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The General

Penny Nolte

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A long time ago, Dad and his brother, who was the principal, found it hidden way under
the stage of our little school in upstate New York. They were scrounging around back there, no
doubt only because they could, and that’s when they hauled it out, this life-size bust of General, later to be President, Ulysses S. Grant.

It was solid plaster, with a separate, fluted, plaster pedestal found alongside. Styled much
like idealized representations of historical figures one might see in the Capitol Rotunda, I can
just imagine the brothers blinking, then saying in unison “Hey, that’s neat!”

The bust must have stood in a place of honor at one time, in one of the dozen or so semi-
circular alcoves dotted throughout the halls of the old building. The alcoves at that point were
empty and used only by kids who jumped out of them to scare their friends. So Dad brought it
home, carrying the general in through our back door like he was giving Grant the Heimlich. The
bust was heavy, and Dad was a little guy, but he managed to set it up on the pedestal, at the
bottom of the stairs.

Mom would have said something like, “Get that dirty old thing out of here.”

While Dad would protest, “Oh it’ll clean up just fine, you wait and see.”

And clean up, it did. First with soap and water, then with a brand-new coat of paint. The
General’s intense stare was restored to its former power. Further intensified by an eerie light cast from the neighboring firehall’s 24-hour spotlight that shone in on it. For little kids who during the night might feel the need for a sweet treat from the kitchen, the General’s severe apparition, glowing slightly at the bottom of the stairs, was a deterrent.

My brothers can still send me into hysterics sixty years later, miming their horror at
encountering the General during nocturnal wanderings. One is a history buff, too, and so it was a little surprising when he wanted nothing to do with Grant as we were breaking up our parents’ house in preparation for the sale.

Equally surprising was that his wife, who had not shown an interest in Grant before, did
want it and suggested they take him home to the mid-west. So, the bust was buckled safely into their Buick and I wonder what travelers parked next to them at traffic lights or passing on the interstate thought. Perhaps the General’s judgmental gaze reminded them to come to a complete stop, or to drive within the speed limit. I can’t help but wonder, too, what affect there was on the mood of both the driver and their human passenger, with this silent yet intimidating rider in back.

Now, General Ulysses S. Grant has a place of honor with his back to a front window on
my brother’s desk, watching over him as he works and providing shade from the afternoon sun.
Once a year, on the last day of October, Grant has another important job. He is turned to face
looking out the window. Where, with an eerie spotlight trained on him, he again casts a stern
gaze at little children. As they hesitantly approach the door seeking treats.

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Penny Nolte creates gentle narratives of family and place. After a long pause from storytelling her new work is found in The Avalon Literary Review, Macrame Literary Journal, Loud Coffee Press, and Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, among others. Originally from upstate New York, Penny now calls the Green Mountains of Vermont home.

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