Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

his voice was thick and guttered, which led me to believe at first, {?} {?} German, but his dialect was English. The word “bloody” appeared frequently in his harangue. He was short, heavy, & bent over; even in the dark I could see that his face was shaggy; and his eyes were sunken, and I had the feeling that daylight would show them to be blood-shot. He had gotten some whiskey at Steubenville, and for three days he didn’t know anything. He was now so nervous he couldn’t sit still. Every so often his talk was broken by seasons of low unintelligible mutterings, with vague allusions to “the damndest stuff”. At times, he pointed out all the brick works, giving them names {?}. Suddenly he asked if I was married how old I was; when I told him he wanted to know if I was married; and then he commenced to reminisce recall his memories of his “love” affairs. “I’ve had it all the ways there ever was thought of” he declared. Just now a passenger train came booming down the track; as the engine was opposite us the whistle shrieked; it penetrated our bodies; the ground vibrated with it – a glare of light coaches & it was gone, leaving us to the harsh black