"So you're Martha Washington?"

Facing me was a leathery skinned, deeply tanned woman, in her late 50's. Her gray hair sprouted out from under a soiled, tan colored, felt cowboy hat with rawhide laces, which was held loosely beneath her chin by a non-descriptive bead.

She wore a faded MacGregor dark red and white shirt tucked into her weathered Wrangler jeans. A large, brass belt buckle glittered in the morning sun as did her jangling spurs. Her knee length brown boots had seen many sunsets, the heels of which, boosted her height another two inches over her six foot stance. As she stared back at me she shifted a wad of (what I could only guess) tobacco from cheek to cheek.

"Watcha looking at, Sonny? Somethin' wrong with me?"

"Oh, no," I quickly replied. "It's just that...well, I had a different picture of what you looked like and you...your...outfit took me by surprise."

"Somethin' wrong with my outfit?" Martha shifted her head slightly as she spoke.

"Let me put it this way; with your name, Martha Washington, I had a totally different, mental picture of you. I imagined you looked...please don't misunderstand...it's nothing against you...it's just..."

Martha's face cracked into a smile. "It's jus' that you expected to see some frumpy, gray-haired lady in a frilly white blouse and a long, gray skirt wearing high-button shoes. Didn't you? Well..." With this she jabbed her finger into my chest hard enough to leave a bruise for a week, "guess I fooled you." She winked at me.

"Thank you for understanding and..."

She cut me off as if she hadn't finished speaking yet. "And I am the oldest one here." She spoke proudly. "Seniority, ya know!"

Martha waited for some response from me. I didn't know what to say, so I just nodded my head. She accepted it.

"Gotta get the younguns from school," she suddenly said. "You be here later?"

"Yes!" Of course. I came all this way to meet her. I'll be here. I returned to the motel, called and found out when she'd be through with her run. Later that afternoon I returned to the spot where we talked. Soon Martha shuffled over to me, took my arm as if she was in charge, and walked toward the sea.

We had taken the ocean path which wound through the trees behind the company buildings to the water's edge. Martha stood there quietly, her boots barely touching the lapping water, looking across the ocean wilderness. Sitka is the last of the Westerly islands off the south Alaskan coast, the area they call Inside Passage.

"I sure wish my wife could see this place. All these glaciers; mountains encircled by water, the cool greenness of the trees contrasting with the warmth of the sky. It's absolutely beautiful."

"Why didn't you bring her?"

"I wasn't sure where this place was or how long it would take me to get here. Besides my wife doesn't take to boats very well. The rolling and pitching makes her sick."

I waited for some remark from Martha but there was none.

After moments of quiet, I asked, "Do you have a husband at home?"

"Did once. We buried him some time back." She seemed to stare at a distant cloud formation where the ocean met the sky.

"Why?"

"'Cause he was dead! That's why!" She glanced sideways at me.

"Sorry. I meant why did he die."

"Dunno. Why does anyone die? Body wore out, I reckon..." She paused.

After a bit she began to hum in a deep, throaty voice. The tune was plaintive, one that I thought I'd heard before.

Very quietly she whispered in song, "...why Jesus, our Savior, did come for to die...". As she continued, wordlessly humming, she rocked from side to side shifting her weight slowly from one foot to the other and back again.

The humming stopped and she spoke again to the horizon, "We all came for to die, you know. Not jus' him. We began to die the moment we was born and we spend the rest of our lives doin' it. That's what we live for...to die. He jus' did it better'n any of us."

I reflected on the wisdom of what she'd said. This Martha was not the same one I'd met earlier that day. This was a side of Martha I'd never dreamed existed. But the shadows were deepening and I guessed even the Martha's of the world must reminisce from time to time.

"When did he die?" I asked gently.

She turned slowly to look at me. "You mean George?"

"Your husband. When did he die?"

"A - long - time - ago." She paused, eyebrows furrowed. "In 72... no, not 72... let me think... Yes, George died in 99. He lived his life to the fullest. He's a good..."

I interrupted her. "You mean 79 don't you or was he 99 when he died?"

"...man, my George was. A very good man."

She ignored my interruption or perhaps she didn't hear. No matter. "It's not that long ago," I said.

"Depends on who you ask. For anyone who can live 800 years or more," she caught my eyes briefly, "like a turtle or crocodile, it's not a long time. For anyone else it's a very long time."

"How long is it for you?" I heard myself ask.

Martha stared at me for some time before she turned and faced the sea. "Time...is...motion...frozen..." Her voice faded, as she was caught once again in her silent thoughts.

After awhile, I left her there at the ocean's edge. By the light from the auroras, I picked my way through the conifers to the dirt road which would take me to the highway and then back to my motel in town.

"You're a strange woman, Martha Washington," I thought to myself.

"Hi. Am I too early? Or are you the only one on duty now?" The mechanic I spoke to was easily in his 70's. He was rolling a large tire across the lot toward the garage when I spoke to him.

He continued rolling the tire while acknowledging my presence. "It's just me, Sonny. The others, they'll come in later."

"Why does everyone here call me Sonny. First Martha, now you. I do have a name."

"Everyone does. But when you get to be as old as me, I'm 82," he interjected, "everyone I meet is younger. So if I want to call you, Sonny, I will...Sonny." He smiled warmly. "You come to talk to Martha again?"

"Yes. By the way did Martha make it back here okay? I mean, she's here, isn't she." I had a vision of Martha still standing there, looking out over the mirrored waters and humming to herself.

"Yep, she's here. She's always here. She's down back hauling a motor out of a broken-down bus. She'll be by when she's finished. Will you wait or do you want to come back?"

"I'd prefer to wait. I thought Martha was a driver, not a mechanic."

"Martha is anything she wants to be. She wants to drive, she can drive; change a tire, fix an engine, wash windows, go fishing...anything's okay with us. After all, she's boss, right?"

"I don't know... Is it okay if I ask you a few questions?"

"If I can work while you talk, it's okay."

"Sure. How long have you known her?"

"Martha? Let's see..." He leaned back against the tool chest. "I can remember when Martha used to take me for ice cream with the rest of the children. I must've been ten, eleven years old, if I remember it right..."

"Wait a minute. Just a minute," I interrupted. "That's impossible! That can't be the same Martha we know. Why she'd be over a hundred and twenty years old if it was the same woman. I think your rememberer is out of kilter." As an afterthought, I added, "Perhaps it was her mother you remember?"

"Well, you know what the townspeople say about her," he said, his eyes twinkling, "that she IS Sitka. She has always been here. She will always be here. They tell you they remember her back when they were little children. That's what they'll say."

"Do you have any kids?" I asked.

"Yep, but they're all on the mainland now, somewhere and then. Why?"

"I had an idea." My mind was racing, trying to find a way to tie all this together in a logical manner. "You said that you had kids. If Martha is older than I've guessed and she, as you said, was a known presence in town, couldn't it be that you remember her from her association with your children when they were ten or eleven?"

"Well, yes, I suppose that could be..."

"And that would make her...let's see, you're 82, if you were married at 20, ten-eleven years later would make her..: Was she... did she look like this then, I mean, did she wear a similar outfit then, that she wears today? Is this making any sense to you at all?"

"Yes. Yes. And a little. Go on."

"So if she was, say 30, she'd look old to your children and to you she'd look...that won't work. Let me think... Okay, she'd have to be older than you were when your children were eleven. So say she was 40 when she knew your kids. That would make her...90? Martha's 90?"

"So you say. Or older."

"Or older. I hope when I'm 90 I'll be in as good a shape as Martha is today," I mused. You have time for a couple more questions?"

"Sure. But first, may I finish one statement."

"Of course."

"...but it isn't!"

"Huh?"

"Next question?"

"Oh... You said you're 82. This is part of the United States. Why didn't you have to retire? How come you're still working here?"

"I thought you were going to ask me questions about Martha, not me."

"I was just curious."

"Martha never follows the 'rules,' never has, probably never will. For her there is no forced retirement. Stay as long as you can do the job, is her slogan. You saw the other two mechanics yesterday. How old do you think they are? No spring chickens, I'll tell you."

"Three mechanics work here? Full time? For six school buses?"

"We had over sixty few years ago."

"Here? In Sitka? That's more buses than children. Why?"

"Besides Sitka we had 'em on Kake, Angoon, Petersburg too. Transported kids all over the islands."

"What happened?"

"Union came. I thought Martha told you about that. That's why you came here isn't it? To write about the Union disaster?"

"Yes, at first. But then I met Martha and, well..."

He nodded his head knowingly.

"Hey, Burt, who's the guy you talkin' to." Two mechanics in deep blue uniforms had entered through the side door.

"It's okay Spence. He's a friend of Martha's."

"Ohhhhh?" Spencer took a long look me, shook his head saying, "He don't look old enough to be friend to nobody, 'specially Martha."

"Hello. We talked a bit yesterday. Name's Reese. Don't mind old Spence. He's jest jealous."

The three of them laughed; old friends together.

"Burton, Spencer and Reese. Sounds like a firm of accountants, not mechanics." The three of them looked at each other quizzically. Spencer motioned toward me with his head. Reese shook his. Odd.

"Ya better not bring no harm to Martha. She'll git ya with her whip, that's what she will. Jus' like she did widda kid back a few, heh?"

"Aw, Spence, you know she never hit him."

"She shudda."

"What kid? What whip?" I asked. "You mean that 20 foot bull whip she has mounted up in front of her bus has been used? On children?" I asked, incredulously."

"Let me tell you about this one," Reese said. "Back a spell, when the government forced the Haida, Tsimshian and Tlingit Indians to send their children to school with the local and Russian children there was quite a stir. The Indians goaded their kids into causing trouble on the bus, trying to force the system to return to the old ways. Of course the system can't be changed. Not that way, at least."

"So, this one Indian boy, Rhaha I think his name was, got on the bus one morning, swaggered to the back, sat down and put a cheroot to his lips. Martha watched him in the mirror, waiting. Unless he tried to light the thing nothing could be done to stop him, you understand."

I nodded.

"After Martha picked up a few more kids, Rhaha tried. What followed, happened in less than two seconds. Rhaha brought the flaming match up to his cheroot (the bus was stopped). Martha grabbed the bull whip and sent it crackling down the aisle toward him. No one knew what was happening; it all went too fast. The leather thongs at the business end of the whip, wrapped themselves neatly around the cheroot, yanking it from the boy's lips in an instant. The unlit cheroot was safely discarded in the wastebasket. Martha, cool and unhurried, coiled the bullwhip, hung it where it belonged, and continued to pick up the remaining children. She never uttered a word."

"That must have been an awesome sight to see."

"It surely was. And funny thing too. To this day there's never been another incident on her bus. If there's any disturbance, all she has to do is to reach toward that famous whip. And the kids sure love her. Speaking of Martha, here she comes now."

~

"Martha" is about a woman who might be as young as 55 or as old as 550. The reader will have to decide. Although these chapters shown above are copyrighted, you, the reader, are prohibited from copying and/or publishing it as is, in part, or in electronic form without the written permission of the author. To obtain permission to use the story in whole or in part, please contact me and list your intended use and where I can reach you by phone.