Dad and I were in the barnyard when a shadow fell over us and we looked up to see a tall, overall clad giant of a man climb over the fence and start toward us.  This was in the 40s in Kentucky where we owned a farm for a few years.  We had moved there only a few months before and knew none of our neighbors, so we were curious as to who this might be, especially with that head of flaming red hair.

He walked to Dad and put out his hand, a huge toothy smile made him immediately likeable.  Dad, too, smiled and shook  his  hand.  “Hi, there, I’m Orville Ford” he said with a thick drawl, “I live back there through the woods with my Momma and  I cut through here a lot to get to Renfro’s.”   That was a little ma and pa grocery store,  post office and the place where locals bought their hunting licenses.  Dad introduced himself, then me.   Orville asked if it was o.k. with Dad that he continue  taking a shortcut through our farm and Dad gave permission.   He continued on his way and didn’t realize then that we’d see him four or five times a week as he went down the  hill to get a can of soup or a bottle of soda.  Before long he stopped to talk to us on  each trip and my little brothers really liked him.  Sometimes he would show  up after dark, preceded by two or three howling  hounds.  On one of those visits he sat down on an upside down crate and told us a frightening tale of the former owner and how he had died “right thar in that kitchen and they bombed him on the kitchen table”  My little brother look quickly at Mom  and asked, “What’s bombed?   Did they kill him?  “Orville,  you’re scaring the kids, don’t talk about things like that to them.”

“O.K., ” he answered, then added, “They put the body up there under the rafters next to  that extra bedroom then when they played cards rigor mortis would come out and set in.”

“Orville,” mom screamed,  “go home, I don’t want  you talking to my kids.”

“O.K.” he said,  collected his dogs and went into the night toward the woods.  Two days later he was there again, totally unmindful of the “bombing” incident.

One night he came after dark,the dogs baying half a mile away so we knew he would be along soon.  “Can Frankie and Johnny come hunting with me?” he asked. ” It’s a good moonlit night to go after possums and coons”      To my surprise Mom let them take our 22 rifle and go with him.  Hours later they returned, no coons,  their clothes shredded from berry vines, their shoes muddied and their faces covered in mosquito bites.  “Man, that was fun” they said in unison.  “Can we go again sometime, Mom?” they asked.    This little hunting venture, which she had hoped would  sour them on it forever, had only fanned the flame for more of the  same.  “We’ll talk about it later, get ready for bed.”  They never did go again but  they never lost their hankering for more of it.

One day Orville was unusually talkative.   “I’ve lived back there in the cabin all my life.  I went into the army but when I got out I came right back here cause my daddy was sick.  He died and I stayed to take care of Mama.   Once I went to Indunaplis and got a job at the Kingam Packing Company but I didn’t last long there, too many people in that town, too much noise.  I like it back in the woods.

My mother heard  via the grapevine that Mrs. Ford was ill so she cooked up some food and drove our car to the end of a rutted clay road then walked a few hundred yards to a small log cabin hidden in the thick trees. I asked her if she met Mrs. Ford and she answered, “Yes, she’s about five feet tall, plump little body, she has white hair instead of red like Orville, and her face looks just like his.”

One day as Orville passed through he looked very spiffy .  He had changed the overalls for a pair of jeans and a plaid shirt, swapped his work shoes for a pair of brown moccasins and wore a felt fedora.  “Wow”  we teased,, you’re all gussied up, where are you going?”  He answered, very solemnly, “A friend died about a mile down the road.  I’m going to go pay my respects.”    We were impressed.

We moved back to Indiana after three or four years and never got a chance to tell him goodbye.  Many years later, long after my children had become adults, my husband and I drove through Kentucky on our way to Florida.  Using a map we were able to find the farm, but as Thomas Wolf said, “You can’t go home again.”….it should have been  “you shouldn’t go home again” because you’ll be disappointed.

Our magnificent barn had been neglected for many years and the house needed repairs, too.  A man answered the door when we knocked and told us he was just renting and knew nothing about the whereabouts of any Orville Ford or anyone else who used to live in the neighborhood. We drove down the road about five miles and stopped at a roadside stand for information. We were told that Orville was in a nursing home just a few blocks away and how we could find it.

We drove to a single family home that had a sign on the front door designating it as a nursing home.   On the back door was another sign that said “Walk In.”  So we did.  We went through a modest kitchen with pies cooling on the windowsill  into a large living room where men and women sat on  chairs and sofas around the perimeter.   I looked them over carefully, then I spotted him.  There   much older, of course, most of his red hair missing, tobacco juice rivulets running down from  his lips, sat  our Orville.  I walked up to him and  said, “Hi, Orville.  I’m  Alice and I used to live on the Hathaway farm with my mom and dad and brothers.  You crossed our farm and stopped to talk to us a lot.  Do you remember me?”

H e looked up, recognition crossed his face and he smiled. “I sure do” he said, his once strong baritone now a hoarse mumble.  “Do you remember my brothers?” I asked.  “Yes” he answered.  “:You tell Frankie I’ll be by again to pick him up and well go hunting. Tell him to get the 22 ready.”

We talked to him for awhile until he drifted off then asked the lady in charge if there was anything Orville needed that we could provide.  She said there  wasn’t so we left.   we were many miles down the road before we were able to discuss the matter with dry eyes. I’ll never forget that big, cheerful , friendly man and the impact he made on our family’s life.