The Spit And Whittle Club Poem by Sidi Mahtrow

No one knows
When the group decided to sit
Under the elm tree on the corner
Of the square
And pass the time.

They were just there.
Some days not.
But round about 8: 30 or so,
One of the club would drag
A court house chair out
From the storage room.

The chairs were nothing fancy.
Straight turned legs and back.
Slats fitted across the back
And across the seat.
Not even painted or stained.
Well used and substantial and
Carefully kept from the rain.

Who they actually belonged to
No one knew.
They just appeared there
One day and
There they stayed.

Some said the plant
(That's what they called
The manufacturing business,)
Just made too many
And they were piling up.
So they just loaded them
On a pickup and took them
To the courthouse.

Regardless,
If you wanted some place to sit
Before it got too hot,
Just grab a chair
And add it to the collection
There on the corner.
(No women or children allowed.)

Of course you were expected to
Return it when you had had your fill
Of watching people go
Into the drugstore on the corner,
Or climbing the stairs
To Dr. Nash's dentist office.

The several old timers,
Those well past 60,
Would sometimes be there
And sometimes not.
Maybe it depended on
Whether they could get a ride to town
Or maybe if their wife
Needed something from A&P.
Never-mind the reason,
They would sometimes show up,
And sometimes not.

And if they did,
You could be sure they
Each would have a select piece of cedar
Carefully chosen to be free of knots
And with straight grain.
The piece would be smooth
On all sides and the end carefully sanded
So no burrs from the saw remained.

With the chairs set just so
To avoid any unsettling movement,
The men would
After nodding a greeting to passersby
Or to who ever,
Would fetch their pocket knife
And carefully open it.

The glint of the sun
On the metal would reveal it
Had been polished by much use
And carefully honed to a razor sharp edge
That could have been used for shaving
If that was its intended fate.
Maybe to show off its keen edge,
A careful swipe across the arm
Shaving off a few hairs
Might have been done,
But that's what boys do
And was not to be the mission
Of these selected knives.

Usually the blade
Would be drawn back and forth
In reverse direction
Across the cedar block,
Thick edge of the knife leading
As the keen edge was honed
By the cedar itself.

Then positioning the blade carefully
Just an inch or so from the edge
Of the wood piece,
The old man or men
If there were several there,
Would slowly draw the blade
Along the surface of the wood.
A master in action.

If the wood had been properly selected
And if the blade was ready,
A thin curl of fragrant wood
Would be lifted and slowly rise
Into a pigtail of
Reddish, paper-thin shaving.

When at the end of the draw,
The blade would be pulled a bit further
Into the wood to finished the stroke.
Making it a bit thicker
Than that which preceded.

The job finished.
The piece dropped to the ground
Between the whittler's legs.
No notice of the dropping.
Now attention was given
To the block of wood
That was carefully turned
In the opposite direction
In preparation of the next stroke.

If one finished before the others,
And someone always had too,
He would wait
Until all had finished his mission
Before beginning another round.

Now was the time to
Comment about the events
Of the past day, week, months or years.
And all would shift their weight
On the oak bottoms of the chairs
Waiting for the next round.

While they might be called
The spit and whittle club,
No one dipped, chewed or smoked
And certainly, no one spit.
No. This was man's work
And one had to know the necessary
Protocol to participate
And to be accepted as a member.

Perhaps if the day grew hot,
One might be observed
To take his hat from beneath the chair
And take a walk
Underneath the marble steps of the courthouse
To the basement
(Which was really not a basement at all,
Just some three feet or so underneath ground level,
Leaving ample room for windows
To admit fresh air and light.)

In the cool recesses of the 'basement'
Were water fountains for
'White' and 'Colored'
Standing testament
To the history of the South.

One also found the necessary bath rooms.
(Not rest rooms as city folks might call them,
Although this was certainly
No place for a bath.)
The marble slabs that provided
Protection from prying eyes,
Also concealed one stall
That always seemed 'Out of Order.'

This was the residence
Of the local proprietor
Who kept a brown paper bag
Placed there for a customer or friend
That needed a quick pick-me-up,

Money might have changed hands
But no one knew
(Especially not those in the Sheriff's office
On the second floor.
Jess Sweeden may have been the finest
Pistol shot in the whole United States
With a keen eye and steady hand
(As featured in Life Magazine) ,
But somehow his gaze never seemed
To see the marble stall
Or its contents down below.

But you can be sure,
Or maybe relatively sure,
That the spit and whittlers
Never sampled the 90 proof.
But you would know for certain
That they were not going to do anything
To cause their hands
To be less that steady.

Round about eleven or so,
One or the other will rise and stretch,
Put his knife in pocket,
Admire the stump
Of cedar that remained,
and carefully pocket it as well.
Then pick up the chair and
Return it to storage.

By noon,
All that remained as evidence
Would be a small trace of shavings
Caught up in the wind created by passing cars
To be swept away like so many chicken feathers.


And now, they all are gone.