate enough to hit the green, I would make a mad dash, pilfer the Pinnacle or Titleist and away Jerry and I would go. Great plan!

Worked well, too! At least until I handed the ball to Jerry, thinking he was going to give it back to the guys and make a big joke out of it.

Instead, ball in hand and cackling like a maniac, he tore off through the woods, leaving me with two cartloads of irate golfers bearing down in a hurry. At 5, I was admittedly ignorant and dumb, but stupid had no place in my life. I cut out the other direction into the treeline, shouting and bellows following close behind. Just as I was about to give them the slip, up loomed the mighty Jer-Gay. There was only one thing to do, so turning the afterburners up to full speed and timing it just right, I launched myself into the air… and fell flat on my face in the mud and muck, skidding to a halt against the far bank. Gasping for breath, I heard shouts again, this time closer. That was when the hand closed over my shirt collar and I was hauled from the creek, er, river. Glancing up in pure terror, fully expecting to see a hoisted five-iron, who should I discover hauling me to dry land but old Jake?

Well, terror time was over; now I was just plain scairt. But Jake flashed a grin and calmly said, “Best come this way before those folks catches us.”

I followed the old man, remembering Ma’s words as I looked him up and down for runoff. While there seemed to be no visible leaks, there was an aura about him—pungent one.

Eventually, we came to a small cabin. Jake stoked up the fire and handed me an old excuse for a towel to wipe myself down with, and as I dried out and warmed up, all the fear within evaporated. It dawned on me that Jake was just a man, albeit different from any other man I had seen.

He asked what all the ruckus was about, and when I told him, he grinned so wide that I could see all four of his teeth.

“You gonna have to put on a leetle dab more speed if’n you gonna go into the golf ball stealing business full time,” he stated. “Need a little more spring in them legs to cross the crick, too.”

Just as I was guaranteeing him that my days on the golf course were over forever, there came a knock on the battered door.

“Open it and walk in,” Jake grunted.

Through the narrow doorway stooped my huge grandfather; I couldn’t have been more flabbergasted had it been the president.

“Howdy, Henry,” Jake said.

Pa greeted the smaller man as if they had been best friends all their lives, which as it turned out, they pretty much had.

“You goin’ into the business of rounding up stray boys?” Pa asked.

“Naw,” Jake said. “Just learning this-un about getting around in the woods.”

Pa looked down on me, with a look  that told me that everything was all right.

“Wal, Least-un,” he drawled, using his pet name for me. “You couldn’t have picked a better one to learn you.”

Over the next 15 years, I proved that statement to be gospel fact on every occasion I could get into those woods. After school and chores, Jake would be waiting, and we would tramp to our heart’s delight.

Every time I go by a country club, I think about that old man who never would have set foot in the place, and about how I got to know him. Golf courses ain’t so bad after all…