Big’s feats gone on in this general way for years – my brother proved himself a foremost spirit of the times. You are familiar with how a spirit of the times done. Tamed bears, rastled the pope of Rome, romanced queens and milkmaids. Half horse and half alligator and another half wolverine set on top. Et c. In truth Big did not meet the pope any and never seen any queens. It is only a manner of talking. Pope or no, my brother were red pepper at Sunday supper.
You know how red pepper tastes. Loud and foolish. My brother has got quieter flavors to him as well. Tenderness cussedness and tragedy as I promised. I will put these down directly.
But I must do a bit more mumbling before I put down the tales. I do not wish to sell you my brother. To recite him like news paper advertisements. To sweat over him like a tent preacher.
Though I do believe I could make a decent merchant for him as a foremost spirit of the times.
But he is not an article of merchandise.
Although when I grease my mind some, I consider a spirit is alike to an article of merchandise. If you will permit wider talk. Every age and place has got its Big Sons. Folks who hang the sky that we shelter under. Stand up the timbers of a place. Some of the timbers is timbers and others is more like ideas. The spirits of the time make a place more than Connecticut surveyors and maps.
There was Courthouse Shad of Painesville, who put law on the blizzards and bargained them into a treaty. They could snow the town to the waist four months a year so long as they behaved the rest.
In Conneaut it were Finland Pete, who dug a harbor with one belch.
In Newburgh you had Wagonface – a fascination whose face were wider than tall. He had ears round as wheels. I cannot remember what feats Wagonface done but I know he were responsible somehow for the water mill down that way.
In Wooster, Dorothy Fangs – who could outwork a dozen menfolk to dying and bury them without mussing her apron.
The Ohio country had got spirits like the wood has panthers – more heard of than seen. But when you did see them, you recollected it all your life. I do not say these were all true spirits. But neither does that make them false. You never saw Boone or Crockett or Fink or Billy Earthquake Esquire either and they are in news papers and almanacs.
I have distracted myself. As I begun to tell, the promised tenderness cussedness and tragedy related to whether my brother were a merchant or merchandise or both. You will agree that a candy tastes sweeter when you steal it. There is a different taste for the storekeeper you stole from. Progress requires fetching more than you paid for a thing.
Now consider my brother as a trader. Recollect his first great offering of nine years before – his Sunday promise to clear ground for a city among the western trees. The flea-folks had only laughed at his offer to clear the woods in two days and a night. They went to bed still grinning at the jackassed idea. But they woke to see that Big had done it. Their mouths forgot how they had laughed and spoke poor of my brother, and went to licking their teeth over the good land. Thousands of acres to husband on – build on – live on – buy and sell on.
Big spread his hands out and said to them Go ahead. Not one soul thought about his open and empty palms as they ran to claim lots. Big did not think of his empty palms either. It were enough for him to be wondered at and adored.
In the Gospels you never hear of Christ doing carpenter work for wages. On the question of hard money, he only holds up a coin and says This hasn’t got my name on it any and pitches it into the waters of Jordan. When Christ were borrowing Simon Peter’s fishboat, I wonder if he were scooping up that same coin to do the trick on a fresh crowd of folks. I do not mean to call Christ a swindler. Only that making folks credence takes theatre grease, and it would have been costly to throw coins all day long.
It is pudding minded talking of my brother and Christ in the same breath. It is grabbing after the lowest branch. It is lazy work. I forgive myself. We have just got these ideas scratched into our brains.
You would not trust Christ to run a bank though. He would dump out all your money for the sick and weary-hearted.
At first Big did not mind his empty palms. Not when he whipped a lake. Nor when he lied to the devil – stalked the deepest woods – hogtied panthers – drained jugs – got stung by one thousand hornets and only smiled – cut roads – moved the mouth of the Cuyahoga – dug a canal – drained twenty swamps – rescued one hundred widows and several married men besides.
He has got more feats than you have got ears to hear, and he never asked a penny for them. Besides, what have you and your ears to pay for such a thing? What is the correct price of such merchandise?
So Big come to live on adoration – by slaps-on-his-back – by refreshment – by the flock of small fry that imitated him – by other folks’ wonder. This arrangement were considered settled in ink by the citizens of Ohio city and Cleveland. The tenderness cussedness and tragedy come when Big decided it were not enough to be wondered at.
You know the advertisement by now. Big Son has rastled rivers and lakes and rescued women in woe. Met the devil twice and whipped him three times. Ate panther fricassee for breakfast and tiger steaks at supper. Taught wolves how to wail and put a face on the moon with a rusty musket. Big Son has done more feats than you have brains to hold et c.
For his next one he liked something else entirely. No brawling or biting, and no empty palms after. For his next wonder Big wished to grab hold of the land as he had watched men do. To make a place of his own and populate it with shining-haired small fry. To quit being wondered at and start wondering on. To quit being loved up and start loving.
He wanted to be more flesh than spirit.
He wanted Miss Cloe.
You have not met many folks besides my brother and myself. I ought to start with Miss Cloe Inches. Recall that I said my brother never met any queens. Miss Cloe were not a queen. I do not consider queen is word enough.
Cloe Inches were an orphan raised in the house of Mr Job and Mrs Tab Stiles alongside my brother and myself – so she were our own somewhat-sister. I never known how Mr and Mrs Inches done apart from dying. She were between Big and myself in age, and sometimes mistaken for our blood kin. As pretty as Big were strong, and plenty strong herself. As tall as me, half a head shorter than Big. Hair of the darkest brown, just a breath short of black. Cheeks perpetually blushed, like the blood inside knew a private joke.
You would like such a creature to steal my brother’s heart. But she were not agreeable to the role of bouncing bride. By her own nature and by the example of Mrs Tab Stiles, Cloe were not at all meek. Her birthday was in the month of June and summer thunderstorms stayed in her eyes all the year. She had manners mostly but she could outrastle and outcuss most folks if you asked her to. She would outwork you without any asking at all.
My brother were a great hand for feats, but for steady habits there were no one better than Cloe Inches. She would keep after a task longer than Big or anyone you know, and no one ever stopped to pay her wonder. Cloe did not bother with prodigious thwocks – her work sounded more like thk, quiet and tidy. Big could juggle boulders all day, but Cloe would make candles – churn butter – stitch smocks – put dry clothes on the young Stileses – teach them school – butcher hogs and a hundred thks more and then holler us in for supper. All while Big were only making a circus with rocks.
I do not say any lovers’ secret when I tell that my brother meant to wed Cloe. He had said as much out loud and sober. He only wanted to convince her.
Big and Cloe and myself strolling in the lanes under a yolk-colored dusk. Children and dogs and day pigs running around and between us. Crickets sawing their fiddles. Past the gibbering of youth and insect you could hear how specially quiet Big gone.
Cloe will you be married to me?
Big stopped still. Speaking such an idea and walking were too much at once.
Cloe walked on even as she answered. Have you got a house for us to live in?
Big made to catch up. I would build us one
Would you build us money for a lot to raise it on?
My brother had a way of tilting his head when a truth bit him.
Big and Cloe and myself plucking deceased chickens in the cold January barn. With bits of feather dancing in the air, Big asked again.
Cloe will you be married to me?
Cloe did not turn from her work. What will you do to earn a keep?
Big sat with his chicken and considered.
Big and Cloe and myself stringing popcorn for Washington’s Birthday. His needle stopped ominously and it come out again.
Cloe will you be married to me?
I do not consider you are marriageable, Big
Cloe we will not want for a thing if only we make man and woman of each other
What have you got that will make me more of a woman?
He put his attention back to the popcorn.
Big and Cloe and myself whitewashing the backside of the house after the last of the snow were melted. The creatures in the barn watched curious from their stalls. Big drew a deep drink of air as he dunked his brush.
Cloe —
Big I do not wish to be wed to anyone at all just now
Big come to be scorched severally – by his empty palms, and by Miss Cloe’s considering that he were wanting in respects. In confidence I do not think my brother wore his best ears when making his proposals of marriage. He only heard the first bits of Cloe’s spurning – that he were poor, that he were wanting prospects, et c. He did not hear the second bits of Cloe’s being against marrying anyone at all just now. He took away from their lyceums the idea that he ought to secure an income, and that an income would secure Cloe, and so secure his happiness.
The only income Big had ever known was wonder won by feats. But by the coming of spring 1837, he had hunted out all Ohio city and Cleveland besides for feats wanting doing. There is only so much to do, even in a growing country. The yield of his work thinned out some too. There is only so much wonder in a place.
In the months of March and April Big turned sideways. He had shown before a tendency to create a mess in the making of a miracle. Now he went straight on to the mess without the miracle bit. Big Son who cut roads to nowhere. Who dug a well into dry rock. Who tried to rastle tame creatures. Who emptied jugs and went looking for brawls. Who tried to cure hog cholera.
My brother were not a doctor of swine or any creature. He somehow took sick with the hog cholera himself and puked enough to drown a horse. It were a feat but not the good sort.
There is a sickness worse than hog cholera, named despair. Big determined he would not succumb – that he would find remedy.