mr. newhard's stone

7/30/2019 Mr. Newhard's Stone

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Mr. Newhards Stone by Karen Maurer

Mr. Newhart was there the day we moved into our new house - in the small whitefarmhouse at the bottom of the drive. And Mr. Newhart was old, even back then. So old

that he was born in that farmhouse and so old that the land my parents now owned -and most of our neighbors land, too - had once belonged to him.

He was old in a shrunken way. The hat on his head slid down and only his blackrimmed glasses kept them from covering his face.

He didnt smile much. I bet it was because he didnt have many teeth left. He talked tous kids in grunts and hollers, Hey Na, git ott of the shed, na.

But he didnt holler much.

He sat on the rocker on his stone front porch in the shade of the pine trees thatseparated him from the road and the park - a park that was built in 1932 by the WPA .Even back then Mr. Newhart must have been old.

We took him cookies around Christmas. He did not even have a sofa. All his lamps hadflames like candles. His only downstairs room had bare wood floors, bare kitchenchairs and a table covered by yellowing oil cloth - no TV, just an old fashioned recordplayer, the kind with a crank - and a big old stove.

He got his water from a pump by the side of the house - a pump we loved to play with inthe summer. And he had an outhouse.

One summer night, while catching lightning bugs, I raced past his front porch. He wassitting there in the dark, rocking. Startled, I skidded to a stop. Hi, Mr. Newhart, I said.He just raised his hand so I ran away.

We coexisted, Mr. Newhart and us kids.

One Spring, he started walking up the driveway to the house with empty buckets. Hesaid he was there to feed the pigs.

Mom told him that she was taking care of feeding the pigs now. Us kids did not

appreciate the joke.

Then Mr. Newhart was gone. Its funny how someone who has been there day in andday out for most of your life can just leave like that. We hardly even noticed.

But when we walked home from school in the late afternoon, there were no lights in thelittle white house anymore.



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Mr. Newhart died. Well, my big brother couldnt let that go.

Mr. Newharts house became The Dead Mans House. He dared our cousins to runthrough the breezeway between Mr. Newharts house and the storage shed. Eric calledthe breezeway, Dead Mans Alley.

When we played Hide and Seek whoever was It had to stand on the Dead Man s Porchand lean against the porch post to count.

But that wasnt torture enough for Eric. Soon he had us leaning against the Dead MansFront Door when we were It.

He threatened to tell our school friends about all our embarrassing little secrets - that Istill slept with my teddy bear; that Christine wanted to be a nun; that Heidi sucked herfingers...unless we knocked on Mr. Newharts door and call out, Dead Man, Dead Manare you inside?

I sometimes added in a low voice, Sorry Mr. Newhart. My brothers a dope.

The stone was there one day, when we came home from school. I saw it first.

Eric, Chrissy, I shouted. Heidi, look.

It was sunk into the ground, about three feet long and maybe a foot and a half wide, swith a smooth and shiny top. Now, I know it must have been granite. Then I onlyworried about the words on it.

Charles E. Newhardt it read. And underneath in quotation marks was the wordShaddy.In smaller script it read, Born here, lived here, died here.

He died here, Eric breathed. In that house. We turned to look at the little whitehouse with its black blank windows and the sagging screen door. A breeze moved thedoor on its hinge. Christine bolted up the hill with Heidi close behind and I was on myway.

Eric gasped as he ran. I wonder how long he was dead before they found him in there.

I ran faster.

I wonder who found him, Eric demanded. Was it Mom, or Dad?

Mom, I shouted as I slammed inside. Did Mr. Newhart die in his house?

Mom laughed and assured me that Mr. Newhart died in a nursing home.



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So why does the stone say he died here?

I never got an answer. Someone probably shoved something - or someone - off thepiano right then. Later, my Dad mumbled something about poetic license. My brother

just grinned at me.

Its set in stone, he told me that night after prayers. Born here, Lived here, Diedhere.

My brother was not the obsessive kind unless he found something that got under one ofhis younger sisters skin.

Every day on the way home from school, as soon as he came around the curve in thepark road and could see that empty house, Eric would ask, How long was he dead, doyou think?

Christine loved this. She has a ghoulish streak. Was he rotting, yet?

And those two would have fun describing various stages of decomposition. Heidi and Ilagged behind collecting chestnuts and Fall leaves.

Whoever doesnt jump over the stone is a diaper baby, Eric called and off he ran tojump over the stone.

The worst day of the week was piano lesson day. On piano lesson days, Eric and Iwalked home later and alone. As the days grew shorter, the few street lights werealready on in the park. The sun sat on the horizon and the park road was lost in

shadow. Eric didnt talk about the stone until we hit the driveway. I think the lateness of

the afternoon scared him a little, too.

But one piano lesson day he shouted out. Whoever wont step on the Dead MansGrave is a diaper baby.

So, now the stone wasnt just a stone anymore? It was Mr. Newharts grave? Well, Icouldnt bear being called a diaper baby so I raced behind him and reached the stone asecond after he did and scuffed it with my toe.

That doesnt count.

Does, too.

You Sissy!

Youre a sissy, I screamed. Stand on the stone if youre so brave.



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Ill do better, Eric said and, after a deep breath, he jumped on the stone. I retreated tothe porch of the little white house.

Eric did a tap dance singing, Dead Mans grave, you cant scare me! to the tune ofCamptown Races and then he spit on the stone. He. Spit. On. The. Stone.

He jumped off and swaggered past me on the porch.

Beat that, Diaper Baby.

I.....I...I couldnt breathe. That stone. That stone. It slowly revolved in place. And asEric walked past the front porch, that stone followed him.

Eric, I squeaked. The world spun. I clung to the porch post as the stone made itsway past the little white house and started up the hill.

I took a deep breath.

Eric, I screamed. Turn around.

Eric paused on the hill, his head and shoulders slumped in annoyance and that stone...that stone slid silently closer and closer.

Eric turned, a smirk on his face and the stone just kept coming.

My brothers face turned white and every freckle stood out in the fading light.

Run, I screamed. Run. The scream tore out of my throat and I slumped as Ericturned and ran.

Not to the house, I yelled. Not Mom. Not the babies.

Eric raced down the hill again. Maybe he thought he could lead the stone back intoplace. He ran around the house two times, gasping, Im sorry. It was a joke. Honest.A joke.

And the stone just slid behind him - without a sound - getting a little bit closer and a littlebit closer.

My brother was tiring. The stone would win.

The creek!, I yelled. Head for the creek.

And Eric did. He made a right turn, ran across the park road, leaped over the thickchain links that hung there and raced for the creek.



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The stone sped up. As it crossed the macadam, it pushed rubble ahead of it but it leftno mark behind. It slid effortlessly under the chain, across the grass. Just as my brother

jumped off the creek bank, the stone slid underneath his feet.

YEOW!!!!!

My brother howled and he threw himself into the water almost two thirds across thecreek.

The stone hung in the air for a full second and then dropped into the water. It did noteven make a splash.

My Dad was already home when we tumbled in, me in wet pants - yeah I was thatscared - and Eric soaked to the skin.

Our story made no sense so Dad ran down the hill to find that the stone was, indeed,

gone and something about its size was in the creek.

Vandalism! he shouted. He had his belt off and Eric and I both got a spanking thatday. AND we were sent to our rooms without supper. AND we were forbidden to doanything after school for the entire month. Halloween might be taken from us, too.

A couple of days later, Dad had two of his strongest workers pull that stone out of thecreek and return it to the Newhart family. Dads men swore that no puny 11 year old girland 13 year old boy could have moved that stone especially without leaving any mess.Dad apologized to us. But he always believed we knew how the stone got into thewater.

We did.

We did.

The little white house is gone. Some teenagers set it on fire and Dad pulled it down.My Dad had his guys build a tennis court one Spring when business was slow. Onecorner sits right where that stone was planted.

In the Fall, I remember that stone and I wonder. Where is it now?

Mr. Newharts Stone.


mr. newhard's stone

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