As my Thanksgiving gift to you I offer a chapter that didn't make it into my book "The Adventures of June Bug Johnson." Please consider purchasing a copy of the book if you haven't done so yet. They make wonderful Christmas gifts. www.JuneBugJohnson.com
Not my duck not my bottle.
June Bug had always been able to
go to grandpa Lymon with questions, problems and quandaries and get
advice. Grandpa Lymon was always willing
to let the boy talk, it seemed that when the Lord was giving out patience Grandpa
Lymon got a double blessing, and with June Bug he need it. The boy could, at times talk like his tongue
was tied in the middle and flapping loose on both ends. Grandpa Lymon once said, “That boy could talk
a fish into growing legs and going for a walk, not cause he is so convincing
but because the fish would just get tired of listening to him.”
On one occasion it appeared that
even the seemingly inexhaustible supply of Grandpa Lymons patience was used up
by June Bug. It happened when June Bug
was at that social age of about 14 years old.
One day he comes down to Grandpa Lymons store and starts in with hardly
a word of hello. I will not attempt to
retell the whole sad tale but the jest of it was that Terry, one of June Bugs’
friends, liked Cindy, but Cindy really liked Jay. Jay didn’t care for her because he had a
girl friend from another school. But
Terry who had been ‘going out’ with Debbie but wanted to stop liking her so he
would be free to like Cindy and was thinking about telling Cindy about Jay
liking a girl from another school. But
if he did Vicki, who was Cindy’s best friend, would tell Debbie and Cindy that
Terry was planning on dumping Debbie, which would be okay with June Bug except
June Bug liked Vicki.
This is the simple straightforward
version unpolluted by the hormones and the ramblings of a teenage boy. The original version was about 25 minutes of
teenage chatter. Once the whole story
was out June bug looked at Grandpa Lymon and said, “What should I tell
Terry?” Grandpa Lymon was exhausted just
from the hearing of the story, he also was a bit agitated that he had to spend
so much of his time listening to the soap opera of teenage life. Grandpa Lymon let out a long sigh and paused
for effect or perhaps out of sheer exhaustion and said: “Not my duck not my bottle”. Turned and went back to keeping the store.
“Grandpa?”, June Bug was struggling to comprehend what
his grand dad had just told him. “…did
you say that I should tell Terry something about a duck and a bottle?”
“Not something son, you should
tell him specifically, ‘It is not my duck and not my bottle’”.
June Bug looked at his grand dad
as if he were a dog listening to a high-pitched whistle, he had no ideal what
was going on.
“I don’t understand grandpa,
what are you talking about?”
“Well let me tell you about
Matthaniah Washington.” It seemed that
Grandpa Lymon had a story for any and every occasion. “Matthaniah was an old man when I was a
little boy, and he was perhaps the wisest man I ever met”.
Grandpa Lymon pulled out a chair
leaned it against the wall and got the look in his eye of someone seeing
something a long way off. It was his
turn to talk.
“My grand daddy did business
with Mr. Washington, bought pelts from him and resold them. Matthaniah lived why out on the edge of Bear
Creek Swamp. Had a little cabin off the
Greenville Rd. He lived alone never had
a wife or family but was a warm and kindly old hermit sort. Everyone around these parts respected him as
a wise old sage.”
“My grand daddy said he was one
of the flew former slaves that knew how to read and write. Never did say where he learned to read. At that time not a lot of colored people could
read, so many of them would come to him for reading. No one knew wild animals like he did
either. Many a wealthy white man came to
him as sort of a hunting guide too. His
skin was black as coal an his hair was gray, not white but true gray like a winter
rainy sky.”
One summer my grand daddy comes
to me and tells me that I am going to stay with Mr. Matthaniah for few
weeks. He need some help and my grand
daddy told me I would be happy to stay with him and help. Mr. Matthaniah had been sick and was a little
behind on his work and so I went out to stay with him and help out for a few
weeks.
Well the first Saturday I was
there this city fellow comes ride up in what people used to call a horseless
carriage, that was one of the first automobiles I had ever seen. He come all the way from Montgomery and it
must have been a real journey in those days. You could tell by the way he walked up to the
little cabin he though a mighty lot of himself.
He was dressed in a suit the color of cream and matching hat with a thin
black tie. We was sitting on the front
porch eating corn pone and greens for lunch when he walked up.
He says, “I am looking for Mr.
Matthaniah Washington, would you be him, sir?”
Now for a big shot city lawyer to call a colored man “sir” was something
else.
“I am” Mr. Matthaniah said
without much tone in his voice.
“I understand that you are the
hunting guide for the governor’s advisor on agriculture?”
Mr. Matthaniah started to warm
up a little. “Yes sir, but it is a while
to hunting season, but it you want to plan a hunt we could plan a time.”
“No it not about hunting. I work with the governor’s advisor and he was
telling me that you are man that has found the secret of serenity and inner
peace. Well sir, I am a man in need of that
secret, my job, my family obligations, my responsibilities are taxing my
nerves. I feel that I may have a nervous
collapse if I don’t discover your secret.”
Well ole Mr. Matthaniah leans
forward and says, “Why don’t you tell me about it, son”
‘Here that man stated telling a
tell that sounded a good bit like yours, June Bug.’ Grandpa Lymon looked down at June Bug with a
serious look. ‘He told about all the
problems of all the friends, family and co-workers. He talked about how his brother was having
trouble with his wife and they might get divorced, how one of the men in the
office was drinking too much and was not getting things done right. He talked about a lady in the Sunday School
class that was flirting with the preacher and how if something happened it
would upset the whole church not to mention be the talk of Montgomery. How he did go on. After almost and hour of his talking about
everybody he knew and all their problems he wasn’t slowing down one bit. That
is when Ole Matthaniah got up and without a word got down off the porch and
went around the house.
The big city dude was kinda
shocked and just stood there. He looked
at me and said, “Where is he going?” I
just shook my head cause I had no idea.
A couple of minutes later Mr. Matthaniah comes back with a bottle in one
had and a duck under the other arm. He
comes up to the man and says, “Mister I got just what you need”.
The man looks down at the duck
real puzzled like. Mr. Matthaniah went
on, “But first I need you to do something for me.”
“Well whatch need?” the man said,
but it sounded more like he was asking another question.
“I need you to put this duck in
this wine bottle, you do that for me and I will tell you how to have peace and
serenity in the midst of all your troubles.
But there are two rules, first of all you can’t hurt the duck, second
you can’t ruin the bottle. You do that
for me and I will tell you the secret I know.”
Here Mr. Matthaniah handed the
duck and the bottle to the man, and went into the house and closed the
door. The man stood there for a minute
looking sort of fuddled. Then he went
and got in his car and drove off. I
didn’t ask Mr. Matthaniah about the duck and the bottle cause I expected that
he would tell me if he wanted me know.
Next Saturday just before lunch
that same city feller came out the road and stopped. He got out of the car and comes up to where
Mr. Matthaniah and I were working. He
don’t even say ‘Howdy’ he just launches in, “What if I cut the duck up into
tiny pieces and stuff it down in the bottle?”
He was looking kind of expectantly, hoping that was the answer.
“Nawsir that would hurt the duck
you can’t hurt the duck.” Mr. Matthaniah
said and he went back to work, we were splitting firewood for the winter. The man just stood there for a second or two,
like he was froze to the ground. The Mr.
Matthaniah says, “If you care to lend a hand we would be much obliged.”
Without a word the man turned
and got in his car and drove off. We
just kept splitting and stacking firewood saying nothing except what was
needful for the task. About and hour
later we heard the sound of the car coming down the road. Mr. Matthaniah reasoned it would be a good
time to stop for a break cause he figured he was about to have company.
For a man seeking senernity this
fellow seemed to stay hot and bothered an awful lot. He was in an ill temper but seeing as how the
governor’s agriculture advisor put such stock in Mr. Matthaniah he was watching
his tongue. “What if I had a glass
cutter cut the bottom off the bottle we could put that duck up in the bottle
without even breaking a feather?”
I fetched over the water bucket
and the dipper Mr. Matthaniah had sent me after, and he took a long cool drink. He lowered the dipper wiped his mouth on the
back of his hand and said, “Nawsir can’t damage the bottle at all. No that won’t do.” Then acting as if there wasn’t anyone else
around he looked at me and said, “You stack the rest of this wood I’m going to
go pull some corn for supper.” He walked
off toward the garden leaving me with our confused guest.
He spoke to me, “Boy do you know
what the old man wants, if you got a secret I’ll give you two dollars”. Now this man must have been eat up with
curiosity cause back then two dollars was a heap of money. But I had to tell him, “No sir I don’t know
anything about this at all.” That was not the answer he had wanted, he
snorted and mumbled something under his breath and walked back over to get in
his car.
That night curiosity got the
best of me and I ask, “Mr. Matthaniah, why did you tell that man to put a duck
in a bottle? I mean it is impossible to
do all you ask, I mean without hurting the duck or busting the bottle.”
Mr. Matthaniah quietly said, “I
asked him to do it to teach him a lesson, the harder he tries to figure it out
the better he will learn the lesson.”
That didn’t make much sense to me but I figured that was all I would get
out of him so I left that sleeping dog lay.
Well it all came clear the next
Saturday. Not long after breakfast we
heard the familiar sound of the car coming up the road. “He must have left powerful early to get here
at this time of the morning.” I said to
Mr. Matthaniah
“Yep maybe he learned the lesson
and wants to tell me about it.” Was his only answer.
He was not dressed in his usual
suit, and the air of propriety was completely absent. He got out the car came around and open the passenger
door and reached in and got out a cage and the bottle. He walks over to Mr. Matthaniah and it looks
like he may hurt the older man. He
shoved the cage and the bottle into his arms and almost yells, “It is not my
duck and its not my bottle. If you want
that stupid duck in the bottle do it yourself.”
He turns and starts to walk away.
But Mr. Matthaniah says, “Why
don’t you come have some coffee since you have learned the secret of peace and
serenity”.
He turns and looks at Mr.
Matthaniah like he was real angry and he might do something, then he looks a
little confused, then he smiled the least little bit and ask, “Why you say
that?’
“Well when you come out here two
weeks ago looking for peace and serenity you was all hot and bothered by a
whole heap of troubles. Everybody and
his brother’s troubles you took on yourself, troubles you couldn’t fix, and
then you decided that you would worry over em.
So I just gave you one more trouble you couldn’t fix. Aint no way to put a duck in a bottle without
either hurting the duck or ruining the bottle.’
‘You decided that the duck and
the bottle weren’t your trouble and so you weren’t going to be bothered by
them. That is the secret of
serenity. All them things you was
fussing about they weren’t yours to worry over, just like the duck and bottle
weren’t yours to worry over.’
The man visibly relaxed and kind
of laughed to himself. “Not my duck not
my bottle. I guess I have been trying to
get someone else’s duck into their bottles.
But I do feel like I ought to help people who are in trouble.”
Yessur, good Lord wants us to
help people, but you aint helping people by worrying and besides if they don’t
ask you for help or won’t let you give them real help, they aint asking for
help. They maybe just wanting someone to
discuss how to get a duck in the bottle.
You don’t need that. Now how
about some coffee?
Grandpa Lymon turned to June Bug
and said, “Son all your yammering on sounded like you was fooling around with somethings
that weren’t your duck and your bottle.
You want my advice you stay out of it, and if someone wants to get you
in the middle of their mess you just tell em, “Aint my duck aint my bottle.”
Long
ago in a childhood far away…. I watched a Christmas Special or at least part of
one. It was 1978, Jimmy Carter was
President, Bear Bryant was coaching Alabama and I was a teenager. That Christmas season I watched just a few
minutes of A Mac Davis Special: Christmas
Odyssey 2010, but lost interest pretty quick. At the time my musical interest tended toward
Boston, Styx, Foreigner, and Heart. So,
this Mac Davis Christmas musical had little appeal. However, the theme of the special stuck with
me. In the show Mac Davis and Bernadette Peters
played a couple preparing for "Commerce Day," the winter holiday
which causes people to spend a lot of money on presents. It was, as I recall, pretty sappy and not
very good. But one of the lines was
prophetic: 
