Dearest Dorothy, Help! I've Lost Myself!

by Charlene Baumbich

  Doc, who was sitting straight across from the easel, began to chuckle. “Gladys, I’m sure you didn’t mean to do this, but since you have used the top block of the square to show us both situations, those two autos are about to have a head-on collision!” He busted out in full-blown guffawing, as did everyone else.

  Gladys was steamed. “Well of course they won’t because that’s not how it will be! ALL traffic will be going in the same clockwise direction!”

  “Ms. Mayor,” Paul said in his quiet voice, often mistaken for shyness. “Trying to get people to remember that is going to be the problem. After all of these years, that kind of a change won’t come easy, and I fear we might just end up really looking like your current chart’s coming disaster.”

  “It’s plumb crazy, I tell ya. Plumb nuts. Why the only folks to benefit from that mess is liable to be either the good Doc here, or worst yet, Eugene!” Arthur backed his chair away from the table and leaned back until it tilted on its hind legs. He folded his arms across his chest, intending this gesture to show his withdrawal from any such wild ideas—and that’s exactly how it was perceived.

  “I think you’re all being a little too dramatic,” Gladys said. Sharon nudged Arthur, having intuitively guessed (since she felt herself doing the same) he was opening his mouth to ask just who was being dramatic here. But Arthur was liable to do it. He looked at Sharon, who furrowed her brows at him, and he kept his mouth closed—but just for her.

  “Let’s give this some time to sink in. I’ll table the issue until our next meeting. I’m sure as you go about your business this week, traveling backwards around the square yourselves, what I’m talking about will soak in and you’ll all be as anxious as I am to step into the future. For now, let’s get our committees set up. As I’ve listened to each of your comments throughout the evening,” she said, barreling right along in order to prevent any more discussion, “it’s become clear who would work best on which committee. For the sake of expediency, I’ll go ahead and make assignments. If anyone objects, before you object out loud, give yourselves time to think about it first. I’m sure you’ll realize I’m right. . . . The obvious person to head up publicity is Sharon. She’s got all the skills and talent we could possibly need to put together press releases, and I’m sure she’s got a little pull, at least to help us get good coverage in our own paper.” Gladys smiled at Sharon, who was suddenly wishing she’d stayed home and worked a puzzle. “Arthur can work with you on those, Sharon.”

  “I second that!” Arthur just grinned; Sharon smiled, too—mostly because she didn’t know what else to do, although taking her first trip to Las Vegas entered her mind.

  “Eugene and Doc can work on gathering our history. I know Sharon would be good at that too, what with her reporting skills, and maybe she can lend you two a hand in typing up what you find. But for now, I figure since you two gentlemen have been around about as long as anyone else, you’ll know who has the most interesting stories, not to mention all you can come up with between the two of you about birthing and burying.” Doc and Eugene nodded at one another, both of them already rifling their memories for the “best of” memories they housed in their own personal story logs.

  “Paul and Jessica, you two can be in charge of the Friday night declaration and dedication ceremony. That will probably take the least amount of time and will mostly include setting up a special place on the platform and decorating it for me. Shouldn’t be that much work, and won’t matter if you have to miss a meeting here and there.” Jessica looked to Paul, just to make sure they were on the same page. He nodded his approval, then they both nodded at Gladys.

  “I propose you all immediately set about your tasks, gathering more folks as you need to, and we’ll meet back here at the same time and place next week with reports,” Gladys said, flipping all of the pages on the flip chart back to their starting positions, which left them looking at whatever it was—and just in case it was Jesus, they thought they should at least look at it respectfully.

  “I, as mayor, of course, will be on all of the committees and make any and all public proclamations, dedications and declarations. May Belle, if you’d like to jump onto one of these committees, let appropriate folks know. Otherwise, I figure you can bring weekly refreshments and crank up the coffee for us. This meeting is adjourned.”

  “WAIT! Who’s going to do an actual study of this proposed traffic . . . um . . . suggestion?” Eugene felt there’d been a giant dangling end left waving in the breeze that had blustered from Gladys’s mouth.

  “Me,” Gladys said with finality. “If I need help, you’ll be the first one I call, Eugene.”

  10

  “Hello, Dorothy. It’s May Belle.”

  Dorothy smiled. May Belle always announced who she was, as though Dorothy wouldn’t recognize her voice after eighty years of friendship. “Yes, dear. How are you this bright sunny morning?”

  “My, don’t you sound chipper today! That does a body good to hear. You know, that first Centennial Plus Thirty meeting was last night, and when you didn’t show up, I have to admit I was a little concerned. But you sound mighty fine. I trust our rainbow-connected prayers are working and that you’re feeling better about whatever’s going on?”

  “Everything is relative, isn’t it? And pish-posh! I’m sick of thinking about me. What about you? I didn’t know you were volunteering. I imagine you arrived bearing goodies, though, right? What kind of cookies did I miss?”

  “I guess you know me pretty well. Oatmeal raisin. Don’t worry; I saved you a half dozen or so. You mentioned the leftovers in your refrigerator were starting to add up to a smorgasbord night and I’ve got a few tidbits myself. How about we combine forces for dinner. We’ll eat in your cheery kitchen and I’ll bring you your dessert. Why weren’t you there though, dear?”

  “I thought about attending, but at the last minute I decided to take a pass. I’ve already got a few things to do for the Pumpkin Festival, like play in the band, which is already practicing twice a week now. And I always help with the talent show, too. That takes a heap of phone calls and coordinating, not to mention begging and cheering. I think that’ll be enough doings to keep me plenty busy. I’m sure Gladys can handle everything just fine without me there sparring with her anyway. Besides, that personal issue”—and she said the word issue with the same tone of voice one might use to respond after smelling a rotten potato—“I’m dealing with is sapping enough of my emotional energy simply thinking about it, in case you can’t tell by the way I just, within the last minute, pish-poshed it, but looped right back to it again. If things bust loose . . . I need to conserve at least a few of my resources, my time and my energy, not to mention asking God to give me more than I can muster on my own. I can’t go into details, but I can tell you this: it’s going to deal with a whopping issue of forgiveness, May Belle, and you know how hard those can be. I’m afraid the worst is yet to come. Knowing you’re praying for me is a good comfort, dear. But that’s for sure enough of that. There’s something about the sunshine beaming brightly through the windows that makes a person feel good after so many days of mostly gloomy chill. I just wish the sunbeams landed on crystals here rather than on my dust! That is one thing about cloudy days, I’ve determined. The house always looks cleaner in the dark.”

  “I would one hundred percent agree with you about the sunshine making you feel better, although I don’t much care about the dust one way or the other anymore. I’d rather bake brownies than dust.” While May Belle was making that statement, Dorothy grinned, knowing she’d never once seen as much as a speck of dust in May Belle’s house. Not ever. “I even hung a load of wash out this morning, it was so nice. I can’t wait to bundle those sheets up in my arms and smell the fresh air on our beds tonight!”

  “Already you’ve got laundry out? Goodness! It’s only eight-thirty.”

  “I nearly phoned you at seven, but thought better about it. I know you’re nearly always up at the crack of dawn, but I even found myself sleep
ing in lately, what with all the cool weather that settled in for so many days. I was beginning to think for awhile we’d missed fall altogether and were heading straight into winter.”

  “Now wouldn’t that just frost Gladys’s cake, to think we were going to have to have the Pumpkin Festival without a fall!” The two of them chuckled.

  “Speaking of Gladys,” May Belle said, shifting tones, “she did ask me if I knew why you weren’t there last night. She was expecting you. Consider yourself forewarned, though: she’s wanting to have a ribbon-cutting ceremony for Crooked Creek Park as a part of the Centennial Plus Thirty celebration. Said she hasn’t heard a word about the park and was needing to find out what was holding things up. And you’ll appreciate this: although you weren’t there to spar with her, I reckon Arthur will be enough to keep giving her a run for her money!”

  “Arthur Landers showed up for the committee? I can hardly believe my ears.”

  “Seems Jessie tricked him into it, telling him she’d signed him up, when really, there wasn’t any official sign-up. I imagine she just wanted to have a night of peace and quiet.”

  “Goodness! I hope those two don’t knock each other out before the doings.”

  “They are a pair who has their own way of communicating, that’s for sure.”

  “I mean Arthur and Gladys!”

  “Oh!” May Belle laughed out loud, covering her mouth out of habit when she did so.

  “As far as Crooked Creek Park, Gladys does get ahead of herself, doesn’t she? There’s lots of things that have to happen before a park will be in place, and Katie and I requested, as part of our official donation documents, that no plans move forward for the actual park until next spring. Those two have barely gotten settled into the farm themselves; they don’t need a bunch of construction going on around them right now. Besides, to plan a park takes some thought. We talked about playgrounds and what types they’re putting into parks these days, and maybe wood-chipping a few walking paths through some of the area down there. But I don’t want to detract from an ounce of God’s natural glory and peace and turn it into something that might as well be in the middle of Disneyland. I think to bring too much planning in would defeat the purpose of it preserving nature.

  “Of course there’s a part of me that’s anxious to see it come to life, and I occasionally verge on telling them to just do what they will—which, come to think about it, I suppose they can anyway. I’m not gonna live forever. But it would sure give me satisfaction to see that piece of my family’s history being enjoyed by folks before I pass beyond the yonder. Still, no need for everybody to rush things just because my old ticker is ticking slower.”

  “Dorothy Jean Wetstra. I do not want to hear any more of that kind of talk, especially since your old ticker is only a few months older than mine!”

  “Old being the key word for both of us, right?”

  “Oldsters. We’re two oldsters. Isn’t that the word you use?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We are oldsters for sure. Kinda has a zesty ring to it. Sounds much more glamorous than just saying we’re old bags.”

  Tsk, tsk. “Oh, how you talk! But back to last night’s meeting for a minute. Wait until you hear what Gladys has dreamed up for her idea of a grand finale to the Centennial Plus Thirty!” The women talked and laughed for a good ten minutes, speculating on all kinds of disasters in the making. If Gladys actually pulled this one off, it would be the first time Dorothy might be glad to have given up driving!

  “Grannie M, how do you think I should wear my hair for the Pumpkin Festival dance? Think you can make it glamorous? This will be my first honest-to-gosh dance, you know!” Shelby spoke loudly as she swiveled this way and that in the salon chair while her great-grandmother moved salon towels from the washer to the dryer in the utility room at La Feminique Salon & Day Spa. “Oh, and by the way, I loved your picture in the newspaper! Maybe I should wear my hair up like that. Think an up-do would look good on me?” She ripped the elastic band out of her ponytail, raked her hands through her hair to smooth out a couple tangles, then picked it up and piled it on top of her head, holding it there, turning her head from the right to the left. Maggie walked up behind her and began pumping up the chair, studying Shelby’s makeshift hairdo.

  “Let me have at it a minute,” she said, grabbing a wide-tooth comb out of the sterilizer. She began carefully combing Shelby’s long, fine golden locks so as not to yank them and cause her any pain. It was a moment of déjà vu for Maggie, Shelby’s hair being the same color and texture as her own daughter’s used to be. She continued combing, long after it was untangled, her mind drifting back to her daughter at age four.

  “Oooowwwww! You’re hurting me, Mom. STOP PULLING!”

  “If you’d sit still like a young lady, this would be much easier for both of us.”

  “But, Mom, why can’t we just leave it the way it is?”

  “Do you want people to think your mother let you go to sleep last night with an entire rodeo of rats in your hair? Who’d come to the salon then?”

  “Hey! I’m more important than your dumb beauty shop!”

  Maggie stopped combing and got right in her daughter’s eyes. “Yes, dear, you certainly are.” She kissed her on each cheek and the tip of her nose.

  Now, in a seeming fingersnap, that same daughter’s hair was not only snow white, but she was a grandmother to this beautiful girl whose hair Maggie now ran her fingers through.

  Maggie picked up a switch of her great-granddaughter’s locks and twisted it up and off to one side. She grabbed a couple hairpins and stuck them in this way and that. Immediately she pulled them out and combed through her hair again, like an artist wiping the canvas clean before her next attempt to create a masterpiece. This time she began a French braid that wrapped around Shelby’s head. Old-fashioned. Feminine. “You could put a sprig of flowers right here,” she said, wiggling the spot where she was holding the ends together. “I don’t know if it will stay up, though; your hair is awfully fine and slick. Pretty, but maybe not best for a total up-do. You don’t want the evening to end with you looking like Cinderella stayed a little too long at the ball. Is Josh getting you a corsage? Maybe you could ask him to tell the Floral Fling to leave off the wristband and forget the pins; I could secure it to your hair like so . . .”

  “I’m not going with Josh. He’s a stuck-up pig. I’m going with Kevin Mooney.”

  Maggie tried not to reveal her surprise. She knew Shelby had had a huge crush on Josh Kinney since she’d laid eyes on him. And she couldn’t recall the last time she’d heard Shelby talk so harshly about anyone. “Kevin Mooney. Is he the young man I’m always reading about in the sports section? Runs track for Hethrow?”

  “That would be him. We’ve been friends for years.”

  “How nice for you. Do you like him?”

  “Grams, I wouldn’t have said yes if I didn’t!”

  “Is Josh going to the dance, stuck-up pig that he is?”

  “Who cares.” It was definitely a statement and not a question. The tone in Shelby’s voice had revealed alot to Maggie: clearly, Shelby cared, and a great deal. Maggie continued to fiddle with Shelby’s hair, then she spun the chair to face her.

  “How about we give you a complete makeover? New hairdo, a little eye shadow, blush . . . maybe even some lip gloss? Not that you’re not naturally beautiful just the way you are, but for the dance, let’s turn up the glam a notch. Want to?”

  “Just don’t get me in trouble with Mom, okay? She won’t let me out of the house looking too made up. And don’t give me very much makeup because I won’t know how to use it anyway. I want to look beautiful, not like I’m wearing a Halloween costume!”

  “How about we give the entire head a practice run right now? You can tell me what you think and we’ll get the fine-tuning over with. That way you’ll have a couple weeks to practice any or all of it, and we’ll be ready for action when the big day gets here. And that is . . . when, exactly?”

  “The danc
e is the last weekend in October during the Pumpkin Festival. Saturday night.”

  Maggie knew darn well when the festival took place since next to the annual hair convention in Chicago, it was one of the highlights of her entire year. Twirly skirts, extra sparkling accessories, romantic lights, music, husband Ben looking so dashing in his dressy country western shirt and string tie . . . smelling so good. . . . After all these decades, that man still ignited her passions. Had from the very beginning.

  “Grannie M? You on the planet? Where’d you go?”

  “To Cinderella’s ball, my dear!” Maggie, who had frozen in place, dropped Shelby’s hair, letting it fall around her shoulders. She went over and started flipping through the giant pages in her booking schedule. “Let’s see. Hm.” She ran her hand up and down. “Looks like several of my usuals have changed their appointments to that Saturday. Must have hot dates themselves!” Maggie and Shelby both laughed, trying to picture the likes of Cora Davis and Gladys McKern with hot dates. “How about three-thirty?”

  “Sounds good to me, Grams.” Maggie filled out an official appointment card, although she knew neither of them would forget.

  “Now, let’s see what we can do here,” Maggie said as she whipped a salon shawl around Shelby’s neck, grabbed her scissors and snapped them a few times. “We’ll start with the hair, then move to the makeup. Before we’re done, any man in his right mind will wonder why he wasn’t the one escorting you!”