by Fannie Flagg
By the spring of 1903, a situation had developed between Miss Beemer and her student Gustav Tildholme. She knew Gustav had failed the eighth grade twice on purpose. And she knew why. He had sat in class and stared at her with his big brown eyes full of pure, unadulterated adoration.
Gustav had even written her love notes telling her how much he wanted to marry her one day. It was her fault, she guessed. She had grown to depend on him so much. She might have been too friendly with him.
But even though she was only one and a half years older than Gustav, there was a certain code of ethics, a line she could never cross. And, besides, she was a Quaker, for heaven’s sake. Marrying her student would cause a scandal. The very idea of such a thing.
When she finally told Gustav he could not come back to class the following year, and he couldn’t walk her home anymore, it broke his heart. She tried to reason with him and explain that what he was feeling was just a schoolboy crush. She assured him that he would outgrow it. “No, I won’t,” he said. “I’ll die first. See if I don’t.” Then he ran out of the room and into the woods behind the schoolhouse, and he never came back to school again. His family told her later that he had gone to California, but they didn’t know where. She always wondered where he was, and whether he would ever come back. That first year, he had carved a little wooden flower out of pine knot and had left it on her desk as a present. She still kept it on her dresser.
Just the other day, someone said that they might have seen Gustav Tildholme down by Elmwood Springs Lake. But it must not have been true. Surely, he would have come to see her, if it had been him.
—
IN THE MEANTIME, Elmwood Springs continued to expand. A brand-new Rexall drugstore opened up on the corner with a real pharmacist named Robert Smith, and a real dentist opened a practice upstairs over the Western Union office. Soon tracks were laid, and they had a trolley that ran all the way to the lake and back.
And out in the world at large, it seemed new inventions were happening every day. One day in December, Lordor was in town having his hair cut, when Mr. Goodnight, the telegraph operator, came running into the barbershop, his face all red and excited.
“My God, boys…it just came over the telegraph. In North Carolina people are flying up in the air in automobiles! Automobiles that fly!”
The barber stopped mid-shave and said, “What?”
“These two Wright boys from over in Ohio built it, and it has long wings on both sides. They drive it as fast as they can, and pretty soon, it starts lifting up off the ground, and the next thing, it’s flying like a bird.”
“How can that be?”
“I don’t know…but that’s what it said. They invented some kind of motor that can fly is all I know. I don’t know how they did it. They said they have a picture of it, so you know it’s true.”
“A man flying in the air in a car with wings…are you sure?”
“Yes. I’m telling you the news just came in, not more than a minute ago.”
“I think there’s some serious leg-pulling going on here. Are you making this up?”
“No, I swear it’s the truth. You just wait. One day, one of those machines will fly right over us, and you’ll see for yourself!”
“Now, George, how could something that weighs as much as an automobile lift up off the ground?”
“How does the moon rise every night? I don’t know, but it does. I need a drink,” said Mr. Goodnight. “Where is it?”
The barber opened the cabinet and brought out the bottle. “Hell…if this is true, we all need a drink.”
Word spread fast, and the next morning, everybody gathered and waited for the newspaper to arrive. After they had all read about the flying machine and seen the photograph for themselves, Svar Lindquist asked a question that, in the coming years, would be asked over and over again. “What in the world will they come up with next?”
1904
* * *
ST. LOUIS
Although Lordor was not well educated in a formal way, he was very forward thinking and always looked for ways to improve himself and others. One morning, Lordor sat on the side of the bed at the hotel where they were staying. He looked at his wife and said with a serious expression on his face, “I suppose this might be the greatest thing that ever happened.” He was talking about the 1904 World’s Fair in St. Louis, Missouri.
As mayor, he had arranged for everyone in Elmwood Springs who could afford it to travel to St. Louis. And those who couldn’t afford it and wanted to go, he paid for out of his own pocket. Miss Beemer was there with those of her students who were old enough to travel.
From what he had read, Lordor knew the fair would be interesting and informative, but no one could have dreamed about all the wonders, the spectaculars, and the attractions. People had come to St. Louis from all over the world. The first time they had seen the huge Palace of Electricity lit up with thousands of lights, the sight of it was so totally overwhelming, most people couldn’t speak.
Lordor was right. People had never seen anything like it. And the size of the fair; the Palace of Agriculture alone covered twenty-three acres. In just two days, they had seen a real live Chinese man, a real Eskimo, an elephant, moving pictures, and babies in incubators—things and people Lordor never imagined he would see in his lifetime. He looked over at his exhausted sleeping children and smiled. “Oh, what a future they will have, Katrina. So many wonderful things are coming.”
—
GOING TO THE FAIR changed everyone. Before the fair, the people in Elmwood Springs had been mostly small-town farmers, living in their small world, but now, having seen all they had seen, they would never be the same. And they couldn’t help but be optimistic.
At the first council meeting after Lordor got home, he said, “My dream is to light up our town, so nobody has to live in the dark anymore.” And he did. Thanks to his many visits to the Missouri Electric Light and Power Company, the stores and houses on Main Street—and later, as promised, every building in town—had electricity. In 1906, when the new streetlights came on, they had a party, and everyone dressed up in their best clothes. Ingrid Nordstrom wore one of her mother’s hats, and her brother, Teddy, as a prank, wore a pair of his father’s big shoes.
Lordor adored his children and, as far as he was concerned, they could do no wrong. Especially Ingrid. Unlike her brother, she liked cows and was already helping with the milking. In the summers, Katrina would stand looking through the kitchen window and watch as Lordor headed out to the pasture with little Ingrid marching along right beside him. Oh, how she loved her daddy.
Lordor indulged her, of course. He even bought her a pair of boys’ overalls and rubber boots. “I want to look like Daddy,” she said.
—
AS THE CHILDREN GREW, so did the little town. By 1907, mostly due to the prodding of Birdie Swensen and the other ladies, they had built a small opera house to accommodate traveling theatrical groups and local plays. As Birdie said, “We may be living in the country, but that’s no excuse for us not to be exposed to a bit of culture now and then.” Although as everyone agreed, the last Shakespearean Acting Company’s presentation had been a letdown. The actor with the spindly legs who played Hamlet had been at least seventy.
Due to the increase in the number of her students, Miss Lucille Beemer had moved from the Nordstrom home and into town, to be a little closer to school. She was now living at Mrs. Molly Ballantine’s Boardinghouse, which catered to single ladies and gents and the occasional traveling salesman passing through. Tonight, Miss Beemer sat in her small room on the second floor, correcting papers. But somehow her heart wasn’t in it.
She walked over and opened her window and looked out. Such a warm beautiful summer night. She could smell the honeysuckle blooming on the large veranda downstairs and hear the faint faraway sound of music. Someone in the house next door was playing a song on the Victrola.
It was on nights like these when she would think of Gustav and wonder where he was.
Even though everybody in town, adults and children alike, always addressed her as Miss Beemer, she was still hardly more than a girl herself. She had barely turned eighteen when she had accepted her first teaching position.
But as a certain married lady said after Lucille stepped off the train a few years back, “No need to worry about her stealing our husbands, ladies. She has ‘Old Maid Schoolteacher’ written across her forehead in large, bold letters.” Lucille Beemer had long black hair that she wore pulled up tight in a high bun, and a slightly long thin nose. And she did appear to be a serious and extremely proper person. But she wasn’t quite what she appeared to be. Because of her position and responsibility at such a young age, she had carefully hidden the part of herself that was still a romantic young girl, full of dreams of romance and adventure.
Even her father, a minister in Philadelphia, would have been surprised at his daughter’s secret dreams—dreams of a handsome stranger riding into her life and sweeping her away. Now, more often than not, the handsome stranger looked just like Gustav Tildholme.
A few of the old bachelors in town had asked her out, as well as Mr. Glen Early, a tenor who sang in the church choir. But she had no interest. The longer Gustav stayed away, the more she realized her heart was somewhere else. Lately, she had begun to question why she had cared so much about what people would have thought if she had run off with him.
Just then, she heard one of the male boarders downstairs on the veranda laugh in a loud, crude way, and she slowly closed the window.
Dear Anna Lee,
Thank you for your last letter. I write to tell you that I am still happy and well. I wish you could come and see me. There are so many daffodils here this year.
The children are growing like weeds. My boy is so sweet, and Ingrid continues to amaze me. I tell you, Anna Lee, she is not like us. She is a true American girl. In summer, she gets as brown as a berry and runs around barefooted, just like the boys. Lordor says she rides the mules even better than the boys do. And he is so proud of her. Last week, he took her with him to the big cattle sale in Kansas City. He said she already knows more about cows than most of the men.
Anyhow, I miss you and often think of our time in Chicago. What would I have done without you, dear friend?
I close now to go feed the chickens. Yes, we have many chickens now, including one very big and pretty fluffy white hen I have named Anna Lee, in your honor. You would be proud of her. She lays a lot of eggs, and all the big red roosters are in love with her.
Love,
Katrina
P.S. I am enclosing pictures of Teddy and Ingrid.
Dear Katrina,
Sorry I haven’t written sooner. Thanks so much for your last letter and pictures of the kiddies. Ingrid looks more like you every day.
I am in the pink here…and speaking of roosters, boy oh boy, do I have a live one on the line. He is an Italian and a little rough, but he has big, dreamy eyes. And does he like blondes. I’ll say! Don’t be surprised if I don’t wind up rich one of these days. He makes his own liquor and sells it for a fortune. Whoo whoo! Just got a swell white fur piece from the lad. Who knows? Next time I write, I could be signing it Mrs. Johnny Zenella. Wish me luck, and pat that chicken on the head for me.
Anna Lee
P.S. WHEN ARE YOU COMING TO SEE ME?!
1908
It was well after nine o’clock when Lucille Beemer heard a knock on her door. It was her landlady, Mrs. Ballantine. “Miss Beemer, you have a long-distance phone call. It’s a man.” Lucille was already in bed with her hair pinned up, but she quickly jumped up, threw on her robe and slippers, and ran downstairs to the phone in the hall. Mrs. Ballantine was waiting and handed her the receiver, then stepped back into her room to give her some privacy.
“Hello, this is Lucille Beemer,” she said, almost out of breath. “Hello?” Lucille could hear music in the background, but nobody spoke. “Hello,” she said again. “Gustav…Is it you? Hello? I’m here….” Again, there was no answer on the other end, and then whoever it was hung up.
Mrs. Ballantine came back out of her room. “Who was it?”
“I don’t know. Did he say where he was calling from?”
“No, he just asked to speak to you. But whoever it was sounded a little drunk to me.”
“Maybe he’ll call back.”
“Well, if he does, I hope it will be at a decent hour the next time.”
Miss Beemer waited by the phone, hoping he would call back, but he never did.
She certainly hadn’t planned it. Miss Beemer ran into Gustav’s mother quite by accident. They just happened to be in Springfield shopping on the same day. After a few minutes of small talk and trying on several pairs of gloves, Miss Beemer asked the question as casually as she possibly could, being careful to place the inquiry in an unobtrusive position in the conversation as a way to make it seem less important than it was.
Before she spoke, Miss Beemer reached over and put on a pair of gray kid gloves, and while looking at them, she held them up and asked, “What do you think of these, Mrs. Tildholme? I’m not so sure about the buttons. Oh, and how is Gustav? Have you heard from him lately?” She looked at her gloves again. “No, these are far too fancy,” she said, and took them off again, her heart pounding, waiting for her answer.
Mrs. Tildholme studied the gloves and said, “Yes, I agree…too many buttons. Oh, Gustav.” Then she sighed and shook her head. “That boy. Now he’s gone all the way up to Oregon, lumberjacking for some big outfit. He says he’s making a lot of money, but I wish he’d come home, even for a visit.” Suddenly, Mrs. Tildholme’s eyes lit up with an idea. “Oh, Miss Beemer, would you do me a huge favor? Gustav thought the world of you. Could you write him and tell him to come home? He’d probably listen to you. Young people have a mind of their own these days. They don’t listen to their parents, but they might listen to their teacher. Would you? I have his address.”
The very next morning, Lucille sat down at the small desk in her room and, after a moment, picked up the pen, dipped it in the ink bottle, and began to write.
Dear Gustav,
Hello from Elmwood Springs. I hope you are well. Your mother tells me that you are now a lumberjack. It sounds so wonderfully like a Jack London novel. You have such a good mind. I do hope you are keeping up with your reading….
She crumpled the page and started again.
My Dear Gustav,
Hello from an old friend. Your mother and father miss you terribly and so do…
Dearest Gustav,
This letter is a much-belated hello from your old teacher, Lucille Beemer….
Dear Gustav,
I know it has been a long time since we last spoke, but I think of you so often and always with great affection. I wonder if…
Dear Gustav,
I am so sorry that our last meeting was such an upsetting one. But you must understand that my position as…
She suddenly stopped writing. Oh, Lord. What was she doing? Gustav was not a child. He was a grown man now. She couldn’t write to a grown man and tell him that his mother wants him to come home. And with the new, exciting life he was living now, he might not even remember who she was. Writing to an ex-student of hers in such an intimate way was most inappropriate. It would probably embarrass him to receive such a letter from some silly old maid teacher he once knew. He might even laugh and show it around.
Trying to set her feelings down in words and then seeing them on paper in black and white made her realize how utterly hopeless the situation was. Gustav had obviously gone on with his life. There was nothing she could do, short of making a complete fool of herself. She could see now that she had been living with some made-up dream that, one day, Gustav would come home and tell her that he still loved her.
Just then, she heard a knock on her door. “Miss Beemer, it’s Sonia, the housekeeper, ma’am. Do you have any trash to be taken downstairs?”
“Oh, yes, Sonia. Just a minute…come on in
.” Miss Beemer crumpled up the last sheet of paper she had written on, dropped it into her almost-full small wicker wastepaper basket, and handed it to her. “Here you go.”
As Sonia was emptying Miss Beemer’s discarded papers into a larger waste can, she asked, “Busy grading papers?”
“What? Oh, yes.”
“Ah. Well, as they say, a teacher’s work is never done. People just keep having babies, don’t they? But God bless you for what you do. My little one will be with you next year.”
“Yes, I know, and I’m looking forward to meeting her.”
“See you tomorrow,” said Sonia, as she closed the door behind her, leaving Miss Beemer sitting alone at her desk with her empty wastebasket, looking out the window, facing reality. Facing the lonely life ahead of her. But at least she had her students to keep her busy.
1909
As usual, on the Fourth of July, while the ladies were busy setting out the food for the big picnic, all the men and boys were heavily engaged in a serious game of horseshoes. Suddenly, there was a great roar from the men. Katrina stopped and watched in amazement. Her daughter, Ingrid, the only girl in the game, had just pitched another perfect shot.
Ingrid was so different than she had been at that age. So independent. There was no telling what she was going to do with her life. Ingrid was a first-generation American girl, and the world was changing. There were even rumbles about women getting the vote, something Lordor was all for. He said, “If any addle-brained drunken bum off the street could vote, why not the ladies?”