The Shepherd on the Mountain

AmySue Kramer

I

A large man with kind eyes appears in my yard like the animals that emerge from the dark Pennsylvania forest where we are brand-new neighbors. He holds in his rough, dark-stained hands a gift; a delicate antique perfume bottle taken from the nearby dump.  The glass is ridged and frosted and contains the ghost of a smell of someone’s loved one, someone long gone.  His name is Cooney.  His deep voice is gentle, melodious, a slow yodel; it rings out like Ralph Stanley singing Gloryland.

II

 A mound of crusty dirt rises high above our landscape and surrounding mountains; it is a dry skeleton of earth that emits a dead odor.  Cooney is the caretaker of this landfill.  He moves back and forth in his backhoe across this mound.  Neighbors from miles around mockingly call this mountain of garbage “Cooney’s Mountain.”

III

Cooney lives in the “attached” garage of widow Mary’s old single-wide trailer.  It has a cement floor and is furnished with a
metal framed futon, television, and nightstand.   A small propane heater is his only source of warmth.  Local gossip whispers of a gambling addiction, poor mental acuity and terrible money management skills.  To me, he is a friend who never fails to appear just when I need help getting my Prelude out of a snowy driveway.

IV

A year after we first meet he appears with a stack of early 1900’s sheet music in a brown paper Shursave bag.  Pick whatever you want, he says, so I grab the prettiest piece with blue border and orange text.  It’s titled “Shepherd on the Mountain” and I decide to display it on my antique upright piano without glancing at the lyrics or ever playing the music.  Later on, when I study the lyrics through tears, I will be comforted by the prophetic words:   “No star with gentle light befriending will guide us to our home so dear… To yonder lofty mountain we take our winding way.” 

V

 It’s August.  Black bears are invading from all directions to scavenge food at the dump.  A loud knock at the door and I see Cooney standing in the yellow glow of the porch light.  He asks if my daughter would like to see the bears up close; a rare treat.  While we get ready to go with him, he rounds up other families and waits for us out front.  He sinks into his Camry to lead a procession of about 7 cars up to the gate of the dump.  He unlocks the chain with his key and with a presidential wave of his hand, we are led skyward.  The road is narrow and is etched into the earth much like the sides of my empty perfume bottle.

We reach the top and park along the edge to the right of Cooney’s Toyota.  As each car pulls into place, the headlamps illuminate the shadows moving just out of eyesight in increments.  The dark forms then begin to take shape as black bears, their strength silent as they seek the best morsels of food within the garbage.  The bears do not notice the bright lights or squealing children; their glistening, powerful bodies stand dormant as the mountains.  The only other sound we hear is a distant train making its way towards us from the North.  As we watch the bears, I see how the stars shine their light into Cooney's gentle eyes, a hint of pride beaming out of darkness.

VI

The weekend he died was a typical February winter; below zero and snowy.  He became ill at work, so his co-workers dumped him in his garage and left him there alone, lying in bed.  Nobody called a doctor or checked on him over the weekend.  No one told Mary, his landlord and neighbor.  He was too sick to turn on his heater or to get a drink of water.  He died alone in a hospital bed in Pittsburgh from hypothermia caused by the cold temperatures and lack of fluids.  When I visit, I quote Psalm 23 in as soothing voice as I can muster:  “The Lord is My Shepherd, I shall not want…”

Richard Allen Arthurs wasn’t given a funeral.  His brothers shook his ashes into a nearby lake then cleaned out his garage, tossing his things into garbage bags.  I didn’t learn his real name until I read his obituary; he had always been Cooney to me.  The name Richard Allen means powerful leader; noble.   His last name, Arthurs, may be linked to Arcturus, the brightest star in the constellation Boötes, near Ursa Major or the Great Bear.  Its brightness and position in the sky led people to regard this star as the "guardian of the bear" and the "leader" of the other stars in Boötes.

VII

A few months before his death, I see Cooney coming towards me with a red lantern.  It is a 19th century railroad lantern with a red globe; another gift. I later learn that this particular lantern was used as a signaling device for railroad workers to use at night.  Even after flashlights became available, these lanterns were preferred because of their brightness and for the fact that they would double as a heat source on chilly nights.

I don’t know why but I begin to light this lantern before dinner each day as a ritual.  It is winter, and as the sun goes down I light a new wick as my daughter and I watch the flame cast images onto the wallpaper.  It looks like spirits rising from the checkered linoleum.  We close our eyes and have a moment of silence before saying grace. 

Originally from Pittsburgh, Pa, AmySue Kramer has held many careers in the past 21 years from professional Taste Testing for the HJ Heinz Company to traveling the continent as a Flight Attendant for US Airways. She recently graduated from Allegheny College in Meadville, Pa where she was awarded the Nancy Sheridan ACA Scholarship for women. She first began writing while spending 3 quiet years in a hunting cabin in the village of Hutchins, Pennsylvania, remotely situated along the edge of the Allegheny National Forest. She currently lives on the outskirts of Cochranton, Pa with her 12 year old daughter Anna and a Basset Hound named Walter Henry.Show Less