We circle the town square twice with no luck locating Locust Street. Since we drove into town from the north, Kelly decides to look for Locust south of the tiny downtown area. No luck.
Heading back into town after that futile search, I again broach the subject of asking for directions. After all, my queasy stomach could use even a short break.
“Liz, I have an inborn directional ability.” Kelly makes a sharp right on a road leading east of town.
Lucy and I are silent as the scenery changes from houses to a soybean field.
When the asphalt road switches to gravel, I see Kelly’s jaw tighten as she slams on the brakes and makes a U-turn in the middle of the road. Gravel spits from under the tires as we roar west.
“Kelly, you might want to be careful,” Lucy says softly. “Sometimes these small towns have speed traps.”
An instant later a flashing red light fills the car’s rear window.
“Great!” Kelly moans. “This is all I need! I just finished court diversion for my last ticket. David will never let me hear the end of this.” She pulls to the shoulder of the two-lane county road.
It must be the luck of the Irish! I can’t believe Kelly is able to charm her way out of a speeding ticket. As soon as she reads the cop’s nametag—Callahan—our fearless leader flashes an impish grin and dives feet first into the role of “a simple Irish lass grateful for the help of the kindly constable.” I will not be surprised if she slips into an Irish brogue.
“Officer, thank heaven you found us!” Kelly says before the elderly cop can even ask for her driver’s license and vehicle registration. “We’re here to visit my friend’s dear aunt, Miss Henrietta Crawford. And silly me, I forgot the directions. I’m afraid we’re hopelessly lost. You wouldn’t know Miss Crawford, by any chance, would you?”
The helpful officer does indeed know Aunt Bette. In fact, he informs us that just yesterday she had moved from her home—fondly referred to as Locust Hill—to new quarters in nearby Orrick.
“I saw Janelle up at the house ’bout an hour ago,” says Officer Callahan.
“Did you say Janelle, Officer?” Lucy leans across the front seat to look out the driver’s side window. “Is Janelle still with Aunt Bette?”
My journalistic instincts kick in. Who’s Janelle? Lucy hasn’t said anything about a Janelle.
But now isn’t the time to ask questions.
“Yep, ever since she was a teenager,” says the officer. “I ’spect she’s up there doin’ some last minute straightenin’ up. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you ladies looked around.”
In the end we don’t need directions to Aunt Bette’s home. Instead, Kelly’s Irish charm not only saves her from a speeding ticket but secures us a police escort to Locust Hill.
“I can’t believe Aunt Bette has already moved,” Lucy says as we walk up the long drive to the front porch. “She was always pretty independent, but I never imagined she’d try to move herself.”
“Luce, she’s lived here all her life,” I reason. “I’m sure she had a friend or two in town who was willing to help. Like Janelle, for instance. Who is she anyway? Is she a relative?”
“I don’t think so, but from what I remember, she and Aunt Bette seemed to be closer than some mothers and daughters I know. I once asked Mother about Janette on our way home from a visit to Tredway. All she said was that she was a friend of the family—and then changed the subject. It almost seemed as if she was a little jealous of her relationship with Aunt Bette.”
“I see that a lot when I’m counseling families,” says Kelly, “when a neighbor or distant relative gets close to an older person who’s living alone. The family is happy there’s someone there to look out for the person, but they get a little miffed when a relationship develops.”
“Kind of like that corny old song,” I add. “‘Love is spelled t-i-m-e.’”
My friends groan.
“Anyway,” I continue, sniffing imperiously, “if Aunt Bette and Janelle are still so close after all these years, I’m sure she helped with the move.”
“Oh, yes, of course you’re right, Liz. It just seems like so much for a woman at her age to organize—even with help.”
“I think it’s great,” says Kelly as we climb the front steps. “Now I’m really looking forward to meeting this ninety-some-year-old who can move in the morning and serve tea in the afternoon.”
When Lucy rings the bell, a large sturdy woman comes to the front door. She appears to be in her early sixties. A huge smile lights her dark face. “Well, I’ll be,” she says, opening the screen door. “This can’t be our Lucy, can it?”
Lucy smiles sheepishly. “Yes, I’m afraid it’s me, Janelle . . . although I feel a bit like a prodigal after all these years. I’m sorry for dropping in this way, but we . . . my friends and I . . . had hoped . . .”
“No need to apologize. I’m just tickled to see you,” she replies, opening the door wide and motioning us into the house. “Now come on in, and I’ll fix us up with a pot of tea.”
Entering the Locust Hill house is like stepping back in time. The first thing I notice is the quiet. Not just the kind of quiet devoid of dogs and kids, but the quiet only found in small towns. After retiring to a largely rural area, my mother-in-law once said she could actually hear the worms chewing on the tomatoes in her garden. And that’s how Locust Hill feels: “chewing worm” quiet.
Janelle escorts us down the hall to a large and sunny kitchen. On one wall is a deep porcelain sink, surrounded by old-fashioned white-enameled cabinets with chrome handles and glass fronts. I wonder idly where a homemaker would stash her clutter when people came to visit. I suspect the glass fronts were retired after focus groups determined that women didn’t really want visitors looking in their cupboards.
An enameled gas range, poised on four narrow legs, looks like it was ordered straight from a 1920s Sears catalogue. The pale green appliance has a small cooktop, elevated oven, and two drawers. The vintage refrigerator in the far corner of the room is short and stout, with its compressor perched on the top.
As I continue to survey the room, I notice that the kitchen is also devoid of the labor-saving appliances typically found in today’s kitchens. Most noticeably absent are a dishwasher and microwave oven.
Although my mother didn’t get her first Radar Range until I was out of high school, I hadn’t realized how much I’d come to depend on the microwave until mine was broken a few years ago. Not only did being without this appliance take the “easy” out of Easy Mac, it brought a whole new meaning to thawing hamburger. I even had to look up a recipe for making popcorn on the stovetop.
And what did a family do before the advent of the dishwasher? I, unfortunately, am very familiar with the answer: “You wash, Liz, and I’ll dry” was the common after-dinner refrain from my mother.
Today dishwashers are so common that advertisers have given up promoting the benefit of soap that guards against “dishpan hands.” I bet today’s young homemakers don’t even know the meaning of “dishpan.”
Lost in my thoughts as Janelle fusses with our tea, I begin to think this might be a good question for a TV show . . .
Picture dapper Regis of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? asking a young woman, “So, Ashlee, now for the sixteen-thousand-dollar question. ‘What is a dishpan?’ Is it . . .
a. a derogatory term for teacher,
b. another name for bedpan,
c. a tray used to carry hot plates to the table, or
d. a container in which to wash dishes?”
Ashlee looks stumped. “I’m not familiar with this term, Regis.”
“Well, you can always use one of your lifelines, Ashlee. Perhaps phone a friend—or take a chance by polling the audience.”
“I think I will phone a friend, Reeg.”
“Good choice. This audience looks a little shaky to me.”
Nervous laughing from the audience.
Regis grins. “Hey! I call ’em like I see ’em.”
“So, Ashlee,” continues the jovial game-show host, “who would you like to call?”
“Well, it has to be someone up on today’s hip language. I bet my sister’s friend, Stacy, will know. Her daughter’s in junior high . . .”
Waking from my daydream, I begin to panic at the thought of my icemaker going on the fritz. And then I smile at myself. I am so a product of the twenty-first century.
Just then the teakettle whistles. Within minutes Janelle joins us at the long kitchen table with our tea.
Lucy takes a sip of the steaming brew. “I hadn’t realized how much I missed coming down to Locust Hill. I always meant to visit sooner and bring Alli, but time just seemed to fly by.”
“Now, don’t you go worryin’ about that,” Janelle soothes, smoothing her wiry black hair back into a bun. “Miss Henrietta knows you’ve been busy raisin’ your family. Your momma used to tell us all about you and that grandbaby of hers.”
“Mother loved being a grandmother.” Lucy smiles sadly.
“That’s for sure,” agrees Janelle. “She was such a sweet thing. I was so sad to hear she passed on.”
“I miss her very much.” Tears brim on Lucy’s lower lashes.
“I’m sure you do . . . ’specially after losin’ your husband in that terrible plane wreck. Miss Henrietta put you on our prayer chain up at the church. I know she didn’t let a day pass without prayin’ for you herself.”
“She did? Aunt Bette prayed for me?”
“Every day, like clockwork. She told me one time that she wondered what God was preparin’ you for . . . seein’ how you’d lost so much.”
Lucy looked out the window, and I stared into my tea. Kelly broke the uncomfortable silence by asking Janelle how long she had known Aunt Bette.
“She and my mama were best friends since they were girls,” says Janelle. “In fact, it was Miss Henrietta who set Mama up with my daddy.”
“Really?” says Lucy. “I never knew that.”
“How did they meet?” I ask.
“He was a young teacher over at the college where her daddy taught. Miss Henrietta thought he would be perfect for Mama. You know how girls are!”
“Aunt Bette as a matchmaker,” muses Lucy. “I would have never guessed.”
“Oh, she’s a fox, that one.” Janelle laughs. “I don’t know how she finagled it, but she got both of ’em to dinner at Locust Hill. She knew it would be love at first sight, and she was right. Mama and Daddy got hitched just as soon as she graduated high school.”
“That’s a great story,” says Kelly. “Your Aunt Bette is a spunky old bird, isn’t she, Lucy?”
“Apparently so. But, I have to admit, I don’t remember this side of her.”
“No, most folks only see her sweetness,” Janelle points out. “And she’s got plenty of that. When my mama died, I was only seventeen. Miss Henrietta took me in like her own daughter.”
“You lived here at Locust Hill?” I ask.
“No, but I might as well have. I was here so much,” Janelle explains. “Daddy was crushed, losing the love of his life. He kinda curled in on himself.”
Lucy looks down and begins to run her fingernail back and forth through a gouge in the soft wood of the pine table.
“Miss Henrietta helped me through that time,” continues Janelle, “even though I knew she was missin’ Mama probably as much as I was. She even dug into that bag of tricks of hers and tried to fix me up with a boy at college, just like she did with Mama.”
“You’re kidding?” I ask. “Did it work?”
“Not this time. I found my William on my own. We’ve been married almost forty years now.”
“I wonder if she tried to do the same thing with Mother,” says Lucy.
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Janelle chuckles. “Maybe that’s why she didn’t come around much ’til she was married.”
“Did Mother visit Locust Hill often?” Lucy asks.
“Oh, goodness yes! She and Miss Henrietta would sit out there on the porch for hours . . . just talkin’ and sippin’ tea. After your grandma died, Aunt Bette was just about all the family your momma had left. ’Sides you and your daddy, that is.”
“I hadn’t realized Mother and Aunt Bette were so close. She rarely talked about her side of the family.”
Janelle nods. “That’s some people’s ways. They keep things held in and don’t talk about ’em. But don’t worry, houses can talk. I think you’ll find more ’n enough family history right here on Locust Hill.”
With that cryptic comment, Janelle hands over a house key. “You take this, Lucy—I’ve got another one at my place. I’m ’bout done for today. You all just look around as long as you want and then close up.”
After explaining the basic layout of the rooms, Janelle leaves us on our own to explore the old house.
“So, are you going to give us the grand tour, Lucy?” asks Kelly.
“I’m not sure how grand it will be, but let’s go take a look.”
Off the narrow foyer is what appears to be a small library on the right and a large parlor to the left. French doors at the far end of the parlor open to a formal dining room. Just past the steep set of stairs in the foyer is the kitchen. A four-season porch spans the rear of the house.
The floors and old-fashioned woodwork are softly polished walnut. Slight ripples are visible on the floorboards in the hall—a physical reminder of the generations who had walked there.
“Look at these floors!” I exclaim as we step into the parlor. “They’re gorgeous.”
“Not to mention the furniture.” Kelly lifts a white protective cloth draped over a Victorian-style sofa. “I wonder why it’s all covered up.”
“I doubt Aunt Bette used these rooms very often,” explains Lucy.
As we continue our tour of the old house, it’s evident that Locust Hill has been well maintained, but that many of the rooms, especially on the second floor, appear not to have been used for years. As with the dining room and parlor, the antiques in the three bedrooms upstairs are covered.
Kelly and I chat in the hall as we wait for Lucy to finish her inspection upstairs.
“I’m beginning to like this idea of covering furniture,” I comment, peeking under a sheet draped over a small side table. “Just think, you’d never have to dust. Or, better yet, dig gummy bears from between the cushions.”
“I had a friend whose mom had plastic slipcovers custom-made for all the upholstered furniture in the living room,” adds Kelly. “I remember getting up from the sofa on a hot day and being mortified by the sweaty thigh prints I had left behind.”
“You’re kidding! You actually left an imprint?” I squeal with laughter.
“I sure did . . . but you can bet I never wore shorts to her house again.”
Lucy emerges from one of the upstairs bedrooms and walks down the steep staircase to join us in the front hall. “Well, ladies, I think we’ve seen about all there is to see at Locust Hill. Are you ready to head back to Omaha?”
“I always seem to be the one bringing up food,” I say, “but I’d like to get something to eat first. Is there a place in town where we can grab a bite?”
“There used to be a little café downtown, but I’m not sure if it’s still open.”
“Let’s give it a shot. I’m hungry too,” Kelly announces.
As Lucy digs for the key Janelle gave her in the pocket of her jacket, I notice an envelope tucked into the frame of a mirror next to the door. I move closer to read the old-fashioned script. “Lucy, this has your name on it.”
“What?” She looks up.
“This letter.” I remove the linen envelope from the frame. “It has your name written on it.”
“Let me see.” Kelly stands on tiptoe to peer over my shoulder. “Do you recognize the handwriting, Lucy?”
She examines the envelope. “Not really. I assume it’s from Aunt Bette, but why would she leave a letter for me here rather than mailing it? I haven�
�t been to Tredway for years. How could she know I would find this?”
“I wonder why Janelle didn’t mention it,” I say. “She had to notice the envelope when she was cleaning.”
“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” Kelly insists. “Open it up.”
“Not here.” Lucy rubs her thumb over the writing on the envelope. “Let’s get something to eat first. I think I’ll need it.”
We decide to stop for a late lunch at Sally’s Diner since it’s the only restaurant in Tredway. Sally’s is not the first restaurant where I’ve seen a blue plate special advertised, but it’s the first place I’ve actually seen it served on a blue plate.
A sleepy-eyed waitress, probably in her late teens, hands us each a one-page laminated menu and says in a bored tone, “The special today is Sally’s Meat Loaf.” She is wearing a light pink smock with a frilly, scalloped collar. A large plastic daisy with “Kendra” printed in the center is pinned to her uniform. The silver stud in her pierced brow seems as out of place in small-town Nebraska as a Southern drawl in New York City.
“Do you know what you want yet?” asks Kendra, gazing out the window at something apparently more interesting than taking our order.
“Is the meat loaf any good?” I ask.
“I guess.” Kendra drums her pencil on the order pad. “A lot of people order it.”
“That’s good enough for me,” I say. “I’ll have the special.”
“Mashed or fried?” she asks.
“Mashed meat loaf?” I ask incredulously.
Kendra’s eye roll reminds me a lot of Katie’s. “Nooooo. Mashed potatoes. Would you like mashed potatoes or fried potatoes?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Are they ‘real’ mashed potatoes . . . or instant?”
“What?” asks Kendra, clearly annoyed by my questions.
“Never mind. I’ll have mashed potatoes.”
“Beans or corn?”
“What kind—,” I begin, then add quickly after noticing the look on the waitress’s face, “forget it. Beans.”
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