Book of Sketches - Jack Kerouac [5]
the Jackson family —
they will remember that
old Mule & how it lived
with them & slowly religiously
drew them to
their needs, without
thanks, they
will remember the life
& presence of Old Mule
— & their hearts’ll cry
— “Old Mule was with
us — We fed him oats —
he was glad & sad
too — then he died —
buried in the mule earth
— forgot — like a
man a mule is & will
be — ” Ah North
Carolina (as they turn
into the countrified home
& slowly roll home with
the groceries of the
week scattered on the
platform) — Ah
Saturday — Ah
skies above the gnawing
human scene.
LP Mama slice me one
of am — slice me
this kind of am —
what is this —
Mama what
kind is this?
C Swiss!
LP I want Swiss
Nam nam nam
(hamburg frying) (radio
noon) (hot South)
Saturday afternoon in Rocky
Mt. woods — in a tankling
gray coupe the young father
crosses the crossroads with
his 4 dotters piled on the
seat beside him all eyes
— The drowsy store the
great watermelons sit disposed
in the sun, on the
concrete, by the fish box,
like so many fruit in
an artist’s bowl —
watermelons plain green
& the watermelon with
the snaky rills all
tropical & fat to burst
on the ground — came
from viney bottoms of
all this green fertility —
Behind Fats’ little shack,
under waving tendrils
of a pretty tree, the
smalltime Crapshooters
with strawhats & overalls
are shooting for 10¢
stakes — as peaceful &
regardant as deer in
the morning, or New
England boys sitting in
the high grass waiting for
the afternoon to pass.
Paul Blake ambles over
across the road to watch
the game, stands
back, arm on tree,
watching smiling silence.
Cars pull up, men
squat — there goes Jack
to join them, everywhere
you look in the enormity
of this peaceful scene
you see him walking, on
soft white shoes, bemused
— Last night a few
hotshots & local sailors
on leave grabbed those
reed fishingpoles &
waved them in the drunken
Friday night dark, yelling
“Sturgeon! — catfish!
— Whooee!” —
They’re still unbought
in the old stained
barrell — A trim little
truck is parked, eagerly
at the ice porch, the
farmer’s inside having
5 pounds of pork chops
sliced, he likes em for
breakfast — A
hesitant Negro laborer
headed home to his
mother & younger brothers
in the woods is speculating
over a hambone in the
counter — Sweet
life continues in the
breeze, the golden fields —
August senses September
in the deeper light of
its afternoons — senses
Autumn in the brown
burn of the corn, the
stripped tobacco — the
faint singe appearing
on the incomprehensible
horizons — the tanned
tiredness of gardens, the
cooler, brisker breeze —
above all the cool
mysterious nights —
Night — & when the
great rains of the
night boom & thunder
in the South, when
the woods are blackened,
made wet,
mudded, shrouded,
impossibled —
& when the rain
drips from the roof
of the G. Store
in silver tragic milky
beadlets over the bright
bulb-light of the
old platform — inside
we see the snow white
bags of flower, the
whitewashed woodwalls,
the dark & baneful
harness hanging, a
few shining buckets
for the farm —
Sat. rainy night,
the cars come by
raising whizzes of
smoky dew from
the road, their tires
hum, they go off
to a rumble of
their own —
And the great falls —
The watermelons are
wetted, cooled — The
earth breathes a
new rank cold up
— there’s winter
in the bones of this
earth — Thunder of
our ancestors, Blake,
Kingsley, Harris, —
thunder of our ancestors
rumbles in the unseen
sky — the wood walls
of the store have now
that tragic businesslike
look of hardships in
the old rain, use in
old wars, old necessities
— Now we see that
there were men who
wore raincoats & boots
& struggled here —
& only left their ghosts,
& these few hardhip
houses, to sit in the
Saturday night rain.
How different from
the Saturday night of
the cities, the Chinatowns,
the harbors of the
world! — This silent
place haunted by
corn shapes, the
beauteous shrouds of
fields, the white leer