Meet John Skinner

I've known a few characters in my life. Some are funny, some are sad, some are beautifully put-together, some are like clowns. But, the one I like to think about is someone I lived by, when I was small. He was in his late seventies. He took pride in growing the best peaches and garden stuff. When I saw him out back in his orchard, he'd say, "Here, have a taste! You can't get any better than these!" Then, he'd hand me a peach or apple or English walnut.

He had worked in the coal mines doing heavy lifting, so he was stooped slightly. His hands were large and gnarled, scarred with many little injuries he sustained while shoveling, picking and pruning. He was gruff but kind, sharp but tender, wanted friends but rejected anyone who did not meet his high standards, distant yet interested in everything around him. I knew he was my friend, even though I was a child and he was an old man.

I was surprised to find that his grandparents knew my grandparents in Arizona. In fact, he told a story about his grandfather that I had heard my grandfather tell. My grandfather admired his grandfather very much.

He said, "My grandfather had such integrity that everyone respected him. Things back in the 1880's were still rough. Wagons and buggies were his chief mode of travel, while heat, dust and flies were his worst enemies. Because he had such integrity and never cheated anyone, he was well respected in the Territory of Arizona. The Indians knew they could depend on him for something to eat if they were hungry, and he would help them if they were in need."

I would always say, "Wow! I wish I could have been there!" His eyes twinkled because he knew I was hooked, and could be counted on to be his audience.

These were the conversations I loved to have with him--I would bring up some question, and he would tell me fantastic, but true stories. This one was no exception. He continued looking as though he were way back in time with his grandfather.

"One day while hauling a load of freight from Flagstaff to Phoenix, grandfather ran across two parties of Indians fighting it out. They were positioned right across the road from each other, really going at it. He could hear the shots, yelling and commotion, but when he came in sight, they all stopped." He paused in his story too.

I said, "What happened next?", impatiently leaning forward.

He looked at me and smiled. "Oh, they waited until he passed safely by, then went to killing each other again,".

That is the heritage Mr. Skinner was proud to tell and own.

by Celia Helen Tracy
copyright © 2000 Celia Helen Tracy