by Ed Helenski
Around the Corner Wednesday, September 20
I was walking home one night this past week, after having dinner with Bobby Schwartz, and I stopped to look at this town of ours. It was a crisp clear fall night, with the scent of leaves in the air, and those brilliant stars that seem the exclusive property of autumn nights out in the country. I looked down on the town, seeing the hundreds of warm, lit windows, knowing inside each a family was going about its business, unaware of my speculations.
That is really at the heart of who we all are and what this town is. A whole lot of people going about their business. One of the things I noticed in my time at the Courant was that most stories were at their heart, trivial. They were the proverbial tempests in teapots. This neighborhood fighting a zoning change, that labor leader accusing that businessman of unfair actions, this group hating that group. And each story would be gone the next day, with no change, nothing different. It seemed as if people had so little to do they spent their time inventing things to get worked up about. When I would look out over Hartford I would see provincialism. People who couldn’t see past their neighborhoods, leaders who didn’t care what happened two towns over as long as their town prospered, children who joined gangs because they didn’t believe there was a world more than a dozen blocks from their home.
I find it interesting that here, in this small town, I find a more worldly view than I ever saw in the city. They are the provincials, believing themselves to be the center of the universe. Here, I see people who know they are not the center, but don’t concern themselves with who is. They go about their business, making lives for themselves and their children, helping those that need help, doing things one day, one person, one minute at a time.
I see Bobby Schwartz, who raises money for the volunteer fireman every year. He makes it his business to see his town is safe. I see Reggie Pickett, who views the job of Constable as watching out for us, for all of us, and so he makes it his business to work with PENN NET finding lost children. I see Doctor Tastler, who is here to take care of our sick, and who is making it his business to help us stay healthy by writing a small piece for this paper every week (look for the first one in the very next issue!). In short, I see hundreds of people going about their business, and their business is the world we live in.
You will notice we have another new addition to our staff. Meg Dunway has joined us to provide a youth perspective (she has asked me not to call it a Kid’s View and so I respect her wishes). This week she has written about her favorite teacher, who happens to be the one she has right now, Mr. Bertram Barker. You can read about James Buchanan’s Sixth Grade teacher in her column, but I want to add that every one of those teachers deserves a word of praise for their works. Mr. Barker teaches Sunday School and flies his planes out on Cleveland Street and has inspired many kids just like Meg, but he is not alone.
How many Generations of students has Anna Sorenson gotten through the rigors and terrors of first grade? She is 68 this year, and shows no signs of slowing down. It will be a sad day indeed when she puts down her chalk. I’ve already mentioned meeting Bettina Johnson, the second grade teacher. Fresh from school she brings her vitality and new ideas to the minds of our children. Mrs. Clarice Wyscome keeps our third graders on the right track, and has inspired countless birdwatchers with her rows and rows of purple martin houses. Jack Buckley, popular with his classes and throughout the town, makes fourth grade interesting and exciting for an age group often more interested in Nintendo than Newton. Mrs. Jackie Smith has what I am told is one of the most fun and delightful classrooms in the school and makes sure our fifth graders go on to Mr. Barker prepared and eager. Our local scientist, Shirley Robbins, brings her brilliance to the seventh grade, and has no doubt created the spark of a dozen Einsteins in our youth. And who could forget Malcolm (Mac the knife) Taylor who prepares our eighth graders for high school, and teaches the more adept to dance to a swing beat.
All of these teachers are going about their business every day, are at home at 9 o’clock at night grading papers, making assignments, in short, teaching. Many people say teachers have it easy, summers off. Well, to them I say, try it. They work harder and longer hours than anyone I know, the only reward they get is what they see as their students grow up. They are, after all, just going about their business.
Thomas Tharon.
Chapter 4
Last week’s paper could be considered a success, especially compared with my first issue. The items about the town’s teachers seemed to be more in line with what people are willing to accept from me at this point. While each of those teachers has a few enemies, in general the school is appreciated, and so I didn’t step on too many toes. I heard a few comments about how being buddies with the editor gets you in the paper, but that’s to be expected.
I had several meetings this week that I think are worth writing down. I met with the Reverend, with Reggie Pickett, and had a really interesting chat with Meg. Let me see how rusty my narrative skills are as I try and recreate each of them.
Reggie lives right near my father, so I stopped in there one evening after saying hi to Dad. My father was studiously avoiding any conversation about the paper, and for now I was willing to leave it at that. I still stung from the lashing he had already given me. Reggie is a constable, a kind of holdover from colonial times. Almost a law beyond the law if you will, not that anyone takes him too seriously.
I had called Reggie in the afternoon, and he had been about to leave to go to Siegly, but he suggested I stop by after dinner at his house. I don’t know what I expected, but when he opened the door I was surprised at what I saw. At six foot two inches and easily 240 pounds, big was an understatement when describing Constable Pickett. I could see why he had little difficulty in taking the odd drunk home and breaking up the occasional domestic woe. When he saw me his large, rugged face widened in a grin.
“You must be Tom Tharon. Pleased to meet you, sir, and that’s a fact” He was busy pumping my hand and simultaneously dragging me into what turned out to be his kitchen. He was dark haired with a pair of icy blue eyes that never left mine as he got me inside and kept up a stream of words. “I was so happy to hear you were coming to The Corners to start a paper. This town could use some civic minded people to lend a hand, that’s a fact.” He led me to a comfortable wooden chair, one of four around a circular table. The aroma of chili filled the air. “Would you like a beer, Tom? I’m having one myself, that chili is sure good if I do say so myself, but it puts a fire in my belly and that’s a fact”. I could see most everything was a fact to our good Constable.
“A beer would be great,” I replied, looking around the room. Clearly a bachelor, there was a coffee maker on the counter, a small stove, and a couple dishes in the strainer. Mini-blinds in the windows but no curtains. No decorations on the walls. It reminded me of my own home, but cleaner. “I wish everyone felt the way you did about the paper” I told him, and couldn’t resist adding, “and that’s a fact”.
Reggie laughed as he tossed me a can of Budweiser and his eyes smiled at me. “I can see you really are a wordsmith. You pick right up on people’s mannerisms, don’t you?” I looked a little embarrassed at being caught poking fun. “Observation is half of good investigative work. You ever think of changing jobs consider law enforcement.” I couldn’t tell if I was being ribbed or not.
“I hope we can both work together to do some good things around here, uh, Reggie” Taking a swig of the beer I continued, “Oh, that’s good. Hit’s the spot. I suspect you may have heard a thing or two about me from my Dad, seeing how you are neighbors.”
Reggie gave me an odd look and the smile around his eyes died. “Well sir, truth is I am not home all that much and Burley keeps to himself. So I would say you and I are starting off with clean slates, if you see what I mean. And I do think we could be of some help to each other in our respective tasks. Helping each other go about our business as you would say”. Now I felt paid back for my joke earlier.
“Bobby Schwartz was saying you wanted to get some sort of notice in the paper about PENN NET?”
“Well, that’s part of it, sure. I do try and keep our area current with the PENN NET system. Are you familiar with it?”
“Just that it has to do with missing children. Why don’t you tell me about it?” I took another pull on the Bud and settled back.
“Well, basically it is an internet based notice board. That way all the little local constables, police and sheriffs can post notices about missing kids, and sightings and pickups of any missing kids on an informal basis. We don’t have to wait till a missing persons report is official, or follow any of the little details, and it’s public that way. Parents can look for information that might not mean anything to an officer, but that tells them something. And it kind of bypasses all the jurisdiction issues and so on. There’s a section for law enforcement and a section for the public to post things, so we get all kinds of tips and info that might not get passed along otherwise. I help keep our area updated, and work a few nights a week keeping the database clean. Deleting outdated files and the like. It’s a big job and that’s a fact.”
“Sounds like a great idea though. So what exactly did you want to do in the paper?” I was surprised to discover I had finished my beer. Reggie got me another as he continued.
“Well, I do a little more on a local level, try and keep an eye on the kids that might be likely to take off, or maybe engage in high risk behavior. What I want to do is post the notices about the most recent missing kids from the area, and also put out some general guidelines for how to deal with kids that take off. You know, ounce of prevention sort of thing.” He belched loudly and laughed. “Guess the chili’s kickin’ in”.
I laughed and tried to work up a beer belch, but it paled beside Reggie’s efforts. “I think that you have a good idea there. When do you suppose we could get it going?” He walked out of the room for a minute and came back with a sheaf of papers.
“I printed these out for you. I figure you might look through them and think up a likely setup, you know, format for it. When you do that I can use it as a kind of template and make up a new one every week. How does that grab you?”
I took the papers from him. This guy was a whole lot more on the ball than seemed likely for a small town constable. “That grabs me just fine. Maybe you can do some little pieces now and then about safety, crime prevention, that sort of thing. You know, what to do when you go on vacation, safety during the holidays, that sort of thing.” Might as well get all I can in the way of free copy, I thought.
“Sure can. In fact the state sends us little flyers just like that every year and …” he paused and his eyes twinkled, “THAT’S a fact.” I couldn’t help but laugh. I took the papers he had given me and headed home. It looked like I had at least one ally in town.
I had decided (well been sort of nudged) that I could put off going to church no longer, so on Sunday morning I made my way to Squid Corners Non-Denominational Christian Church. The regional council of Protestant Churches ran some of these small town churches as a service to the rural community. Each one had a pastor, and they sent Lutheran, Methodist, Episcopal and Baptist ministers every couple months to do special services. The rest of the time the pastor did a sort of middle of the road service.
This week it was Reverend Doland who ran a brief and efficient service, which I imagine endeared him to most parishioners my age and annoyed the old folks. He was a young man, and his sermon was on the body as Temple of the Lord. There was a small choir, just like when I was a kid and though mostly composed of blue hairs including Anna Sorenson, there was one young woman who looked markedly out of place. She wore a pretty garish outfit for a Sunday Church Choir, with bangly earrings, long red fingernails, a shiny gold blouse under a little red jacket, and a red skirt that showed off a remarkable pair of legs. I was curious about whom she was, but it wasn’t till after the service that I found out.
As we filed out of the church the Reverend stood greeting us, and there by his side was this girl, who turned out to be his wife Yolanda. When I got to him I introduced myself.
“Enjoyed the service Reverend. I am Tom Tharon. I have been looking forward to meeting you.”
He shook my hand with a weak grip and smiled a car salesman’s smile. “Tom, Tom, I have been waiting for you to come. I was beginning to wonder if you were hiding from us. You simply must come to lunch with us today, I have so much to discuss with you.”
I hadn’t really expected to be kidnapped so quickly and said “Oh I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“No imposition at all, is it Yolanda?” he asked the girl. She shook her head and said no, looking me up and down in a very predatory way. “This is my wife, Tom. Now you see everything is settled, just let me finish things up here while Yolanda takes you to the house.” With that Yolanda took my arm and led me around the corner to the house where they lived on Squid Street. Her long nails tickled my arm in a tantalizing way, and every time I glanced over I found her smiling at me, the way a cat would smile at a mouse if it were possible for a cat to smile.
She settled me on the sofa and excused herself to go change. I sat stiffly in my jacket and tie, looking around at what appeared to be a San Francisco apartment rather than a reverend’s home. A wide screen TV and large stereo dominated the room, and on the walls were a variety of art photos, including a number of rather psychedelic nudes. Shortly the Reverend himself came in, immediately tossing his collar down on the end table as he headed off to change. He re-emerged wearing a pullover sweater and Dockers, with two Zimas in hand. “Have a drink?” he asked handing me one of the Zimas. I took it, somewhat surprised.
“I see the look on your face, Tom. I am a Reverend, not a priest. And I’m 27, not 77.” He upended the bottle and took a healthy pull. “I cannot tell you how glad I am to finally meet you. It is about time someone moved to this town who has a clue about the world. I am so sick of the bumpkin scene, I am sure you know what I mean. Townies. Jesus! How did a pair of cosmopolitans like us ever end up stuck in this backwater?”
Before I could even reply to this torrent Yolanda came back in, wearing a tee shirt and shorts. The Dolands kept their house quite warm, which accounted for her garb, but didn’t explain the sweat rolling down my back. She wore no bra, and I had a hard time not staring at her breasts. I kept my eyes downcast, but that kept bringing me to her legs, which led me upwards, and the cycle would begin again. I had to find a woman before my hormones got me into real trouble. She came and sat next to me on the sofa. There I was sandwiched between them wondering what to do.
“You can understand why I was assigned here, Tom. For a while anyway, to PROVE myself.” He spoke with the overly anglicized manner of an urban snob, a breed Tom had known quite a few of. “But why on Earth would you CHOOSE to come back here? Spill the beans. Is there some big novel in the works or something?” He nudged me conspiratorially, but what kept me sweating was the gentle contact of Yolanda’s foot on my thigh as she curled her legs under herself.
“Well, to be honest, uh Reverend, I like it here. There is a lot to be said for leaving the city behind. Perhaps I finally had my fill of it, that’s all.” The foot had begun to wiggle, ever so slightly, against me. I felt a response in my pants, and had to think of icy mountain streams before I embarrassed myself. I could swear I was being hit on by the Reverend’s wife. Talk about Peyton Place.
“Well, I suppose for some that’s possible. Still, we must become fast friends, there are so few in this town who KNOW anything, isn’t that right Yolanda?”
Yolanda arched her foot against me and said in a soft throaty voice, “Oh yes, FAST friends. We so lack in CULTURE here” With each stressed word her foot pulsed. She shook her blonde hair back and smiled at me.
“Uh, culture yes. I was just noticing your photographs. Are they by someone I might know?” My gambit worked and the conversation turned to art, which the Reverend (who insists I call him plain old Albert) apparently thinks he is
an expert on. After a few moments Yolanda thankfully got up and went to the kitchen to fix lunch. We managed to pass an hour talking art and eating quiche without me exposing an erection or calling the man a fool. All in all I think it went fairly well. I extracted a promise from him for a weekly sort of bulletin of church news, and in return agreed to come over for dinner very soon. I was glad to escape back into the cold afternoon.
The meeting had left a bad taste in my mouth, and rather than go home I decided to stop by the office for a little while. I was afraid if I went home I would be unable to keep Yolanda out of my thoughts and would need either a cold shower or a washcloth. When I got to my office I found Meg sitting on the bench nearby.
“Well Hi Meg, “ I said unlocking my door, “You look nice in your Sunday dress.”
Meg giggled. “Thanks Mr. Tharon.” She insisted on calling me that, rather than Tom, which I found somehow charming. Rural politeness. You would never hear a city kid talk that way. “I was hoping you might come by.”
“Want to talk shop, do you?” I pushed open the door and held it for her. “Come on in”.