Watermelon Days and Firefly Nights: Heartwarming Scenes from Small Town Life

by Smith, Annette

  © 2002 by Annette Smith

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  eISBN 978-1-4412-3928-0

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

  The stories, characters, and town written about in this book are fictional.

  The internet addresses, email addresses, and phone numbers in this book are accurate at the time of publication. They are provided as a resource. Baker Publishing Group does not endorse them or vouch for their content or permanence.

  To my four sisters-in-love.

  In order of appearance,

  Diana, Martha, Dale, and Sara.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Introduction

  1. A Woman and a Well

  2. Hot Dog’s on the House

  3. Let Her Eat Cake

  4. Magic Money

  5. Spanish Lessons

  6. Angel Incognito

  7. Millard and Millie

  8. Blind Man’s Bluff

  9. Pinkie and the Chief

  10. Scared Crow

  11. Wise Woman

  12. Butter Up

  13. A Pinch of Sugar

  14. Sweet Georgia

  15. Old Spice

  16. All the Right Ingredients

  About the Author

  Other Books by Author

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to the following folks:

  My husband, Randy, for his willingness to subsist for days at a time on freezer food, his promises not to take his sweater off in public (thus revealing an unironed shirt), and his amazing ability to juggle the bills when the royalty check doesn’t come, which makes it possible for me to live my dream of writing full time. He’s simply the best.

  My teenage daughter, Rachel, and my grown-up son, Russell, for convincing me of my worth and value, even when I’m not the mother I want to be.

  Louie and Marolyn Woodall, my globe-trotting parents, for inspiring me to live a life of risk and adventure.

  Dayne Woodall, my engineer brother, for the hours and hours he spends patiently walking me through my latest computer snafu.

  Revell editor Lonnie Hull DuPont, for her encouragement and enthusiasm for my work and for making my writing fingers feel like they could fly.

  Chip MacGregor, my agent and friend, for his expertise and guidance that helps keep me on track.

  Special friends who, during the writing of this book, gave special support: Suzie Duke, Laura Jensen Walker, Sheila Cook, and Sheri Harrison.

  To God be the glory!

  INTRODUCTION

  Ella Louise, Texas

  Once the site of bustling activity, the outskirts of Ella Louise, Texas, where the railroad tracks once ran, now lie abandoned, given back over to the forest and overgrown with native pine trees, thick underbrush, noxious weeds, and snaky wild-berry vines. It’s been forty years since the train stopped coming through Ella Louise. Rail routes changed, and with them a way of life.

  Back then, most of Ella Louise’s able-bodied men made their livings working in the woods, harvesting timber. Hauling cut trees to one of the town’s two sawmills for processing, these men received a fair wage. With that wage, they supported their families. Problem was, both sawmills relied on the train to transport their products. When the train stopped coming to Ella Louise, the mills were forced to shut down.

  The closing of the sawmills precipitated the dominolike flattening of Ella Louise’s economy. The families of the mill workers packed up and left Ella Louise in droves. Lacking paying customers, most downtown businesses closed, one by one. The population of the town, which once hovered close to twelve thousand, dropped to near what it is today, just over twelve hundred.

  To the average hiker, the woods where the railroad tracks once ran appear quiet and still. But superstitious old-timers swear up and down that if a person goes to the tracks and finds the right spot, he’ll hear the whistle, the bell, and the clankety-clank sounds made by those long-gone trains. Nostalgic storytellers explain that since so many trains, making so much noise, passed through Ella Louise during its glory years, the sound of them remains in the woods. Although the sound is muffled beneath five decades of fallen pine straw and musty wild moss, on occasion it can be heard.

  On at least a dozen occasions, I’ve traveled to Ella Louise, trekked to the site of the old railroad tracks, parked myself on a flat tree stump, and sat still and quiet as a doe, listening for the train.

  I’ve yet to hear it.

  Honestly? About an hour or so of listening is all I’m good for. After that, the bugs get to worrying me and my behind gets tired of its woody perch.

  Kindly town folks who know about my quest express their regrets and ask if I’m disappointed by not hearing anything. Truthfully, I tell them, “Not much.” For though the whistle of a phantom train would be something to hear, the sounds of life in present day, small-town Ella Louise are what I really come for.

  I am a collector of stories, and in this small Texas town are tucked some of the most intriguing tales I’ve ever heard. I can’t imagine that the sound of any train could compare with the rich collection of stories and yarns I’ve gleaned from Ella Louise’s always friendly and flawed, often funny and eccentric population.

  As you read the tales I’ve recorded in this book—many of them laugh-till-you-snort funny, a few of them touched with as much beauty and melancholy as a mourning dove’s lonely dusk call—I trust that you, dear reader, will agree. So settle yourself in. Find a comfortable place to sit. Prop up your feet and fix yourself something good to drink. It’s time you and I took a trip to the town of my dreams—Ella Louise.

  1

  A WOMAN AND A WELL

  “OKRA FESTIVAL? You sure?”

  “Says right here.” Nineteen-year-old newlywed Rochelle Shartle sat cross-legged in the rumpled bed, eating Little Debbie oatmeal cream pies and reading the newspaper to her groggy husband, Rocky. “The town of Ella Louise, Texas, invites all its friends and neighbors to attend this year’s annual Okra Festival and Quilt Show.”

  “You like okra?” Rocky asked.

  “Not really, but admission’s free and there’s a craft show and live music. It doesn’t say anywhere that you have to eat okra. Come on. I want to do something today. It might be fun.”

  “I don’t think so.” Rocky had a project due for school that would take him all weekend to finish.

  “How far is Ella Louise, anyway?” Rochelle asked, as if she hadn’t heard him.

  Rocky gave in after successfully extorting from Rochelle the promise that they would not stay too late.

  The festival turned out to be a big deal, but even though they were only two amongst a small throng of visitors, Rocky and Rochelle found themselves personally greeted by the town’s mayor, Alfred Tinker, who stood at the entrance of the festival grounds. As they walked past, Mayor Tinker handed them plastic okra-shaped lapel p
ins. Treated to all that the festival had to offer, they were spritzed with free Avon cologne—a brand-new scent—guided through the craft-show tent by two members of the Gentle Thimble Quilting Club, and pressed to sample fresh okra cooked seven different ways. (“Just spit it in your napkin when no one’s looking,” Rochelle whispered to Rocky when he looked about to gag.) In addition to the okra, there was a quilt raffle, a donkey softball game, and a nurse offering free blood-pressure checks.

  “Leaving already?” asked the mayor, who was waving good-bye to people as they left the festival. “Come back and visit us real soon. Folks, did anyone tell you about the womanless wedding over at the Baptist church tonight? No, no. Not a real wedding. Fund-raiser. Town’s trying to raise money for the volunteer fire department. They’re needing a new truck. Sure y’all can’t stay? It’s sure to be an enjoyable evening, and we’d love to have you.”

  Rocky nixed the womanless wedding but let Rochelle talk him into driving around Ella Louise and its outskirts before heading home.

  A lot of work had gone into the preparation for the festival. Teens from the Methodist church youth group had done a trash pickup, and members of the Golden Spade Garden Club had placed whiskey-barrel halves planted with moss rose and red petunias all around the town square.

  “Pretty,” said Rochelle as they circled. “You think it’s always this nice?”

  “Looks like.”

  “Yards are full of flowers. Look at those daylilies—and those roses!”

  “Must be good soil here,” said Rocky, inching the car along.

  “I think it’s the humidity,” said Rochelle, who was inclined to sweat. She fanned herself but kept her nose out the window so as to get a good look at the town.

  “Is that the Chamber of Commerce? In the back of a tanning salon?”

  “What the sign says.”

  “Wanna stop?” Rochelle was as eager as a kid hoping to get a Dairy Queen dip cone.

  Rocky glanced at the car clock. He knew he’d have to pull an all-nighter to get his project done.

  “Please? I’m not ready to go home yet. I love this little town. Maybe there’s some stuff here that we haven’t seen.”

  Rocky doubted it but indulged his city-bred bride anyway. A bell hung on the inside doorknob jingled when he pushed open the door of the Chamber of Commerce and Tawny’s Quick Tan Salon. The aroma of a burning vanilla candle and a just-eaten Lean Cuisine lunch wafted through the room. The place was quiet, and at the sound of the bell, Mayor Alfred Tinker’s ample-bodied assistant, Faye Beth Newman, looked up from her crossword puzzle. Her face brightened and she rose to her feet.

  “Come in! Welcome to Ella Louise. I’m sorry, but Mayor Tinker’s at the festival right now. He’s left me to hold down the fort. Have you two been out there? Good! Have a good time? I’m so glad. Did you taste the okra? How about the fritters? Aren’t they to die for? Now, tell me where you two are from.”

  “Houston,” Rochelle said. “We’re from Houston.”

  “Wonderful! What can I do for you?”

  “Do you have any information about interesting things to see around town?”

  “Sure do. Come right over here to our Visitor Center.” From a card table two steps away, Faye Beth plucked a four-color brochure, a map, and a “Welcome to Ella Louise” coffee mug for each of them. “Take your time; look around. Ella Louise is a wonderful town.” She unfolded the brochure. “You’ll want to see the library; it’s in an old historic building. Then there’s Big Rock Monument, Lover’s Leap Scenic Outlook, and the American Indian Arrowhead and Artifact Museum.”

  “Wow.” Rocky’s interest was caught. “An Indian museum? Here?”

  “Sure is. And it is something to see. Chief Johnson built it in front of his house. Been five years, I guess.”

  “There’s an Indian chief living in Ella Louise?”

  “Oh, honey, not a real Indian,” Faye Beth said with a wink. “His people’s mostly Irish, I think. William Earl is his real name, but ever since he was a child, he’s loved Indian stuff. Museum’s open every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon. You’ll know Chief when you see him. He’s the only man in town what wears that Indian jewelry.”

  “Sure wish he was open today,” Rocky said as he studied the brochure.

  “Guess that just means y’all will have to come back,” said Faye Beth. “We could use a pair of young folks like you. Why, you ought to just move yourselves up here.”

  Rocky and Rochelle went home; he to study, she to dream. Because after visiting Ella Louise, Rochelle, who had lived in the city all her life, decided she wanted to move there.

  Every weekend, she tried to cajole Rocky into taking a drive back to Ella Louise. Most weekends his answer was the same. “Not today, Rochelle. I’ve got to study.” He was in his last and most time-consuming semester.

  “Come on! You never want to do anything fun.”

  He winced at her words.

  “Someday we’re going to move there. I know it,” Rochelle told him.

  “Someday.” But Rocky, keeper of their budget, didn’t see how it could ever happen—especially if he didn’t graduate and get a full-time job.

  Then, six months after their visit to Ella Louise, Rochelle’s great-aunt passed away. Soon as her will was read, Someday arrived. Rochelle was the woman’s sole heir.

  By then, Rocky had graduated. And he and Rochelle promptly moved to Ella Louise.

  Faye Beth Newman took credit for Rocky and Rochelle’s move. “I told those kids they should move here,” she bragged. “They went and took me up on my invitation.”

  ROCKY SECURED HIS FIRST TEACHING JOB—social studies at Ella Louise Middle School. He spent hours at night preparing his lessons so as to be ready for the next day’s classes.

  Rocky’s dedication to his work rankled Rochelle. She wanted to throw block parties, go shopping for curtain fabric, and take hikes along the creek. “Come on, Rocky! Let’s do something spontaneous!”

  He would, he’d tell her, just as soon as he finished his lesson plans and averaged all his students’ end-of-semester grades.

  After a few months in Ella Louise, Rochelle, who had learned how to cook in her great-aunt’s kitchen, bought the town’s old Dairy Queen, which had been closed for over a year. Rocky, after school and on weekends, helped her clean it, paint it, and fix it up. Once it was done, Rochelle hung a sign that said “Welcome to the Wild Flour Café” and began serving breakfast and lunch.

  They also bought a tidy frame house—white with green trim—next door to the library. The house needed work, but Rocky fixed it up too. Months after moving in, he made a surprising discovery in the backyard. He’d finally had a free afternoon to spend cleaning up along their lot’s back fence. Several seasons of fallen branches, tall grass, and climbing vines had nearly taken over the back half of the yard. “Rochelle, come look at this.”

  “What is it?”

  “A well, I think.”

  “Like for water?”

  “What it looks like.”

  “Does it have water in it?”

  Turns out, it did.

  The next day at the Wild Flour Café, Rochelle questioned Crow Buxley, one of her best breakfast customers.

  “Crow, you know anything about the history of my place?”

  Sure enough, he did. Place used to be in his family. Years and years ago.

  Rochelle plied him with a slice of homemade pumpkin bread.

  “Honey, there’s a story about that well. When my great-grandparents settled on that place, wasn’t no such thing as running water. My grandmother had to haul it in buckets, up from the creek.”

  “How long ago was that?” asked Rochelle.

  “Hundred years, at least. Wasn’t really much town here then. More like a settlement, I guess you’d say. Anyway, my great-grandfather George was crazy about my great-grandmother Lizzie. Growing up, the two of them lived neighbors. Played together when they was children.”

  “That’s so romantic,” gushed Ro
chelle.

  “Well, one day when they was about seventeen and eighteen years old, George and Lizzie up and decided to get married. Them and a couple of their friends—they had to have witnesses—loaded up in George’s daddy’s wagon, drove over to the preacher’s house, and sent someone in after him. The man came out and married them right there in the wagon.”

  “They didn’t even get out?”

  “Nope. Back in them days times were hard. People didn’t make any big production out of everday events like they do now.”

  Rochelle hid a smile and poured Crow a glass of lemon iced tea.

  “Anyways, they got hitched. For the first few years of their married life, they lived with George’s folks. His mother wasn’t well, and Lizzie was a big help to her. Then George’s mother passed, and his daddy remarried. That was when George commenced to building them a little house on the same spot where yours sits now.”

  “And Lizzie had to haul water?”

  “Yes. Hauling heavy water buckets wore even fleshy women out, and she was a tiny little thing. You can see her in old pictures. Ninety pounds soakin’ wet’d be my guess. Now Lizzie didn’t complain much; she just did what had to be done. But George decided he was gonna dig her a well.”

  “By hand?”

  “All by hand. Weren’t no drilling machines ’round here back then. He went at it with a pickax and a shovel. Dug through forty feet of rock. Took him four years ’cause he had to do all the digging when his other labor was done—and there was plenty of that. Didn’t work on it ever day, just when he could.”

  Ten feet a year, figured Rochelle. “Four years? And he didn’t give up? Did he ever wonder if he was digging in the right spot?”

  “Sure he did. Took a lot of ribbin’ from his neighbors. After the first year or two, they thought he was crazy to keep it up. And Lizzie—sweet a woman as she was—got tired of it too. Ever bit of his spare time, George was out digging. Many a time Lizzie would want to go visitin’ her sister or she’d want to take a ride into town, but George wouldn’t do it, because he had to work on that well. Just dig, dig, dig, ever minute he got.”