by Fannie Flagg
1934
In 1934, thanks mostly to the continued growth of the Sweet Clover Dairy, Elmwood Springs got its own train station. The train came through once a day, and its long, sweet whistle was so pleasant to hear. It stirred up memories of the past for some up on the hill. The first time she heard it, Katrina said to Birdie Swensen, “I still remember that first day when you and Lordor met me at the station in Springfield.”
“I remember it, too. Just like it was yesterday,” said Birdie. “You were so stylish. I never dreamed that we would turn out to be lifelong friends.”
“And even after,” Katrina said.
Birdie laughed. “That’s right…and even after.”
—
ALSO THAT YEAR, KATRINA’S GRANDSON, Gene Nordstrom, and his friend, Cooter Calvert, on a dare, were determined to climb to the top of the water tower. Gene, with a pocket full of red balloons, went first. He didn’t let on to Cooter that he was scared to death, and since it was July, the higher they went, the hotter it got. By the time they reached the landing, they were both exhausted, red, and sweaty, but triumphant. After they blew up the balloons and tied them to the railing to prove they’d been there, they stood up and surveyed the land and the town, full of the hopes and dreams of a glorious future, laid out before them.
Gene said, “I’ll tell you what I want to do when I grow up. I’m gonna be a newspaper reporter and travel all over the world.” He was presently reading the book Billy Banyon, Cub Reporter.
Cooter was impressed. “Wow…can I come?”
“Sure. Then I’ll start my own newspaper, like The Joplin Globe, only bigger! I might even get to interview Babe Ruth…or the president. Won’t it be great?”
Cooter said, “You know, Gene, when you think about it, you’re already in the newspaper business in a way, ain’t you?”
Gene, who had a newspaper route at the time, looked at his friend and said, “Yeah, Cooter, you’re right. I am. I never thought of it that way. I’m kinda a newspaperman already.”
—
AT STILL MEADOWS, OLD Man Hendersen, the first to see the red balloons dancing in the wind, announced, “Look at that. Some idiot gal-darned fool’s climbed the water tower again.”
—
THAT NIGHT, GENE AND Cooter both had blisters on their hands and were so sunburned they could hardly move. Gene, the fairest of the two, was so sunburned, he couldn’t wear clothes and had to stay in his soft cotton pajamas for two days. But he was happy. He and Cooter had passed the bravery test, and the balloons were still flying.
Later that year, when Hazel Goodnight found out that her daughter Ada had just climbed all the way to the top of the water tower, she had been appalled. She told Ada that it was “a disgrace” that a girl would do something so dangerous and unladylike. But Ada’s grandmother said, “Oh, horsefeathers, Hazel! If my mother could give birth in the back of a covered wagon in the morning and fix dinner for ten men that night, Ada ought to be able to do anything she wants to.”
This daredevil action only portended what was to come. Ada would go on to do many more dangerous and unladylike things, just like her idol, Amelia Earhart. Ada’s identical twin sister, Bess, had other ideas. She wanted to grow up, marry Tarzan, and live in a tree.
By 1936, a lot of new businesses had opened, and, as someone said, Elmwood Springs was “getting to be a regular metropolis.” While the statement was a slight exaggeration, the downtown area was now almost two blocks long and growing. Merle and Verbena Wheeler opened the Blue Ribbon Dry Cleaners next door to the post office, and a new brick Masonic Lodge that doubled as an Odd Fellows meeting hall had been built on the corner. A brand-new swimming pool named Cascade Plunge had opened in the spring, and, last but not least, there was now a Cat’s Paw shoe-repair shop across the street from Nordstrom’s Swedish Bakery that had a pink neon shoe in the window.
Ted and Gerta’s Swedish bakery had now expanded to include the room next door. Their thirteen-year-old son, Gene, had just received his junior lifeguard badge, and he and his friend Cooter would be working at the pool that summer. All in all, people seemed happy and content. Except, that is, for those up at Still Meadows.
In the past months, an unforeseen problem had developed. Counting the original settlers, and with the usual number of heart attacks, cancer, deaths of old age, accident victims, and so forth, the place was filling up fast…and it was becoming sheer chaos.
At present, when a new resident arrived, everybody started talking to them all at once. Some got so excited to say hello that they talked over the others to be heard. And for the poor newcomer, waking up at Still Meadows was confusing enough, and all the people talking were just too much.
Finally, Lordor Nordstrom addressed the problem at hand. He said, “Now, folks, I know you’re happy to see your loved ones, but just because we’re deceased is no reason not to have a few rules.”
And so a resolution was put forth. They would pick just one person to speak to the new arrival first and act as the official greeter. Everyone agreed that Miss Beemer, who had recently joined her friends on the hill and was used to controlling unruly children, was the obvious choice for the position. Lucille had taught sixth-grade English for years and she had a particular interest in elocution. She also had a lovely manner and a soothing speaking voice.
The procedure decided upon was that Lucille would welcome the newcomer and explain the situation. They’d let them rest awhile if needed, and then, one by one, the others would speak in an orderly fashion. Close relatives first: mothers, fathers, grandparents, and so forth, then husbands, wives, and children, if any. Next, neighbors and friends, and then passing acquaintances who wanted to say hello. Those wishing to be introduced to the newcomer would speak last.
Of course, the plan was not foolproof. They knew some might not wish to speak to their relatives first, but it seemed to be the only way to keep some kind of order. Thankfully, the system worked perfectly well, except for Old Man Hendersen, who jumped in and talked whenever he pleased.
Although they read about crime in Kansas City and elsewhere, Elmwood Springs did not have a police department. Luckily, other than a few minor offenses, they had never had any serious crime problems until 1937, when a Peeping Tom was spotted. Within a day, word spread through the town, like wildfire, and everyone in Elmwood Springs was alarmed. The peeper had been seen hiding in the bushes at several houses where young girls lived. It was always dark when they saw him, and he quickly ran away, so they could not see his face. It was nerve-racking for the parents in town to know that someone was out there lurking around in the dark, peeping in at their daughters. Some men would even walk around their houses at night carrying a shotgun, hoping to be seen and scare him off.
On July Fourth, he was spotted in broad daylight peeping in the school window at the Tappettes when they were changing clothes after marching in the parade. Mary Childress, who had seen his silhouette, had screamed. But he had gotten away.
After almost a year of putting up with it, Hazel Goodnight put forth a plan at the next city council meeting. She said that she suspected the peeper had been at her house several times, looking in her girls’ bedroom window, and as bold as he was there was no reason to think he wouldn’t show up again. And so Hazel proposed that they set up a trap for him. The idea was to plant a brand-new shiny quarter on the ground by the window and hope he would pick it up.
The quarter, unbeknownst to him, but known to the storekeepers in town, would have a small dab of red fingernail polish on it. They all agreed this was a fine plan. The quarter was planted, and the whole town held its breath in anticipation of catching him.
Several weeks went by, and nothing happened. Then one Saturday morning, fifteen-year-old Lester Shingle walked into the bakery and plopped the quarter with the red fingernail polish down on the counter to pay for a dozen doughnuts. Gerta picked it up, noticed the dab of fingernail polish, and yelled, “It’s the quarter!”
Suddenly and within a flash, their son,
fourteen-year-old Gene, came flying out of the back room where he had been working with his dad, ran after the fleeing Lester, and tackled him in front of the dry cleaners. When they heard all the commotion, people up and down the street came out of the stores, just in time to see Gene pick up the screaming and kicking Lester and punch him in the nose. Gene was mad. His girlfriend had been one of the Tappettes changing clothes that day, and he didn’t like the fact that Lester had spied on her one bit.
Once caught, Lester Shingle said he’d found the quarter by the post office earlier that morning. They couldn’t prove he hadn’t, but nobody believed him. The good news was that they were all pretty sure they had caught the Peeping Tom.
Although the peeper had been caught, there was also some sad news. Beatrice Swensen, after trying for so long, was finally expecting. But a month later, she suffered a miscarriage and lost the baby.
After it happened, Ander was heartbroken, but Beatrice was almost inconsolable, to the point that Ander asked Elner to come and stay with her when he had to go work at the dairy.
Every day, Elner sat in Beatrice’s room by the bed and held her hand while Beatrice cried. “Oh, Elner…I wanted that baby so much.”
“I know you did, honey. I know you did,” said Elner, patting her hand.
“Why did it happen, Elner? I was so careful.”
“We don’t know why, but you’re young yet. There’s plenty of time for you and Ander to have lots more babies.”
“I don’t think so. The doctor said that I—”
Elner stopped her midsentence. “Oh, pooh on that old doctor, Beatrice. He doesn’t know everything. Besides, I had a dream last night. I was in my kitchen out at the farm, peeling potatoes, and you called me up on the phone all excited and said, ‘Guess what, Elner? I’m expecting again.’ ”
“You did?”
“Yes! And you know me, Beatrice, my dreams always come true. Why, didn’t I dream that you and Ander would get married, and didn’t I tell you so?”
“Yes…I remember,” said Beatrice.
“So, you mustn’t lose heart. Just have a little faith. You just wait and see.”
—
THE NEXT MORNING, A very grateful Ander Swensen met Elner at the front door. “I don’t know what you said, but last night, she seemed a little better.”
“Well, good,” she said. “I’m glad.” As Elner headed upstairs carrying the tiny black-and-white kitten she had brought for Beatrice, she called out, “Yoo-hoo…I have a little friend who’s come to see you.”
She never talked about it, but Elner believed that sometimes, something living to take care of was the best medicine for a broken heart.
Swing music was sweeping the land, and by popular demand, Mayor Ted Nordstrom had an outdoor dance pavilion built out at Elmwood Springs Lake for the younger set.
Mr. Warren from the hardware store came out and strung up lights all around and set up four loudspeakers. The first night it opened, the place was packed with people. As it turned out, everybody young and old loved dancing and jitterbugging to the big band records by Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman, Tommy Dorsey, and others. Ted and Gerta were town chaperones, and sixteen-year-old Gene set up a refreshment stand and sold ice-cold drinks to the thirsty dancers. Old Mrs. Gravely got so whipped up and excited, she threw her hip out the first night.
—
UP AT STILL MEADOWS, when some of the old-timers first heard the music coming from the pavilion, they were concerned about the loud beat of the drums. But most of the others came to enjoy listening to the music on the long summer nights while they looked up at the stars.
Lordor and Katrina had laughed the first time they heard Glenn Miller’s “Little Brown Jug,” and almost everybody out there loved the Andrews Sisters. Birdie Swensen admired their brilliant harmony when singing “Bei Mir Bist Du Schön.” “Those girls have perfect pitch,” she said.
Lucille Beemer particularly enjoyed Tommy Dorsey’s “I’m Getting Sentimental Over You.” It always made her think of Gustav.
—
IN 1939, THE HUGE blockbuster Gone with the Wind had all the girls doe-eyed over Clark Gable. Twenty-two-year-old Tot Hagood, the hairdresser, had even married James Dwayne Whooten (a would-be housepainter), because she thought he looked just like Clark Gable. Her mother said that James Whooten looked as much like Clark Gable as a squirrel looked like an elephant. But Tot could not be deterred. She was in love.
It was a nice wedding, except that Tot’s daddy got drunk and passed out in the vestibule and couldn’t walk her down the aisle, and James got a piece of rice stuck in his ear, so they spent their first night in the hospital. But other than that and a few other ups and downs it had been a pretty good decade.
1940
It seemed to the older generation that the world was speeding up at an alarming rate. The new jitterbug dance the kids were doing was far too frantic to suit them. As old Mrs. Childress said, “I’m afraid to cross the street, with all these teenagers racing around in their hopped-up hot-rod jalopies.”
But in general, people were in a good mood. Franklin Delano Roosevelt was on his way to being elected to an unprecedented third term, and the Depression was finally turning around, and they were beginning to feel hopeful again.
Elmwood Springs had just gotten its own official Greyhound bus stop, with a sign on a pole and everything. A brand-new bowling alley had been built, too. Warrens’ Hardware now had a layaway plan, and by summer, almost every child in town had a pair of roller skates and a new blue-and-white Schwinn bicycle. In June, the Warrens’ ten-year-old son, Macky, had climbed to the top of the water tower and had scared his mother, Ola, half to death. Macky survived the climb with flying colors, only to almost drown a week later over at the swimming pool, when he knocked himself out on the diving board. Luckily, Gene Nordstrom, who was the lifeguard, saw him and reached down and pulled him out of the pool by his hair just in time.
Also, surprisingly enough, that June, the town hairdresser, Tot Hagood Whooten, without any collateral to speak of, was able to get a loan from the bank and open her own beauty shop. Tot didn’t know it, but Ida Knott Jenkins, the banker’s wife, had helped Tot get the loan. Ida was a client of Tot’s, and she didn’t think that having her hair done on the Whootens’ back porch was in keeping with her new social standing. One night, over dinner, she had pointed a celery stick at her husband and said, “Herbert, I don’t care about any bottom line, you men have a barber shop, so there’s no reason in the world that our town shouldn’t have a beauty salon.” Herbert knew he would have to give Tot the loan, or he would never hear the end of it. Whenever Ida pointed celery at him, she meant business.
—
TWO WEEKS LATER, IDA Jenkins, her hair in pin curls, was at the beauty shop, sitting under a brand-new hair dryer, engrossed in a magazine article:
Do You Suffer from Perfectionism?
1. Are you a fussbudget?
2. High-strung or nervous?
3. Impatient?
4. Critical of others?
5. Ill at ease among disorder?
6. Worried about future events?
The list went on and on from there. After she had finished reading, Ida hadn’t found one single description that had not applied to her, and she was thrilled. Who would not want to be perfect?
“After all, you don’t walk into a jewelry store and say, ‘I’m looking for an imperfect diamond,’ or go to the eye doctor and say, ‘Oh, I’ll just settle for imperfect vision, thank you,’ ” she said. From the time she was a child, she had never understood why anybody wouldn’t try and strive for perfection.
Ida had always been different. At school, when all the kids used to play church, and one would be the preacher, another the preacher’s wife, a deacon, and the choir leader, and some would be the parishioners who had come to the church, Ida said she wanted to be God, because she was the only one who knew how to do it.
Of course, Ida’s strong standards were already taking a toll on h
er daughter, Norma. That same year, Norma Jenkins had been cast as one of the dancing tulips in Dixie Cahill’s spring dance recital. And on the night of the performance, when she had missed a step, she had run off the stage in tears. As her aunt Elner Shimfissle, who was in the audience that night, said to Gerta, “Poor little Norma—only nine years old and already a nervous wreck.”
Norma had two aunts: Gene’s mother, Gerta, and her aunt Elner. They were as different from Norma’s mother as night and day.
Ida had been the prettiest of the Knott sisters, and the problem was that she knew it. She had been determined from the get-go to marry the banker’s son and move up in the world. And she had. Her sister Elner was just a simple farm lady who still wore old-lady tie-up shoes: black in the winter, white in the summer.
Ida aspired to be a trendsetter, and she read all the fashion magazines. She wanted to dress like the ladies in McCall’s and Glamour. She had made friends with Miss Howard, head buyer in Ladies’ Better Wear at the Morgan Brothers Department Store, who kept her supplied with all the latest fashions.
Norma never thought her mother had ever been very nice to Aunt Elner. Ida would often say, “I just wish she wasn’t so country. She lets chickens walk in and out of her house, Norma!”
Ida was ashamed of her farm background and took it out on poor Elner. Although their parents, Henry and Nancy Knott, had owned a pig farm, Ida would spend the rest of her life pretending it wasn’t so. Norma had never seen a photograph of her grandparents. Ida had hidden them, along with the family Bible that had everyone’s date of birth listed. The little fat German farm woman in an apron and the skinny man in overalls standing in front of a fence with pigs in the background was not the family portrait Ida had in mind. She often complained to Elner about having that photograph out in plain view. “If they couldn’t have dressed up, why did they have to have pigs in the picture? It’s so embarrassing.”