A Bucket and a Nail

I heard about a simple man

    on my mother's family tree

A faded photo black and white

    proves the authenticity

He stands so tall in tattered clothes

    from his arm there hangs a pail

Inside it only emptiness

    and a solitary nail

    Every family has its weird characters and my step-great-uncle might be one of the weirdest. His first and middle names are Christopher Columbus, and with such an impressive designation, he really should have gone places in life, but unlike his presumed namesake, my ancestral Christopher Columbus came nowhere close to voyaging the ocean or discovering a new territory. This Columbus mostly hoofed it on foot.

    To further explain the lineage, my great-grandfather on my mother's side had two wives, not at the same time, but after his first wife died, he married again. His second wife gave birth to Columbus in 1887. Like children sometimes do, Columbus skirted around his parents' expectations of success. This fact is substantiated by the nickname he acquired later in life. Everyone called him "Bum." 

    Little has been revealed about Bum except that he was known to carry with him a couple of unusual objects. There is nothing wrong with that (we all poke peculiarities into our pockets and purses), but Bum was a bit more eccentric. He mysteriously toted a bucket with a nail inside it.

    As the story goes, the one told by my older brother, someone once asked Bum about the curious accompaniments and more specifically about the lone nail. He responded by saying it was so he could "get iron."

    Perhaps Columbus suffered from a touch of insanity, or perhaps not. In defense of his quirky behavior, I submit that we all have our idiosyncrasies, including attachments to inanimate objects. I once watched a movie where the main character became emotionally bound to a soccer ball he named Wilson. Granted he was stranded on a deserted island with no other humans in sight, but maybe Bum had no real friends either. Perhaps he found relationships too difficult to pursue and maintain. I imagine him roaming from place to place, toting his paltry possessions, ignoring the whispers behind his back, his only companions a bucket and a nail.

    Whatever the reasons for the strange sidekicks, I may never know any more about my ancestor beyond a photo taken long ago, in which a nomad in ragged clothes stands tall with a walking stick in one hand and a bucket in the crook of his arm, looking as though he is of noble descent instead of the hobo he turned out to be. He exudes confidence and pride, almost as though he is proud even of his attire. Truth be told, the man in the above picture hides a secret the rest of us will never know.

    Bum's wanderings ended in 1957 at age seventy. He is buried in the same North Carolina cemetery as my grandpa where mountain laurels grow and rolling hills grace the landscape. I do hope to travel there someday and tiptoe through the graveyard until I come across his tombstone. Then I will pay my respects. A man who marched to the beat of his own drum, or bucket, deserves at least that much.