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Preview of The Stovepipe Chess Club
This is how it happened. Or, rather, this is how I think it happened. I was told by a very weak man on his deathbed. As far as I know he got it right and so did I. But I’m not sure because I didn’t really know the man until his final hours.
He was my father.
It came to light in 1991 when I was 46 and got a call from Dad, who was 72. He said he was sick and needed to see me, needed to tell me something. It couldn’t be on the phone. He was at a VA hospital. If I didn’t want to he’d accept it, but it was important to him and he’d appreciate seeing me, a lot.
I went two days later, Saturday morning. I would have taken off from work and left right after his call if I’d known how sick he was. But we talked more like acquaintances than like father and son. We didn’t level with each other. He wasn’t that open. Maybe I’m not either.
Saturday I learned that Dad had pancreatic cancer and maybe a couple weeks left. I’d had no idea until I got there and saw him. He looked hideous.
He wanted to tell me “the rest.” I was lost, no clue. Then he reminded me of a brief conversation we’d had in 1961, a short and stiff discussion of him in 1931. What was it with this guy about 30 year intervals?
In 1961 Dad was teaching me to play chess on a carved wooden set. It was beautiful, nothing like the plastic ones I’d seen and their flimsy folding boards.
“Where did you get this set, Dad?”
“A man in Leesport gave it to me.”
That intrigued me, much more than chess.
“Where’s Leesport. Why were you there?”
He kept staring at the chess board, unmoving. I barely knew one piece from another and he was pretty good. There was no way he was this absorbed because of what I’d just done with my bishop.
“Dad, where’s Leesport?”
“Virginia: the Chesapeake.” He sounded annoyed.
Sometimes when he got secretive like this it scared me and I’d back away. Other times it made me angry. I scooted back my chair and folded my arms.
“Why were you in Leesport?”
Again, he dove into his chess. I decided to wait him out.
To be fair, much of the time he was OK. We did some normal things when I was growing up. We might play catch, do things with school or Scouting groups, a ball game. It was OK.
But I gradually saw that, even though he was outgoing, at ease in a crowd, he was distant. I was slow to perceive that, it was tough. The man had an inner wall. Anyone from sons to strangers was welcome to play around it. It wasn’t safe to approach it.
Now and then he’d crawl into a hole that took him behind his wall, and hide. It had me wonder if he was a Soviet spy or something. But it didn’t shut off all family things and, naïve that I am, I thought we were normal.
It got worse when I got out of college and my sister was in school. He and mom didn’t have much bonding them together. They got divorced. Sis and I figured it was empty nest syndrome and adapted to it.
Mom was down a while then bounced back and was her normal self. Dad went into that hole and never came out.
Eventually we accepted it. We had to. I’d get with him now and then, take his grandkids to visit, and he was polite and nice. But he didn’t do grandpa stuff with them.
He’d always been energetic and productive and stayed that way. We would admire his garden and things he’d built. But it was more like visiting a cousin than a father. We didn’t have intimacy.
Now, here I was, at a VA hospital with a dying father who wanted to tell me ‘the rest.’ OK. Good. I had all day and I’d take all weekend if necessary.
The first part of his story was sweet and tender, like an old Disney movie. Midway, it got a little tense, but manageable. Later it felt dangerous. Finally it got ugly.
Let me try to set the scene a little more clearly.
Back to that afternoon in 1961 when I’d decided to wait him out on this Leesport thing. He finally spoke.
“It was the Depression, 1931, I was eleven. Pop lost his job in Baltimore. Mom had kin in Leesport who got him a job and said we could live with them.”
Then he went back to the board, shifted the topic.
“My knight can take your bishop. Unless you…”
“Dad, why haven’t I heard about Leesport before?”
He shrugged. “That’s it. Pop needed work, bad, so we took the steamboat and stayed a few months.”
“You took a steamboat?”
He nodded. “Yes, Rob, a steamboat. Roads were horrible and the nearest railroad was 75 miles from Leesport. Now, I’m not moving my knight yet, because…”
My mouth fell open and I spat “a steamboat to a town I never heard of. Do you not like to talk about it?”
He looked like I’d slapped him.
After a very long moment his shock wore off and he got angry. He stood up and gathered the chess set.
“If you don’t want to play, that’s fine.”
He left the room. I did too. We never talked about Leesport again.
Until now. He was ready, here, in his VA hospital room. Ready to pick it right up as if it were 30 minutes, not 30 years, ago. I paid attention, carefully.
And I met a man I thought I’d known. I understood more, much more. And I took on a mission; a charge to tend to what he thought he’d broken, see if it could be fixed.
August, 1931, Leesport VA
“Here it comes again,” Pop warned.
This time Jess had his ears covered as soon as the whistle began its blare and didn’t let go until it stopped. Then he sniffed, and frowned.
“What’s that smell, Pop?”
“That’s the smell of Money,” he grinned at his son.
“Money?”
“Not really. Fish plants smell fishy,” he shrugged.
“Those stacks you see with smoke coming out make the area smell like that. They call it the smell of money because it gives people like me jobs.”
Jess scanned the stacks on opposite shores of this confluence of wide creeks, broad inlets and the Bay. Lots of boats were about, some larger ones at the more notable docks and wharfs, many smaller ones everywhere.
A cacophony of sails, cranes, pipes and masts stretched from the boats toward the heavens in the harbor area. The sky itself strutted clear blue, dotted with white puffs of clouds and soaring birds in the distance. Closer in, it choked on smoke from the stacks, and hordes of gulls chasing scraps of fish on and near the boats and docks.
As the big steamboat they had boarded in Baltimore approached a major wharf at the end of a peninsula its whistle blasted again. It heightened the frenzy of activity among the warehouses, buildings and open areas near the wharf. It also thickened a swarm of eager passengers crowding mid-ship, awaiting passage to the landing.
Jess held Pop’s hand and stood at the rail near the front, captivated by the organized chaos on the wharf. There were wagons hitched to mules or horses, two pickups and one panel truck, carts, huge barrels, men checking lists against stacks of goods, and outbound travelers waiting to board.
“What are those cows doing back there?”
“They’re probably going on the boat and to market in Baltimore, along with those crates and barrels. Oh, over here - - watch the men holding those big ropes and the fellows on board.”
He pointed to workers on shore and deck. The boat had slowed and was crawling alongside the pier. The whish and hiss of the steam boiler and pistons slackened then stopped. The men had begun to toss the lines to one another and tie them off to secure the behemoth. Their work was performed rapidly, effectively. Few words were needed to gently tuck the giant ark into its berth.
Right away, other well-schooled teams maneuvered gangplanks, secured them as if they’d grown there; soon crates, barrels, some farm equipment and even a new Ford Model A coupe rolled out of the hold onto the dock.
“Ma’s waiting on us,” Pop sang out as he tugged Jess’s hand. They each picked up satchels containing their clothing. And they joined his mother, merged into the throng and shuffled down the gangplank to the wharf.
For a couple of minutes all the 5’3” boy could see were the upper torsos of adult fellow travelers. He was like a feeble shard within some huge shambling single cell organism.
Then suddenly he was at the foot of the gangplank and part of a different muddle, thrashing into, around and through one another to get to baggage, greeters, carts or other targets.
Magically, directly in front of him, his own ‘people’ suddenly appeared. Ma hugged, Pop shook hands, he was hugged, his hair was tousled and he was greeted with a smile from one his size.
Well, actually she was two inches taller and three years older than Jess. But Sharon wasn’t intimidating.
“Welcome to Leesport. I’m Sharon. We’re cousins.”
Reddish hair, barely long enough to be frizzy, framed a round face with blue eyes, pug nose and thin lips. Summer sun had smeared a dark red complexion over scattered freckles.
She wore a thin, yellow man’s shirt with sleeves rolled above her elbows and green short pants that came to her knees. She wasn’t chubby and looked strong though more soft and rounded than muscular. Her breasts were slight. Small closely packed teeth gleamed in a warm smile.
“Do you need help with that?”
She pointed to the large canvas bag that contained everything he owned. He held it in both hands, glanced at the bag, back to his new cousin. She took one strap.
“Let’s team up on it.”
And thus began several weeks of ‘teaming up’ with Sharon on situations and tasks as they arose.
Their little group nudged to a bored mule affixed to an open flatbed wagon. The baggage was loaded, the two women were hoisted to the seat, and the two men flanked the mule and began to coax it into motion. Jess and Sharon stationed themselves beside the wagon, and they all trudged up Main Street together.
“That’s the canning factory,” she said, pointing to her right. “Farmers bring mostly tomatoes, vegetables, some fruit. There’s the machine shop, blacksmith, stable.”
With a quick glance at Jess she swung her head and pointed with her other hand. “That’s the bank, and some offices - - lawyers, insurance - - among those shops. The buildings by the water are warehouses, the steamboat office, another canning place for oysters. And, an ice house, fish packing house, and up there’s the general store.”
“Any questions before the test?” she grinned.
“Umm.”
Jess looked serious, a little worried. Sharon laughed and tapped his arm.
“I’m just kidding you. We can come back when it’s quiet and there aren’t millions of people and see whatever you want. What’s your name?”
“Jess.”
She started to speak again, but their group was at the entrance of the general store. They were going in and the kids were motioned to come along.
“Will our stuff be OK in the street?”
Sharon nodded affirmatively. Jess glanced about. Leaving things unattended wasn’t a good idea in Baltimore. And this was a busy town. There was still a lot of activity and clatter, especially near the wharf, and it was spreading.
Two men had been rolling a huge barrel from the dock and they swung into an alley beside the store. A horse-drawn wagon with crates and small barrels followed.
Sharon was on the porch watching Jess gawk.
“That’s stuff the store ordered from Baltimore. The boat only comes once a week now and people are in town from all over. That’s why it’s so crowded. Other days you could take a nap in Main Street,” she giggled.
He turned from the circus-like hubbub and scaled two steps to the porch in front of the store. Handbills, ads and notices were pasted all over the walls and on glass windows. Double front doors were wide open, with screen doors flapping as busy people popped in and out.
Above the doors a sign proclaimed “Leesport General Store” in very large letters. Below, in smaller print, was “George Marsh, Proprietor and Postmaster.”
A couple of rocking chairs, benches and some straight-backed seats were scattered among small tables and barrels. A Beagle dog slept beside one chair that supported an older man who nodded when Jess saw him. Three other men were playing cards on the other side.
He glanced around again then focused on this new friend and relative. She was pointing further up the street.
“There’s more. Barber shop, baker, doctor, butcher, grist mill, planing mill, restaurant and pharmacy. A movie next to the pharmacy closed last year when the owner died. Further down there are houses, a couple of churches, school, another store and a garage up further, and a saw mill.
“And a few other places are across the creeks. Some of them used to be saloons but of course that’s not legal now. Men still go there - - probably for prayer meetings.”
She looked at him and winked. He didn’t laugh.
“Not Baltimore but we get by. It’s changing with the Depression. The hotel closed a few months ago. The sailmaker closed his shop but does on-site repairs.”
“It’s good of you to tell me all this.”
“Hey, you’re my little cousin from the Big City!”
She continued to smile, but more seriously. And she put a hand on his shoulder.
“It must be hard to put all you have in a bag, move where you’re never been and live with folks you never met. We want you to know you’re welcome, and feel at home.”
Warmth embraced him. Sharon lightened up, turned to one of the screen doors and held it for him.
“And here’s our great big fancy department store.”
He stepped inside and struggled to take it all in.
Shelves from floor to ceiling were on all sides with at least a bit of everything in the world. There were canned goods, hardware, hats, books, clocks, sodas, lamps, pencils. In front of most of the shelves were long counters, some with glass exposing displays of, again, everything - - candy, watches, compasses, even a few baked goods.
Many of the counters were recessed on the bottom making niches for barrels and crates of, again, everything. On his right was the checkout area with a cash register. The owner, George Marsh, was behind it tallying a customer. He was bald, hefty, and had a bushy mustache.
The adjacent section was the Post Office. Numbered locked compartments with tarnished brass doors were aligned in one section of wall. There was an outgoing mail chute, and a sign that said US Post Office.
Some floor space was open. Much of it contained a hodgepodge of free-standing shelves and displays. Racks and dress forms took up parts of it with coats, shirts, pants, overalls and other clothing. A tiered kiosk was covered with white watermen’s boots, farmers’ clogs, workmen’s shoes, socks and other footwear.
On the far side of the store fresh local produce was displayed, with a large bologna and ham and some bread loaves. A lady clerk was there, making a custom sandwich for someone Jess remembered seeing on the boat.
Yet more stuff hung from the beams! It included a few things for horses such as a collar, harness and reins. There were small farm and garden implements and fishing equipment, an oyster rake, a couple of crab pots.
Jess had never seen such a place! Some people browsed but most came in, found what they wanted, bought it and left. As Sharon had stated, it was a very busy day.
And in the middle of it all was a big, round pot belly stove, dirty and charred from years of use. Circling it were more chairs and small barrels used as tables. Five men sat in some of the chairs, drinking soda, smoking pipes, making jokes and chattering. Four of them flanked barrel-tables holding in-progress games of checkers.
The fifth man sat near the others in a rocking chair. On his barrel was an intricately carved and painted wooden chess set, the pieces arranged on a matching board.
August heat was intense in the crowded store and overwhelmed the electric fans. Despite that he wore long dark blue pants and a matching long sleeved button shirt. Other than small wet stains around his armpits he didn’t appear to be perspiring.
The slender man’s right leg was crossed over his left. An elderly gentleman, he had a full head of wavy white hair some three inches long and a trimmed two-inch white beard. High cheek bones, deep set blue eyes, and a narrow nose were framed by a weathered, tan face.
“Chess?” he asked the boy who had been eying him. He extended a hand invitingly toward the other chair.
“I don’t know how,” Jess confessed.
He nodded. “I hear that a lot. And I’ll offer you what I offer others. Come back when you have time and I’ll teach you.” He smiled, displaying teeth that were spaced a bit from each other.
“OK.”
And then Sharon came up next to him.
“We’re ready to go. Hi, Mr. Maddox. This is my cousin Jess.”
“Hello, Sharon. In for a visit, Jess?”
“No sir. We’re moving here, today.”
“Welcome to Leesport. And remember my offer.”
“Thank you, sir.” And the cousins rushed outside.
As they came out the front door Pop was loading salt they had purchased and a couple of other things into the wagon. Then they resumed their trek up Main.
“Who was the old guy?”
“Mr. Maddox. He’s there a lot. He loves to play chess but hardly anyone else knows how.”
“Does he live here, in Leesport?”
“He sure does. Daddy told us he grew up here but was in the Navy a long time. Then he worked for the Navy in Washington until his mother got Spanish Flu.”
Jess’s nose scrunched, his brow furrowed.
“I’ve heard of Spanish Flu - - I think.”
“Bad disease. It killed millions right after the Great War. Mr. Maddox lost his mother to it and, later, his wife.”
They talked about other things, including school when they passed it. Over a quarter mile later they came to a corner where she pointed to her left.
“Mr. Maddox lives at the end of that street, by the water. He grew up there.”
She raised her other arm and pointed just ahead and to the right.
“And our house is down that street. Daddy grew up there. We lived outside town until my grandpa died then we moved here to help grandma. She died two years ago.”
