Hobs

by Daniel G. Snethen

Hobs worked for little or nothing.
Content to sleep in the haymow.

with the nesting fowl

and a rat-tailed corpulent opossum.

All he required was hard work,

a hard day’s sweat

and a heaping plate of vittles.

When he milked the milch cows,
he'd pour some in a tin-pan
at the top of the wooden stairs

leading up to the haymow
and laughed at the opossum,

he'd named Ernie, pushing its toothy snout

between two old barn cats.

Once I actually caught Hobs

handfeeding that golden-eyed scourge

muskmelon from the garden.

And I thought they were strictly carnivorous.

Another time, I swear,

I found that crazy marsupial

snuggled up sleeping right next to Hobs.
They both had yellow eyes.

Mom never invited anyone in except relatives,

but she would let Hobs in the house to eat,

just like she did the dogs and her favorite cats.

I used to marvel at his xanthic stare

through the smoke of his William Penn
and wonder why his eyes were that color.

I asked mom why Hobs had amber eyes.

She'd just smile and say, "Does he?”
For some reason Mother liked him.

He cursed like the sailor he was,

took a pull now and then.
Stashed a bottle of barleycorn

in the calving shed. Dropped

the empties in the outhouse hole.

Mother was a religious

Scandinavian woman

and sheltered me from everything.

But not from Hobs.

Hobs worked hard.

He didn't cheat, steal, or lie.

Traits she admired.

He pulled pranks on Dad

which didn't amuse my father,
but they amused my mother

to no end and she would laugh

and laugh until she nearly got sick.

Hobs helped bury my father.

Built his coffin with Old World craftsmanship.
Stayed on, living in the haymow of the old barn.
Caring for the cats and a half dozen

opossums he'd adopted over the years.

One morning Mother found him dead,

a half-chewed-up cigar in his mouth

and his favorite pet dozing by his side.

The one with the amber eyes.

When we buried Hobs,

Ernie was there and alert.

I sensed understanding

in those lemon-drop eyes.

Through her tears,

Mother softly mumbled,

"Hobgoblins have yellow eyes.”

Daniel G. Snethen is an educator, naturalist, moviemaker, poet, and short story writer from South Dakota. He teaches on the Pine Ridge Reservation at Little Wound High School in the heart of Indian Country.