Dearest Dorothy, Help! I've Lost Myself!

by Charlene Baumbich

  Arthur leaned over toward Sharon and whispered, “Sounds like somethin Maggie Malone might be agin, from the sounds of her spot about her shop in the paper.” Sharon giggled.

  “Did you have something to share, Arthur?” Gladys asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Please, Arthur, let’s stick to business. Does anyone have any comments about my suggestion?” The room was quiet as people first weighed the advisability of speaking up. Since most of them had heard what Arthur had said, it seemed impossible to think about anything but hair roots requiring attention. They needed a moment to reframe the suggestion and look at it objectively.

  “I think it’s a step in the right direction,” Eugene said. “Seems like there ought to be more to it, though.”

  “Like what?” Gladys asked.

  “Like . . . Like . . . ‘Celebrating Our Roots; Welcoming Our Future.’”

  “Sounds like a great headline to me,” Sharon said with enthusiasm. She began scribbling in her notebook.

  “I like it, too,” Doc said. A murmur of agreement left them all looking at Gladys.

  “Yes. It does have a nice sound. Thank you, Eugene. And it goes along with the forward and progressive image I’d like the surrounding communities to have about us, especially Hethrow. It also is the perfect setup for perhaps the most exciting thing I’d like to see implemented during our Centennial Plus Thirty, but we’ll get to that later. Well, if I hear no objections then, here’s what it will be.”

  She stood up from the table and disappeared into the hall, leaving everyone staring at the doorway shrugging their shoulders at one another. She returned in a moment carrying an easel with the flip chart the Sunday school teachers used, setting it up next to her chair. Then she left the room again, leaving those gathered staring at a very bad line drawing of the ark, or maybe a whale . . . but then again, upon further inspection, it might be John the Baptist or Jesus, if those squiggles were supposed to be eyes and a mouth.

  Gladys returned with a giant red marking pen and flipped whatever or whoever it was over the back, revealing a clean page. She wrote on the flip chart in block letters:

  PARTONVILLE’S CENTENNIAL PLUS 30:

  CELEBRATING OUR ROOTS; WELCOMING OUR FUTURE.

  A rush of pride and satisfaction rushed through her, causing her to light up like a glow stick and forge ahead with vigor.

  “Okay, then. Next thing will be to establish a date. I recommend the same weekend as the Pumpkin Festival and dance since we already always draw such a good crowd for those festivities and we’re so short on time before the snow starts to fly. It will give us a solid foundation to build on and the duo of festivities should draw new folks to Partonville as well. My only concern is that the Centennial Plus Thirty celebration doesn’t get lost in the midst of pumpkin doings, but I think if we handle it properly, we can capitalize on some things that are already in place.”

  “I think before we can decide on a date,” Doc said, “maybe we should consider what type of special activities or . . . Just what is it we’re going to do to celebrate? I mean how are we planning on celebrating?” He’d voiced a question that had been at the top of everyone’s minds.

  “That is a fine question, Doc,” Gladys said. “Here’s what I’ve been thinking.” She flipped to another clean page on the flip chart, then uncapped her marker and wrote:

  1) PUBLICITY, PUBLICITY, PUBLICITY!

  “I can’t think of anything more important than getting the word out that we have something to celebrate and that we are proud of it! If we work hard at press releases and cause enough buzz, we can hopefully even get the Hethrow Daily Courier to run a full feature article!”

  Her head spun to Sharon Teller. “No offense, Sharon. Of course, the Partonville Press is of utmost importance to all of us. It’s just that something in a major daily paper would be good.” Sharon nodded her understanding; even she read the Daily Courier to find out what was going on in the greater area, not to mention get all the sale flyers for the discount stores.

  2) HISTORY.

  After bonking the marker to create the period, Gladys set the marker down in front of her, first on its end, then resting it on its side so it didn’t fall over and roll to the floor. “I’d like to see us get some town history in print, you know, like the ‘Meet Your Neighbor’ column but with a few stats on Partonville.”

  “Meet Your Town,” Sharon said. “I like it!”

  “Brilliant!” Gladys was becoming more energized by the moment. “We have so many people who were born and raised here that I’d like to read about some of their family stories as well as tell my own, what with Jake and myself both having been mayors. That would make a nice tribute to his memory, too.” She worked to keep her voice steady, feeling a surprise rush of longing for her husband. “Maybe print a book of oral histories, you know?”

  Sharon recalled her brain-numbing interview with Cora Davis and started to say something, but thought better of it. Surely there were more interesting stories than Cora’s, and she hoped one of them was the McKerns’ since no doubt Gladys would, as mayor, claim premium space in any kind of a publication.

  “I reckon I kin tell a few stories alright,” Arthur said, “although I’m not sure some of the folks involved would want me a tellin’ ’em.”

  “I reckon you could, Arthur,” Eugene said. “I reckon a few folks I’ve buried the last decade alone just rolled over in their graves thinking about stories that could be told on them!” Everybody laughed but Gladys. Although she wanted to, she thought better of laughing at the dead, especially since it was the departed who had founded this town.

  Jessica raised her hand again. “Yes, Jessica. You have something to say?” Gladys worked extra hard at being congenial to Jessica. After all, things were going her way, for a change.

  “No, ma’am. I have a question.” Everybody stared at her, waiting.

  “For goodness sake, Jessica, what is it?” Congeniality had its drawbacks, Gladys quickly decided.

  “Who’s going to pay for us to print a book of history about our town? Do we have a budget for something like this? I mean I really don’t know how government works.”

  “Good question,” Doc said. “Do we have any funds to get us going with this whole Centennial Plus Thirty project?”

  “I’m hoping we can solicit advertisers and underwriters for the entire celebration,” Gladys responded with authority. “Like folks on the square who might benefit from extra traffic in town, or perhaps even undertakers and doctors, who certainly make their fair share from the community.” She didn’t look at either Eugene or Doc when she delivered this line, but her words were received . . . like the subtle two-by-four she’d intended. “Maybe even place ads in our book, or booklet, or whatever we decide. Maybe we could encourage some private individuals to be patrons, you know, like they do for the arts and such. Instead of being a patron of the arts, they would be a patron of the Centennial Plus Thirty. Be publicly thanked at some kind of ceremony or have patron pins made up or such. Which brings me to the next item of celebration.”

  3) CEREMONY.

  “We need to have some kind of ceremony of dedication.” She popped the lid back onto the marker.

  “To dedicate what, exactly?” Sharon asked, pen poised over her steno, having copied down everything Gladys had written on the flip chart and most of what everyone had agreed upon.

  “You know, I cannot imagine why Dorothy Wetstra has not shown up for this meeting!” Gladys realized the tone in her voice had been a little too convicting; she reined herself in, softened her voice and forced herself to smile, knowing perfectly well that to pick on Dorothy now would be to immediately dampen folks’ enthusiasm for her.

  “If you will all recall, some nearly twenty acres of Crooked Creek Farm were donated to the conservation district when Dorothy sold her farm to Ms. Durbin, at least that’s what we were told. The donation was to include the portion of the land where the creek makes the bend, down there by the wooded area, and of
course an access road from the gravel road. It was to be named Crooked Creek Park, and be open to public use. I haven’t heard another word about it since the sale, nor have I seen any evidence of any official activity.”

  Between the end of her workday and this evening’s meeting, Gladys had taken a drive out to the farm just to make sure she hadn’t missed something. She’d even driven up the lane to inquire of Ms. Durbin if she knew when work might begin on the project, but her fancy vehicle was nowhere to be seen. Gladys hadn’t contacted Dorothy because she expected her to be at the meeting. “But wouldn’t it be perfect if we could make that official for our Centennial Plus Thirty! Have a dedication of the park to celebrate! Maybe even have a plaque made and posted at the entry-way to the park saying something to that effect. We could have a ribbon-cutting ceremony and. . . .” Gladys stopped talking, mouth open, as visions of a photo of her on the front page of the Daily Courier, holding a big pair of scissors, danced in her head—not the first time she had beheld this vision. She smiled, then snapped back into now.

  “May Belle, do you know why Dorothy isn’t here?”

  “No, Gladys, I do not.” In fact, she wondered herself and was trying not to fret about Dorothy’s absence, especially in light of the fact that she’d seemed a little distracted lately, although thankfully May Belle hadn’t seen her have to take a nitroglycerin tablet recently—even though she knew Dorothy wouldn’t tell her if she had.

  “I’ll be checking with her before our next meeting to consider these possibilities,” Gladys said. “Or maybe I should just contact the conservation people myself. Whatever, I’ll have a report by then. And if we cannot yet dedicate Crooked Creek Park, then we’ll just have a dedication ceremony to our founding forefathers. How about that?”

  “That sounds good to us, right, honey?” Paul put his arm around Jessica and gave her a quick squeeze as she nodded her approval, both of their families having age-old Partonville roots. Since Paul Joy was a man of few words, he had silenced the room when he’d spoken.

  “Good,” Gladys finally uttered. “Good! Let’s see, what’s next then?”

  “Dates, I believe,” Doc said. “Unless there’s going to be more to our festivities than, let’s see, publicity, history and ceremony.”

  “Well, actually, there is,” Gladys said. “That’s the surprise I talked about earlier. But let’s get the dates set first, then we’ll see if we can’t assign committee members—and I am hoping volunteers step forward for each of them so I don’t have to point fingers—and we’ll close with a grand finale.”

  Out of habit and nervous energy, Sharon tapped her pen on the table a few times. “I think we all agree we should combine the elements of our celebration with the Pumpkin Festival. Maybe just add a day to it. We already have the chili dinner on Friday night, followed by the talent show, so risers and a stage will already be set up. Great time to have a kickoff ceremony of sorts for both events.”

  “Yes! I like that idea!” said Gladys. “I could make a proclamation that the Centennial Plus Thirty is officially under way, along with the Pumpkin Festival!”

  “If we can get this program, or magazine, or whatever we’re calling our history, produced, we could also make announcements about them being on sale,” Doc said. “I imagine plenty of folks might want to buy extras and send them to relatives, especially if any of their kinfolk have been mentioned. That would also help fund the thing. Plus we usually draw a nice crowd for the talent show, so . . .”

  “And since Saturday is pretty full with the craft fair and then the dance, maybe we could have the park dedication on Sunday, if it’s a go. Otherwise, we could . . . What’s left?” Jessica had lost track.

  “I was going to wait until we wrapped up to make this exciting announcement, but it seems like now is the perfect time. Whether the Crooked Creek Park is ready for dedication or not, Partonville is about to take an intentional step into the future.” Gladys stopped and withdrew a sheet of typed paper from the bottom of the stack of notes in front of her. She was beaming. She cleared her throat, held the paper up, extended her arms a little, adjusted her glasses, then extended her arms a bit more.

  “Whereas we now must admit that our town spends its days moving counterclockwise around the square rather than forward in time, I therefore commit to reversing that order, progressively ushering us toward the Centennial Plus Forty!” She folded the paper in half, then looked up to receive the committee’s joyful affirmations, probably even their applause.

  Blank. Looking from one face to the next—including May Belle’s, who had frozen in place while refilling coffee mugs—they looked like a room of painted people. “Well? Cannot one of you imagine how important this is in terms of symbolism?” her voice exuding rivers of positive energies.

  “Could you please read that again, Gladys?” Jessica, who was now standing behind her husband to allow Sarah Sue more wiggle room, shifted her daughter slightly toward her right—as though her off-center child might have interfered with her original comprehension—then stuck out her chin toward Gladys as an earnest sign of concentration.

  “I’d like to hear that agin myself,” Arthur said, “since I don’t have a clue what yur talkin’ bout, woman.”

  Gladys swallowed, sighed, licked her lips, once again adjusted the paper just so, then read very slowly. “Whereas we now must admit that our town spends its days moving counterclockwise around the square rather than forward in time, I therefore commit to reversing that order, progressively ushering us toward the Centennial Plus Forty!” This time when she was done reading, she looked at their faces a bit more tentatively.

  “Reversing what order?” Doc asked.

  “It’s perfectly clear! The order of traffic on the square!”

  Before her very eyes, blank faces now transformed into a mix of squints. Then pure shock.

  “Mayor McKern, you’re not suggesting we have the traffic on the square reverse directions, are you?” Paul, always being one to show respect for office, just wanted to be sure he understood what was beginning to be envisioned in nearly everyone’s heads as a complete disaster. “Your statement more or less sounds that way.”

  “Of course I am, Paul. That’s exactly what I’m saying. And if you’ll all think about it for a moment, I’m sure you will understand my point. The direction we travel now is counterclockwise, as though we’re trying to get back to where we came from rather than moving with the clock into the future.”

  Jessica reached her arms in front of her, around Sarah Sue, and, with the pointer finger on her right hand, began drawing a circle on the palm of her left. “You’re right! That is counterclockwise! We do go counterclockwise around the square!”

  “Course we do,” Arthur said in disgust. “Nothin’ else makes a lick of sense.”

  “What do you mean nothing else makes any sense, Arthur? Just because that’s the way we’ve always done it, does that mean that’s the way we have to keep doing it, even if it’s backwards—which many folks would like to, and already do, accuse us of being?” Gladys’s mind flicked to Katie Durbin, who always seemed to radiate a disdainful air about Partonville when she was in town.

  “Gladys, I hate to be negative here,” Eugene said, “but I can’t imagine trying to change the flow of traffic on and off the square. Just going around a circle in a different direction isn’t that big a deal, but people have to get on and off the square, and that would be trouble.”

  “How can it be anymore trouble than it already is?” she asked defensively.

  Doc considered his thoughts, then presented them carefully, trying to sound reasonable rather than just reactionary or accusatory. “I think it’s a fine idea you want to have Partonville move intentionally into the future, Gladys, and that you want to make sure that not only us, but those around us, know we are serious about ourselves . . . proud of our heritage. But I think there are better ways to do this than what you’re suggesting here. You’ve presented many fine ideas this evening, but I can’t agree that
this is one of them.”

  “It’s dern crazy’s what it tis!” Arthur glanced over at Sharon, who had been drawing squares and arrows in her steno a mile a minute, trying to figure out for herself how the proposed idea might or might not work. Her overall schematic looked like a bowl of spaghetti. Without asking Sharon for permission, he withdrew the steno right out from under her moving pen and tossed it in the middle of the table. “Jist look at that!” Arthur yelped. “Bedlam!” Sharon’s face turned beat red. Before she could retrieve it, Eugene had pulled the steno over in front of him. He turned it this way and that, then traced some of her flip-flopping arrows with his finger. “I think Arthur’s right,” he said. “Bedlam.”

  Gladys flipped to a clean page on the chart. First she drew a square, then another larger square outside of that one, then she drew dotted lines down the middle space between the squares to indicate the two lanes of traffic. Like in a movie theater, heads jockeyed for position to get a clear view of what she was doing. She then drew arrows around the outside of the larger box indicating the way traffic now flowed on the square, which was, indeed counterclockwise. Next she drew a small rectangle in the outside lane toward the right of the top block. “This,” she said tapping at it with the end of the marker, felt tip making little red dots in the hood area, “is a car now getting ready to get off the square.” She made a line of dashes, occasionally inserting an arrow in their midst, to show the traffic pattern the cars now used to exit the square.

  She stood back and contemplated her schematic a moment, then began to draw arrows around the outside of the squares again, only this time going clockwise. She shaped the arrows slightly thicker to indicate her new plan. Next she drew another rectangle, but this time she carefully filled it in, like a child trying to stay within the coloring lines. This vehicle was also in the outside lane at the top block, but to the left side. To further indicate the difference in the plans, she drew an arrow, to match the newly designed clockwise arrows around the squares, on the front of the car, then proceeded to draw another series of dashes showing how this vehicle could also just cruise off the square, making a left-hand turn rather than the right-hand turn vehicle number one would have made. She set the pen down and brushed her hands together, as though eradicating them from chalk dust and any further confusion. “There! Simple. Now, going counterclockwise, we turn right veering off the square. Soon, moving forward in time, we just turn left off the square. That’s all.”