by Fannie Flagg
Suddenly she perked up. “Is there a prize involved if I get the right answer?”
“No, ma’am, this is just an information survey. It’s just for our records.”
Somewhat disappointed, she sat down with her pound cake. “Oh well, go ahead. Fire away.”
“Name?”
“First name Elner, middle name Jane, last name Shimfissle.”
“Date of birth?”
“Well, I’d say sometime between 1850 and 1890, give or take a few years.”
He put down unknown. “Miss, or Mrs.?”
“Mrs. Will Shimfissle, widowed in fifty-three.”
“How many living in residence?”
She thought for a minute. “Five . . . a cat, me, and three mice.”
He forced a small smile, erased the number 5 in front of occupants and wrote a 1.
“Occupation?”
She looked puzzled, as if she had not heard him. In a louder voice he leaned forward and said, “Mrs. Shimfissle, what is it that you do?”
After mulling it over for a long moment, Elner answered, “I just live, I guess, what else is there to do? Isn’t that about what everybody does?”
“No, ma’am, I meant do you work outside of the home?”
“Oh, I see what you’re getting at. . . . Well, I garden a little and take care of my laying hen out back. I used to do a lot more yardwork but my niece’s husband, Macky, comes over every Saturday and cuts my grass and trims my hedges. Norma said she didn’t want me to be fooling with anything sharp. Norma says a rubber hose is safe, so I do water the lawn when it needs it.”
He wrote unemployed. “Do you own your home or rent?”
“I own it, bought and paid for. My husband, Will, said, ‘Elner, don’t let anybody stick you with a mortgage after I’m gone,’ so when I sold the farm, I just paid for it in cash and never had to fool with monthly payments. All I pay is my taxes.”
“How many electrical appliances do you have in your home?”
The old woman brightened up. “Now, that’s a good question. A good many of them. Let’s see . . . all my lights, of course. My stove. My icebox. My toaster. My percolator. My radio, that’s another. My—wait a minute, I have two iceboxes . . . the other one’s on the back porch but it’s not plugged in . . . does that count?”
“Not if you don’t use it.”
“But it works, at least it used to. I told Norma I don’t really need it. I do a lot of canning and I have plenty of room in my new icebox, so I just keep my birdseed and things like that out there. I’m kind of thinking about giving it to some poor person down the line; that’s probably what I should do. They’d be pretty happy to have it, don’t you think?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The young man, trying to move on, said, “All right now—”
“Wait a minute, I’m not through,” she said. “My front-porch light, my vacuum cleaner, my fan, my air cooler. I put that on once in a while when I get—”
“Fine . . . what about gas?”
“What?”
“Gas appliances, do you have anything that uses gas?”
“Should I?”
“No . . . not really. So can we say that you prefer electric to gas?”
“I don’t think we can say that. I don’t rightly know. I don’t have any gas things, only electric.”
He wrote yes. “Mrs. Shimfissle, would you say that the amount of your monthly electric bill is, in your opinion, high, medium, or low?”
“That’s a good one. Hmmm, I would say . . . just about right. To tell the truth, for what all you get for your money, it’s a bargain. Now, don’t hold me to it, but I would pay a lot more if they asked me to but don’t put that down. I don’t want them to raise my bill. That’s just between you and me.”
He checked off low. “So would you say you use your electrical appliances more than the average person?”
“As a matter of fact, I think electricity is just about the best value you can get for your money, other than having a baby or a heart operation. Did I say I had an electric heater in my bathroom?”
“No, ma’am, but—”
“Put that down. You know, sometimes I get to thinking about value . . . and you just wonder how people figure it, don’t you?”
“Ma’am?”
“How people figure the value of things. What things are worth, for instance. Do you know that an automobile costs more than it does to go to the hospital to have a baby? Now, who figured out that a car is worth more than a baby is what I want to know. My neighbor’s husband, Merle, went all the way to Texas and had a doctor put him in a new heart valve so he wouldn’t die, and it cost less than it does to buy a good house trailer. Now, have you ever heard of a house trailer saving a man’s life?”
“No, ma’am but—”
“That’s right, you haven’t. I said, Verbena, what would you rather have, a new house trailer or your husband? You wouldn’t even enjoy that trailer if your husband was dead, would you? And she had to admit I was right. I’d take a heart valve over a house trailer any day, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am. I just have a few more questions.”
“But you’re young yet, so you won’t be needing a heart valve for a long time but when you do, think about this one. Think about how much money that heart valve, something that is no bigger than my thumb, costs and how big that house trailer is. No matter how you slice it . . . you may get something bigger but it won’t keep your heart going. . . . So that brings me back to my point.”
“Ma’am?”
“Electricity is the best value we have going and we can’t even see it!”
He saw an opening and he took it. “So would you say in regards to your electric service that you are very satisfied, moderately satisfied, or not satisfied?”
“I would say that I’m extremely satisfied, satisfied-beyond-my-wildest-dreams satisfied. Back in 1928 my sister Gerta said, Just wait until you get electricity out there on the farm, and I remember the first time they ran it up to the house and I’ve loved it ever since. I don’t know how we ever got along without it. You tell them down at the electric company that I think electricity is perfectly wonderful. Why, just think how much we depend on it and I’ll tell you something else. After Jesus, I think that Thomas Edison is the second most important man that ever lived on this earth . . . bar none. And to think we don’t even have a holiday named after him. They gave Saint Patrick his own day and what did he do but run out a bunch of snakes. Why, Thomas Edison lit up the world. If it hadn’t been for him we’d all still be sitting here in the dark, with nothing but a candle, and we don’t even celebrate his birthday. The Wizard of Menlo Park doesn’t even get a holiday.”
The young man started to push his papers back in his satchel. “Yes, ma’am, that’s true.”
“You’re too young to remember but I remember the day he died, in thirty-one. Everybody put their lights out for one minute. But then after that they forgot all about him. But I don’t forget him. Do you know what I do each year on Tom’s birthday?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I turn on everything I own, all my lights, my washing machine, my fans, my radio, my TV, and I let them play all day. And I say, Happy Birthday, Tom. Now, that is how highly I think of Mr. Thomas Edison.”
“Well, thank you for your time, ma’am.” He stood up, ready to leave.
“Let me ask you this . . . do they have a picture of Thomas Edison on the wall down at the Missouri Power and Light Company?”
“Not that I remember, ma’am.”
“See what I mean? Here none of them would even have a job if it hadn’t been for old Tom Edison and they don’t even put his picture up.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He started inching toward the door.
“Am I all done? Is it over?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh . . . well, how’d I do?”
“You did just fine.”
“Above average?”
“I’d say above average.”
Dazed, he took the sack and headed for the door. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Well, that’s just fine . . . and I wish you all the best of luck with your project. But tell them they ought to put Tom Edison’s picture on the wall.”
“Yes, ma’am, I certainly will.” He was halfway down the back stairs when she came to the door. “Hey, I just thought of something I forgot . . . put down my electric blanket. Add that to my list, will you? And hey, you need to go over to Norma’s house and give her the test. She has all kinds of appliances. She’s two blocks over at 212 Second Avenue.” Then she added, “But don’t tell her I sent you. She’s still mad about that insurance woman.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, but he was not going to interview anybody related to her. They all might be crazy.
Chris-Crossed
EXCEPT FOR wearing shoes and the flower boutonnieres, all the prison trustees were certainly glad to be living in the governor’s mansion instead of jail and Cecil Figgs was as happy as a lark planning all the social events. But nobody on the governor’s staff was having a better time than his old friend Rodney Tillman. Being in charge of the governor’s public relations was quite a jump from used-car salesman, and he took full advantage of it. One afternoon Rodney came strolling into Hamm’s office looking like the cat who ate the canary, sat down, and casually said, “Hey, Hambo, how would you like to have a boat?”
Hamm looked up from his papers. “A boat? What kind of a boat?”
“A big boat.” He reached into his shirt pocket and threw a photograph of a brand-new thirty-five-foot Chris-Craft cabin cruiser on Hamm’s desk. Hamm picked it up and looked at it and smiled.
“You know I’ve always wanted a boat. Why?”
Rodney leaned in and said, “Because, ol’ buddy, I know a fellow that’s just dying to give you one just like that.”
“Give me one . . . what for?”
“He figured with all the stress you’re under that you need a place where you can go and relax, get away from it all. This boat he’s just dying to give you sleeps eight and can slip on down to Florida or the Bahamas for that matter, anytime you want to take a little trip.”
“Who is this guy?”
“Just one of your big supporters . . . who wants to do something nice for you.”
“What’s the matter with you, Rodney? As long as I’m governor, you know I can’t take any gifts from anybody.”
“Well, hell, Hambo, I know that . . . but there’s a lot of ways to skin a cat. Now, suppose he was to lock this boat up in a boathouse somewhere for you to borrow and take out for a ride anytime you wanted . . . that would be all right, wouldn’t it?”
Hamm looked at him suspiciously. “Come on, Rodney, this sounds fishy.”
“Now wait, hear me out on this. . . . Suppose he was to give me the key to this boathouse to keep it for you, until such time when you are no longer governor and can accept a gift from a friend.” Rodney leaned back in the chair and crossed his hands behind his head. “In the meantime, why, you don’t even know the name of the man who owns it. As far as you’re concerned, I just borrowed it from a friend of a friend.”
Hamm kept gazing at the picture of the boat. He had absolutely no intention of accepting it, but it was a beautiful boat, and for someone who had never made more than sixty-five dollars a week and could never hope to afford anything like this, it was tempting. He pushed the picture back across the desk. “Tell him thanks but I better not.”
Rodney shrugged and said, “All right, I was just thinking how much fun it might be for your boys down the line. You do what you want to . . . but if it were me, I wouldn’t be so quick to look a gift horse in the mouth like that. What’s the point of being governor if you can’t have fun?”
He walked out and left the picture lying on Hamm’s desk. For a week Hamm kept taking that picture out of his desk drawer and looking at it. The second week he called Wendell Hewitt, the attorney general, into his office and said, “Listen, as governor would it be illegal for me to borrow a boat from somebody?”
Wendell said, “No, why?”
“I just wondered.” On the fourth week Hamm decided it would not hurt to go down and just take a look at it. The friend of a friend had so hoped he would accept the gift, he had even gone so far as to have a name painted on the side for him. The moment Hamm saw The Betty Raye he was in love.
When Wendell, who had driven down with them that day, saw the name written on the side of the boat, he said, being no fool, “Don’t tell me a thing, boys. I don’t want to know. I’m just here for a boat ride.”
Hamm did not know it but the friend of a friend was a Mr. Anthony Leo from St. Louis, and when the governor commuted his brother’s scheduled execution to a life sentence he was grateful. All Hamm knew was that Rodney had come into the office that day and seemed very nervous until he had finished signing all his pardons. Wendell, who advised Hamm, agreed with Hamm’s decision; after all, the man had not killed an innocent person; he had just shot some other mob hood.
Hamm said, “He probably did the state a favor.”
They both had done Rodney a favor and did not know it; Rodney had a rather large gambling debt that had just been crossed off the books. But Hamm was no fool either. He never intended to accept a gift from anyone, never told anyone about The Betty Raye except a few people he could trust. But he did use it every chance he got.
One afternoon when he and Rodney were out cruising around the Missouri River, having a few drinks and smoking a few cigars, Hamm said, “You know, Rodney, I’ve been thinking, when my term is up, it sure would be nice if Betty Raye and the kids and I were to have a nice house we could move into right away and not have to wait. Sort of like a loan, and then, when I get settled and get a good job down the line, I can pay for it. What do you think?”
Rodney said, “Oh, I think that could be arranged.”
“I don’t think it would look too good for the ex-governor to have to go back to some little rented place, do you?”
“No, I agree with you there. What kind of a house do you think an ex-governor should live in?”
Hamm leaned back and thought about it. “I suppose it should be in a good neighborhood, for the kids, maybe something with a lot of red brick and a big porch, something along that line. Don’t you think?”
“Yeah, that sounds about right. Let me do a little nosing around and see what I can come up with.”
“And a car. Maybe one of those new DeSotos.”
“No sweat,” Rodney said. “What color?”
“Blue.”
Blue was his favorite color. And after all, as Rodney had said, what is the point of being governor if you can’t have a good time.
Rainbows and Cakes
Dorothy was very happy these days. Both her children were married to wonderful people, she already had three beautiful granddaughters, and Anna Lee had just called and told her she was expecting another baby. So she was particularly cheerful today.
“Good morning, everybody . . . I hope all of you out there are raring to go this morning, because you know what today is? Cakes, cakes, and more cakes is the rally cry of the Annual Golden Flake Cake Baking Contest and in its honor today Mother Smith is going to play a special song, ‘If I Knew You Were Coming I’d Have Baked a Cake.’ So ladies, and any of you men out there, make sure you have all your supplies at hand. Every second counts. Get ready. Get set . . . start your ove
ns! Let the bakeoff begin! Now, while all of you are waiting for your ovens to preheat, let me run the rules by you once more. Only one cake per contestant. As soon as you have your cake finished and frosted, get it over to the VFW hall as soon as possible for the judging.
“Good luck to one and all and for all you cake eaters out there, remember they all will go on sale after the judging, at around two this afternoon. All the proceeds are going to aid our policemen and firemen all over the state of Missouri. They do such a fine job all year ’round, so come over and buy a cake, and let them know how much we appreciate every one of them. We are so lucky this year to have such fine judges. All the way from Poplar Bluff, we have Mr. Jack Mann, president of Golden Flake Flour Company, also Mrs. Edith Cagle Pool, who is the author of the Edith Cagle Pool Cakes for Every Occasion cookbook and is listed in the Who’s Who in Home Economics, and last but not least, yours truly, so come on by and see us . . . it’s going to be a lot of fun.
“Wrens, robins, bluebirds, redbirds, hummingbirds, bobolinks, and finches have all been spotted so far this year by our bird-watcher, Emma Henson over in Walnut Shade, and Mrs. Joanne Ault of Woodlawn, Missouri, writes in and says . . .
“Dear Neighbor Dorothy,
“I read a good book and I would like to pass it on to your reading listeners. If they want to have a good laugh read Cheaper by the Dozen by Frank Gilbreth, Jr., and Ernestine Gilbreth Carey.
“All right . . . thank you for that. I only like to recommend books that are happy and cheerful. . . . I know there are sad things out in the world . . . but I just don’t want to dwell on them. I guess I’m just like one of those ostriches; I just stick my head in the sand. I don’t want to face the facts. All the scientists are determined to tell us what the moon is made of and what the stars are . . . and why there are rainbows . . . but I just don’t want to know. When I wish on a star, I don’t need to know what it’s made out of—let the men figure it out—as for me, when a thing is beautiful, what does it matter why. I never get tired of looking at the moon. One night it is small and round as a shiny, ice-cold, white marble and the next it’s a big soft yellow moon. How can we be bored when nature gives us so many wonders to look at. Which brings me to my next letter . . . it comes to us from Mrs. Anne Carter of Repton, Missouri. She writes . . .