"Mr. Joes Stick"

                  Mr. Joe’s Stick
                      By Ken Feeley
                          Chapter 1


         My name is Peter Alden Yule. And I was born in a small town in New England, and I thank the good Lord for that blessing. I have always felt that when a soul is to be born, its natural doorway to the earth should be in a small town. It could be a small town anywhere but it would be best if it were in New England.

         Now for all of my life I have heard jokes made about small towns, but most are from folks that just don’t know any better. When I am asked where my small town was and I tell them it was halfway out on the road to nowhere, it just gets worse, but that is the fact. The road starts at the state highway down by Mt. Monadanock, and runs north through our town and goes on for another ten miles or so, and then it just disappears from the face of the earth. It comes to an end in an old meadow. Before the beginning of the century, there was a logging camp at the end of the road, but logging had stopped, the town emptied out and a few years later the whole place burned to the ground. No one stayed on so in time the road was no longer used. If you travel north of our town on the old road you will pass some farms that are still being worked today, but after five or six miles, just past the Hawks’ place, the road just disappears.

         As a young man I used to walk the road to the far end to hunt. Way out past the ridge, you could find the occasional deer and once in a while a bear. I doubt if you could do that today. To most folks, the Hawk’s place is the end of the road. Before you get to it you’ll pass by Mrs. Ganz’s. She still keeps a few dairy cows up there, but she is almost eighty years old and living alone now. Her husband went off to fight in the first world war. He never came back. The Army never said that he was dead, all they would say was that they weren’t sure. Mrs. Ganz never gave up on him. She worked the farm alone at first, holding it together for his return. When she got to be fifty she asked the State for some help. Well, don’t you know, the State sent another woman to live with Mrs. Ganz and to help her out. They sent a woman, who as I understand it, had been in the poor house over by Concord. The woman had lost her husband, and after the depression had lost everything else. While in the poorhouse she kept getting into trouble with the other ladies living there. She was a big woman, as strong as any man, and very plain to look on. Well they sent her over to live with Mrs. Ganz, and it kind of worked out okay. The two of them kept near ninety cows for more than twenty years, and then just ten years ago that woman just up and disappeared herself. No one said much about it. No one ever thought it would last, her coming there the way she had, from the poorhouse and the State and all that.

         Before you get to Mrs. Ganz’s place you’ll go through the Slocum’s apple fields. When the second war started, folks couldn’t get parts for their tractors and such. When your machines broke down, you stopped farming. That’s what happened at the Slocum’s. They weren’t about to give up, so what they did was to plant all them apple trees. You don’t need a tractor to grow apples. There wasn’t much that you did need except in the fall when it was time to pick all them apples. That’s when the colored folks would come by. The same bunch would show up every year at about the same time. They came from down in the south somewhere, and they got around in old busted up trucks and an old bus, picking or planting depending on the season. They slept out in the barns and never caused a bit of trouble. I remember being over at the Slocum’s on a Sunday at the end of the picking, when all the colored folks were standing around at the back door of the Slocum’s house. Mrs Slocum brought out a dozen fresh baked apple pies and gave them all out. Now I think that those colored folks had had just about enough of apples, and I am sure they would rather have seen a pot of chicken, but not one of them would ever let on. They took those pies and ate every last bit. They thanked Mrs. Slocum over and over again, just so she would know how much they appreciated all the work that went into those pies. It made her feel real good.

         The schoolhouse is up the road too. It’s right over there on the hill. It started out as a chicken coop, but the folks in town bought it and set about to making it into a school. The whole town turned out to clean it out, and to put glass in the windows. New boards were cut to cover the walls, and the whole inside fresh painted. There was one large room for classes in the school, and every single kid in town got his learning right there. In the winter time it was so cold in that building that you kept your heavy coat on all day. In the summer when it grew hot, that building smelled something awful. We learned to just open a window, or when it was real bad, why we’d have our classes right out front there by the old elm trees. It was good times back then, but that was before the second war came along.

         Now our town seems a lot smaller. We still have a store. The Hoag’s own it and always have. They run the Post Office there. Across the way is Mr. Adam’s place. It is a drug store, with a soda fountain, and in the back Mr. Adams has an office. He has helped a lot of folks in this town. We don’t have a bank in town so when folks need help they just go by and visit Mr. Adams in his office. That old building over there is Billy’s Garage. The name on the old tin sign says so. It’s kind of strange that no one has changed the name since Billy’s been dead for twenty years now. A few young fellows have come along and reopened the garage, and closed it again and now a local boy named Eddie is trying to make a go of it. Eddie was sent back from the war last year. He lost some toes, and a piece of his foot, so the Army sent him back home. The day he first came back, he stood out there in the middle of the road and shouted out that he had been all the way across the Atlantic Ocean in a Navy ship that was bigger than this whole town. I think that he was telling the truth. Eddie was glad to be back. He had seen big cities here and in Europe, and he had seen war, and he swore out loud that he never wanted to see either one ever again. He was proud of his town and everyone knew that he would do good opening up Billy’s garage. A lot of folks who owned cars or trucks had stopped using them during the war, because there were no parts for them. Now things were getting better. Folks would bring their cars into Eddie and if he couldn’t find a part, well he would just tinker around a bit and make one. When Eddie opened the garage, he put a couple of big old chairs out front for people to sit in while they waited. That’s where Mr. Joe sat. All the time, day after day, from first light to last, Mr. Joe would sit out in front of the garage. It’s a good thing he did too, which is what brings me to tell you this story.

         

                          Mr. Joe’s Stick
                              Chapter 2

         For as many years as I can remember, Mr. Joe had been a part of our town. He always looked the same to me. He was tall, with thick white hair, and big hands that were twisted and gnarled like the roots of a tree. He always wore the same hi-bib overalls and coarse wool shirt with the torn collar.  He used to own a big farm that ran along the riverbank just south of town, but years ago the railroad wanted to put tracks on it. Mr. Joe wanted no part of tracks on his place, and he would not sell them the right-of-way. The railroad persisted, so what he did was to sell them the whole dang farm. After they agreed to buy it he told them to keep all the money, and just send him a check every month for as long as he lived, and he would continue to live on the farm. They agreed to it and I figured Mr. Joe got the best of the bargain, because he is just about as old as air itself, and he still gets a check every month from those folks. He walks over to the post office around the first of each month, gets his check, then walks over to Mr. Adams place to cash it. He stops to have a dish of ice cream at the soda fountain, and then leaves. People do wonder what he does with all that money, since the only thing he buys is that ice cream. He still lives in the old farm house, by agreement with the railroad. When he dies they will tear it down. Well, Mr. Joe gets his money, has his ice cream and then walks around town. He knows everyone and stops to talk with anyone who will listen. After a bit, he goes over to the chairs out in front of the garage and sits for the rest of the day. Other old timers will go by and sit and talk a spell, even some of the women of town. When no one else is sitting with him Mr. Joe takes out his pocket knife and whittles on bits of wood that he carries with him in his pockets. When we were very young, we could see Mr. Joe from the schoolhouse windows. It never occurred to us that Mr. Joe could or should do anything else. He was always there, always the same.

         Now I first gave notice to Mr. Joe when I was about fourteen years old. It was in the fall, and my aunt who lived with us came down real sick. She was my mother's sister, and mother took real good care of her. My aunt was moved into the front room, so that mother could keep a close watch on her. The fever did terrible things to my aunt and at night she would just lay there in the front room all heated up from the inside and scream and moan and carry on something fierce. We were not allowed to go in or to go near her. The doctor from the next town had been by twice and left some medicine. It didn’t seem to be working too well. Finally, on the fifth day the doctor came by again. It was late evening when he arrived. This time we were all called together in the kitchen and he told us that auntie was too sick to get well and that she would be leaving us soon. He left the house, and right away my mother sent my father out in the middle of the night to fetch Mr. Joe. It really did not make any sense to me at all. The clock in mothers room had already rung three times when my father and Mr. Joe returned. They went into the front room where my aunt was and closed the doors behind them. I could hear the voices, but could not tell what was said. By sunrise the doors where thrown open, and the windows and everyone came out of the room including my aunt. She saw me sitting on the stairs, trying to see what was going on. “What’s the matter with you” she said. “Haven’t you seen your old auntie get up for breakfast before”. Now I swear to you that from that day on she was never sick again a single day in her life.
         
         A few days later I asked my father why he had gone for Mr. Joe. His answer was always the same when it came to such questions, “go and ask your mother”. I did that later in the day, and my mother looked at me and told me that someday I would be old enough to understand. “Some things just are”, she said and “you don’t question them”. “When you are older, you’ll understand Peter, yes one day”. My fascination toward Mr. Joe had been born. From then on I kept a close eye on Mr. Joe. From the windows of the classroom I would watch, and when school was let out I would always find a way to go over and talk with him.

         As I sat next to him on a Saturday morning almost a year later, I asked him why he never whittled on the twisted piece of wood that stuck out from his overall pocket. He was a bit surprised that I had even noticed this odd bit of wood, this simple twisted stick. He took it from his pocket, and gently rubbed it. The wood stick was smooth and almost shined at his touch. It twisted in two directions somewhat like a small snake, and at one end a small piece of bark was still visible. I had never seen a piece of wood like that. “What kind of wood is it Mr. Joe,” I asked. “Don’t know for sure boy” was his answer. “Where does it come from” says me. “Don’t know that either” was his reply. He then looked me over in a most peculiar way, like maybe I had bugs on me or something worse, and then he handed the stick over to me. Well, I took that stick gingerly between my fingers and looked it over real good. It almost seemed to change color when I looked real close at it. It had a warm feeling, and a strange smell to it almost like a spice. Deep in the grains of the wood were bits of color, some yellow some red, and around the top or end of the stick was a gray haze. I wiped it away, but it returned in a minute or less. I handed the stick, Mr. Joe’s stick, back to him and he placed it back into his safe pocket.


                                       
                              Mr. Joe’s Stick
                                  Chapter 3

         There had never been any mystery surrounding Mr. Joe. He was well respected. Kind and well spoken of. He minded his own business and was always ready to lend a hand. That stick of wood, that twisted curled bit of a tree or shrub or root, well, that was a different story. Why would a man as plain and simple as Mr. Joe take to carrying that odd piece with him at all, if he never planned to carve it? I could see from the way that he handled the stick that it was a thing of value to Mr. Joe. It was odd that I had never noticed it before. But I noticed it now and it was indeed a thing of great mystery to me.

         I was sitting next to Mr. Joe one afternoon several days later, when old Mr. Hawks came by. “Afternoon Joe” he said. “Afternoon to you Amos” he replied. “Joe, my legs been acting up again, real bad.” Both men looked toward me still seated next to Joe. Mr. Joe, without hesitation took the stick from his pocket. He poked and prodded a bit at Mr. Hawks left leg and knee. “It was that leg wasn’t it Amos” asked Joe. “Well now you know, I think it was, but it sure don’t hurt none now”. “Shouldn’t bother you again Amos” Mr. Joe said. “Much obliged to you Joe” and with a handshake and a pat on the back, Mr. Hawks walked away.

         “Mr. Joe, does that old stick of yours help folks?” I asked. “Some folks say so boy, some folks say” was his answer. “Well how does it work, I mean what makes it happen.” “Can’t tell boy, just can’t tell” was  his only reply.

         I caught up with young Bill Hawks later that evening and asked him how his fathers leg was doing. “His leg’s just fine now, hasn’t been better since he stopped by to see Mr. Joe” said Bill. “Bill, just what do you know about that old twisted stick that Mr. Joe has” I asked of him. “Boy, you’ve lived in this town all your life and you don’t know about Mr. Joes stick.” “Why you must be just plain dumb or something. Why everyone knows about Mr. Joes stick”.  “Well I know about it, because Mr. Joe let me touch it once I said”. “Peter Yule, you’re a liar, plain and simple”. “Mr. Joe has never let anyone touch that stick ever.” “It’s not a lie, it’s true”. I said. “Show me your hand, the hand that you touched that stick with.” I held out my hand to show my friend. He looked at my hand, and still would not believe that I had touched that stick. “I think that your making it up”, said Bill. “Anyone who has any brains knows that Mr. Joe is the only person in the whole entire world that can touch that stick. Just like his father, and his grandfather before him.” “It’s been that way in Mr. Joes family forever,” insisted Bill. “Tell me about the stick”, I pleaded.

          What he told me was that way back, before the Civil War, a black slave from down in Mississippi, fresh out of Africa and running north on the old Slave Railway with some other blacks, had asked Mr. Joes grand pa for help. They were being hunted and chased and were real troubled. Well of course the old feller helped them, gave them food and a nights rest, and in the morning, one of those black boys dug that stick out of his pack. Right out of his only possessions, he took that stick and handed it over to the old man. He had carried that stick with him all the way from Africa, where it had been given to him by a witch doctor or something. “Now your having fun with me” I insisted, “aint no such thing as a witch doctors stick.” “Well boy you sure are just plain dumb. I tell you what I know about that stick, and you don’t believe me. "You just ask anyone, go ahead, just ask” he said.

         Well I had already been accused of being a liar, and of being dumb, so I just kept the story to myself. It wasn’t more than a week or two later however that something happened that brought more mystery to the stick. I was sitting next to Mr. Joe around noon time out in front of the garage. Eddy was inside working on one of the old cars. He had been pounding on it all morning and working real hard to put a new spring in the front end. He had propped that old car up onto an old milk crate, to get some room under it so he could work. While we were sitting there we heard a large crash and Eddy yelling and screaming real bad. The car had fallen off of the crate and pinned Eddy under it. His hand was caught up in the spring, and he could not feel his fingers. Mr. Joe being big and strong, grabbed hold of the front end of the car and just lifted it with all his strength straight up. When he had leaned over to lift the car, the stick fell from his pocket, and landed under the car. “Quick boy, pull Eddy out of there,” he snapped to me. “Grab hold of his legs and pull him out now”. I grabbed and pulled and I could see Mr. Joe straining to hold the car up. In just a second or two I had Eddy out from under the car. Mr. Joe seeing that he was free, let the car drop down. It landed on the stick, and broke it clean in two. I saw two pieces on the floor next to Mr. Joe’s feet. Eddy was still screaming, and in a real bad way. His hand was crushed and blood was spurting out onto the floor. “Boy. Go and get us some help” said Mr. Joe. I ran from the garage and straight over to Mr. Adams at the drug store. Soon there were three or four men carrying Eddy out and pushing him into the back of Mr. Adams car for a ride over to the doctors in the next town. “Joe look at his hand” said Mr. Adams. Joe ran back into the garage and picked up the pieces of the stick. He came out and put one piece into Eddy’s hand and curled his fingers around it and then wrapped it in his handkerchief. Eddy stopped his screaming and smiled up at Mr. Joe as the car drove away.

         I had seen all this happen, and I ran home to tell about it. I relayed the whole story to my mother, even telling her about the stick. When I told her that Mr. Joe’s stick, from the witch doctor in Africa was broken, she stopped me cold. “Mr. Joe’s stick from where?” she asked. “Why where on earth did you ever get a crazy story like that,” she wanted to know.  When I told her that Bill Hawks had been the source, she said that them Hawks boys never got anything straight in there lives. “That old stick is special all right” she went on.

          She told me that years ago a lightning storm crossed over our town and did a lot of damage as it swept through. Mr. Joe had been down by the rivers  edge when he saw the lightning strike down. It hit the old lilac bush that grew behind his mothers grave, just a few yards from where he was standing. “That bush just flew apart” she said, and when Mr. Joe went over to have a look, he saw a hole in the ground clear down to the middle of the earth itself. The only thing that was left of that bush was a burned and twisted piece of the root itself. Mr. Joe, picked up that piece and swept the dirt away from it and swore that he could still feel the power of God Almighty still in that stick. He has had that stick ever since. “A lot of people believe in the powers of that stick” she said, so you just better go and tell Bill Hawks the truth of it all.

         The next day I went by Mr. Adams place to see how Eddy was doing. “I was afraid that he might loose his fingers” I said, which didn’t seem to good since he had already lost his toes in the war. “Don’t you worry none about it” said Mr. Adams, “Mr. Joe took good care of Eddy’s fingers and he’ll be just fine”. Well sure enough, before the week was out Eddy was back in the garage at work. His ribs were all taped up from where the car had fallen on him, and his face was scratched from the bottom of it, but his hand, well let me tell you, aside from some fresh black grease on it, his hand was just fine. Not even a cut on it.

         Mr. Joe walked in and with a nod toward me, he said “thank that boy Eddy, he’s the one that pulled you out”. Then Mr. Joe took the stick, that mysterious twisted smooth stick out of his pocket and slowly rubbed his fingers over it. That stick, as shining as ever, now more puzzling than before, was whole again, just like it had always been. I had seen the stick in two pieces on the floor of the garage, and seen Mr. Joe press one piece into Eddy’s bloody hand, and yet there it was as whole and solid and as mysterious as ever. Mr. Joe smiled, winked at me and slipped it back into his pocket.

         
                                Mr. Joe’s Stick
                                    Chapter 4

         I left the garage, and walked out of town toward the Hawks place, determined to set young Bill straight about the stick, and to tell him what I knew about the stick and all that I had seen and learned. As I was passing by the Ganz place, Mrs. Ganz shouted out for me to stop for a bit to chat with her. It seemed neighborly, and only proper that I do so, since she also offered iced tea on the porch. She had heard about the accident at the garage and wanted to know “all” about it. Well I told her the whole story, including what I had learned about Mr. Joe’s stick. “My word” she said, “doesn’t anyone around here have more sense than all that. A stick from Africa, lightning, what pure nonsense, what will it be next”. Now I could tell that Mrs. Ganz knew more about the stick than I did, and she did not need any encouragement to spill out the whole story, the “real” story  as she put it, to me.

         By her account, a few years back when there were a lot more folks living around this town,  every year on the Fourth of July, a traveling show would come to town. It was only a small show, with the usual games of chance like ring toss and ball throwing and such. It had ponies for the youngsters to ride on, and small animals for petting. It had a small tent that housed entertainers who would do acrobatic feats of daring and a wire walker. It had a side show of oddities and a few other enjoyments for folks. It was all quite nice as she recalled it. The folks would come from everywhere just to spend the day with neighbors and to have some fun. “At night the men folk would get together with the show people for drinking and story telling, “mostly lies” and to play cards” she said. Well the way she told it one of those show people, who claimed to be a magician, lost a lot of money in that game. He did not have enough to pay what he owed, so he put his stick, his magic stick into the pot. Everyone laughed at him everyone except Mr. Joe. He allowed as how that stick was important to the man, that he would personally accept it against the bets. Well the man lost and Mr. Joe won and he has had that stick ever since. “Now that young Peter is the fact of Mr. Joe’s stick and don’t let anyone tell you different. Mr. Joe takes that stick with him everywhere, all the time and no one else can handle it. Consider yourself lucky, or cursed, if you have indeed been touching that stick. Mark my words now, time will tell about such things.” she said in conclusion.

         Now I had three stories about the stick, and each one had been told to me by plain folks who believed them to be Gospel true. They didn’t make up the stories, in fact they didn’t even know where they came from, they just knew them, and believed in them and that was that. There did not appear to be any reason for me to go on further that day. I had much to ponder and the mystery was not getting any lighter for sure. Perhaps Mrs. Ganz was right, perhaps time would tell, and only time.

                        Mr. Joes Stick
                                Chapter 5

         Summer went by, and another school year and life was all quite good in our small town. My season of mystery regarding the stick, had all moved to the back recesses of my mind. I had aged another year and when summer came again, the town was filled with excitement when a visiting preacher arrived in town and announced that he was going to build a church, right here in Oxnard Bow. Lord knows we needed a church just like every other town. It was Mr. Adams who was behind getting the church built. He had gotten everyone in town to support the project, and had even given a piece of land to build it on.

         Now it just so happened that I was in town on a fine and sunny afternoon, when Mr. Joe called out to me. “Boy” he said. “Boy, grab a shovel from the garage and come with me.” “Mr. Joe, I’m older now, and my real name is Peter. Could you please call me that instead of “boy” all the time”. “Well, I suppose, Peter it is then. You just bring that shovel now and give me a hand, and I will call you Peter”. I had no idea what Mr. Joe wanted done, but together we walked up the road to where the school was. Across from the school, was the land that Mr. Adams had given for the church. We stopped and Mr. Joe sat up on the old stone wall in front of the land. “Boy, Peter that is” he said correcting himself, if we are going to build a church here we had best find some water or folks will be awful thirsty whilst talking to God”. “How are we going to do that” I asked. “Well in fact, Peter my young friend, we are not going to do it, you are” he said. Me, how on earth did he think I was going to find water? Did he think I was going to take that shovel and dig holes all day in a search for water. That would be just silly I thought. “Peter, come over here and take this stick.” He pulled the stick, that same twisted strange stick from his overalls pocket and handed it to me. “Take this stick, and hold on to it real good just by that end right there” he said. “What do I do with the stick” I asked. “Well you just walk out there in the field. Keep the stick straight out in front of you. Don’t point it down” he said. Well I felt kind of strange myself, walking around in the field pointing that stick out in front of me, when all of a sudden the stick bent down. “What are you doing boy” snapped Mr. Joe. “I told you to keep the stick straight and not to point it down.” “I’m not pointing it down Mr. Joe, it just did it all by itself” I shouted back to him. Mr. Joe grinned and his face lit up with excitement and he told me to make an “X” on the ground with my shoe. He walked over and handed me the shovel. “Dig me a hole, clean and deep, right here where you made your mark” he said. “How big a hole” Mr. Joe. “Just dig” he replied.

          I started to think to myself that Mr. Joe was beginning to slip a little, like maybe he had sat out in the sun a tad to long. I drove that shovel down, started to dig and then it happened. Water started to fill the hole. There was no stopping it. It was clear water, and it just bubbled, percolated, right up to the surface. Joe smiled, and said “well, well, well, would you look at that. It looks like folks won’t go thirsty at this church. Just think of it Peter, You have found water, the spring of life, my oh my oh my.” “How did you know Mr. Joe, how did you know” I asked. “Not me Peter, you’re the one who found it just like I knew you would, Yes you’re the one all right”. “It was the stick, wasn’t it” I asked. “Aint nothing to tell” he said as he reached into his pocket again, “nothing to tell. Here take this” he said as he handed me back the stick. “Seems to me you’ve grown curious enough about it, so why don’t you hold on to it for me.” I was dumbfounded. I had no words to say as we walked back to town. Mr. Joe went over to the garage to sit some more in the big chair, and I put the shovel back into the garage. I held the stick in my hand all the way home, rubbing it and touching it and wondering just what it was.

         Later that evening, sitting out in front of our house on the porch with my mother and father and auntie, I told them what had happened. “It’s a gift,” said my mother, “and Mr. Joe has never been wrong when it comes to that stick. Your aunt can tell you that. If it weren’t for Mr. Joes stick why she’d have been gone a long time ago”. Auntie spoke out saying much the same, “It is a true gift, Mr. Joe having none of his own to give it to, has picked you and tested you and found you to be the one. You must never loose that gift”. My father rang in saying only that “in time Peter you will fully know how important that gift can be, in time like your mother told you before, you will understand this gift. You will soon know when that time is, but you hear what auntie has said, don’t ever loose it.”

         The next morning at sunrise, the preacher was at our door. My father came into my room to get me. Mr. Joe had died during the night. My eyes filled with tears as I hurried to dress and to go with the preacher and my father to Mr. Adams house. Mr. Joe lay there in the parlor looking calm and at peace and resting in deep sleep. The preacher spoke up and turned to me saying, “Peter, before he died Mr. Joe told us he had given you his stick. He said that you were the only one to have it.” I interrupted him and offered to give him the stick. “No Peter, you have been chosen, by something far more powerful than any one here can explain. You are now the one, you have Mr. Joe’s gift and that was his decision. Never, never give the stick away, and never give up on it, it was never intended for ordinary men, no not ever” he said. I found my voice and arose to my feet and asked “PLEASE” I pleaded with the room now full of men and women twice or three times my age, will some one please tell me the truth about this stick, I have to know”
“Come Peter, come and walk with me” was the response from the preacher. He opened the door to a new day and together we walked into sunlight just beginning to fill the town with life.

         “Peter, you know by now that there are many stories in this town about that stick. I have heard I think most of them at one time or another, but there is behind each of them some truth.  I believe that I, being in the position I am in, know the truth and I will share it with you. Mind you, I have no proof, just faith when I tell you that when the Pilgrim Fathers who founded this country came upon it’s shore, they brought with them the most treasured most valued of all of their possessions. Some of those items had been brought from ancient churches in the old countries, and I have been led to believe that that stick was among such relics as may have had its origin a long time ago. According to my understanding the earliest church had sent crusaders into the holy land in search of truth and a few relics of the past, and on their return from one such trip they brought back that stick, to a church in England. A lot of people who claimed to know of such items will swear that that stick is nothing less than a part of the staff with which Moses parted the mighty waters in his flight from Egypt to free his people. You can read all about it in the Good Book. As for me Peter, I just don’t know what to believe when it comes to that stick. What I do know and can be comfortable with is this, mortal man often times needs something that he can touch a focal point if you will for his faith. Man has faith, and in some religions even large and popular ones it may be beads or for some a stone or whatever. For Mr. Joe, and a lot of good and honest and believing folks this stick, why it is nothing more than a focal point for ones own faith in God. The stronger you believe, the more focused you are on him, why there is just no limit to what a strong believing man can do. If that stick has any powers at all, they come from the believer and not from the stick. Use the stick Peter to sharpen your faith, and trust always in your faith to do what is right. That is the story the real story of Mr. Joes stick, and you know, I happen to think Mr. Joe was right, and you my boy you are the one.”

         Now I had Mr. Joes stick, and was it a curse or a blessing I shall never know. I have used it many times for the goodness that Mr. Joe intended it, I have repeated in faith some of the things that he asked of it, I have even found a few more wells, and some day like Joe, I shall have to pass the stick on to another, and I hope that when I do it will be with all the wisdom that Mr. Joe has given me and with all the power of God who made this stick for whatever purpose it may serve.