Standing in the Rainbow

THE FIFTIES

Cowboy Bob

THE NEXT TIME Mr. Charlie Fowler, the poultry inspector, came to town, he was surprised to see that “young Robert” had grown almost five inches and his voice was already starting to change. If he kept growing at that rate, they said, he might get to be taller than his father by next year. Two weeks after Bobby’s fifteenth birthday, the letter he had been waiting for from the national office of the Boy Scouts of America in Irving, Texas, arrived. He ripped it open and was elated to read:

Dear Robert,

Congratulations! You are an Eagle Scout. With the completion of the requirements you have mastered many skills and made the Scout Oath and Law a part of your life. Our prayers are with you and your future successes.

Sincerely,

Bruce Thompson

Chief Scout Executive

Both he and Monroe had made Eagle Scout, and the following summer they took the train all the way across the country to the big Boy Scout Jamboree in Santa Ynez, California. This would be the first time either of them had ever been out of Missouri and, for Monroe, his first trip out of Elmwood Springs. When they crossed into Oklahoma and Texas and into New Mexico and Arizona, they might as well have been on the moon. As they stared out the window at the western landscape they could not believe their eyes. It was hard to even imagine it was all real. They were both in awe of the vast landscape that stretched as far as they could see. Neither one had any idea how big the country was. All Monroe could say as they passed by the Painted Desert, Indian reservations, herds of buffalo, and saw their first western sunset, was “Whoa!” He repeated the word a lot all the way to California and also when he first saw the huge Alisal Ranch, where the Boy Scouts were staying. It was a real working ranch and they met a genuine bowlegged cowboy, who showed them where they would be sleeping. In a real bunkhouse, as it turned out. That night, after they’d walked back from the first Boy Scout ceremony, the dark blue sky was spangled with stars so close you could almost touch them. And they had thought the stars in Elmwood Springs were bright. Even though it was summer, the night was cold and Jake, the hired hand, made a fire in the big stone fireplace. What a day. They had met boys from all over the world who had also never seen a ranch before but none was more impressed than Bobby.

Later, when everyone else went to bed, he was too excited to sleep. He lay there watching the reflections of the orange and black flames dancing on the ceiling and listened to the sound of coyotes from a distant hill and he felt as if he had just stepped into a Zane Grey novel. As he fought to stay awake his mind began to wander . . . and dream.

The boy’s father walked into his room with a letter in his hand and a solemn look on his face.

“Son, we never told you this before today . . . but you have an uncle out West who has just died and left you his entire ranch. Running a five-hundred-thousand-acre spread is a big responsibility but I know you can handle it.”

The young stranger rode up to the Double R Ranch house and thought to himself, as he surveyed the thousand head of cattle mooing gently in the meadow and the cowpokes that stood around warily eyeing the slow but steady approach of the new young owner, “Yes . . . you may be a tenderfoot today, Bob Smith, but tomorrow . . .”

Just then the daughter of the ranch foreman, a shy, pretty girl, suddenly appeared on the vine-shaded veranda. “Howdy, ma’am,” he said as he swung down from his horse. “And what is your name?”

“Margarita,” she replied, her dark eyes flashing. . . .

This was a trip he would never forget.

The Baby Boom

The fifties brought many profound changes both at home in Elmwood Springs and all over America. Everywhere you looked, hundreds of TV antennas seemed to pop up overnight, until every house on every block had one. Names like Philco, Sylvania, Motorola, Uncle Miltie, and Howdy Doody were now part of the language. But television sets and performers were not the only things multiplying. Babies were being born by the thousands every minute of the night and day.

Norma and Macky Warren now had a little girl named Linda, and Anna Lee had a child on the way, and this morning Dorothy had yet another birth to announce. On April 7 Dorothy came down the hall as usual, greeted her guests, and the show started. “Good morning, everybody . . . it’s another pretty day over here. Mother Smith as usual says hello and is feeling good today. Flash, as Walter Winchell would say. Attention, Mr. and Mrs. America and all the ships at sea. Last night our little friend Betty Raye over in Sedalia, Missouri, gave birth to a seven-pound little Hamm Sparks Junior . . . So a great big welcome to the world, baby boy! I know your parents are proud. It seems like only yesterday we were waving good-bye to your mother. Oh, how time flies. We have a lot of fun things lined up for you today. Our two special guests, Ruth and Dawn, the Bohemian harpists, are here all the way from Gaylord, Missouri, and they will be doing their famous rendition of ‘Sing Gypsy Sing’ for us.

“But before we start the show, we have one more little cat that needs a home and I’ll tell you he’s the sweetest thing, just wants to sit in your lap all day and love on you. Dr. Stump says he’s in good health and he will do his male operation for free. . . . We really need to make sure that all our animals have their male and female operations . . . there are just too many precious dogs and cats out there with no home. I look at Princess Mary Margaret and it almost breaks my heart to think she could be out in the world all alone without a family and I’m sure you feel the same way.

“Also we do want to thank Mrs. Lettie Nevior of Willow Creek who sent Princess Mary Margaret the loveliest little coat with her name embroidered right on it. And Mrs. Nevior, how I admire your tiny little stitches. You are just an artist, that’s all I can say, just an artist.”

Bess Goodnight, who worked at the Western Union office, walked up on the porch and handed Dorothy something that had just come in over the wire. “I thought you might want to see this,” she said.

“Thank you, Bess,” Dorothy said as she quickly scanned the news item. “A fanfare, if you please, Mother Smith. An announcement has just come in and I am happy to report that our own wonderful sponsor, Mr. Cecil Figgs of Cecil Figgs Mortuaries and Floral Designs, has just been named Missouri Businessman of the Year for the second time in a row. So another great big congratulations to you! We always love it when our advertisers do well.”

The Funeral King

IF THERE WAS ever a business that proved advertising paid off, it was Cecil Figgs Mortuaries and Floral Designs. What had started out as one small, pink concrete-block building was now thirty-six large, white-columned affairs designed to resemble Tara in Gone with the Wind scattered across the state, two in Kansas City alone. By now Cecil Figgs was the biggest name in the funeral and floral business. He was advertised statewide, on the radio, on billboards, on bus stop benches, in newspapers and the Yellow Pages. Everywhere you looked or listened you would see or hear about Cecil Figgs. “Open twenty-four hours a day to better serve you and will arrange pickup at any location. We treat your loved ones as one of our own.” Of course, he advertised layaway plans. After Cecil had been named Businessman of the Year for the second time, Helen Reid, a woman with the local newspaper, who was assigned to do a story on him, arranged an interview with his two aunts, who still lived in the small town of Eudora, Missouri, where he’d been born. Mrs. Mozelle Hemmit was sitting in her parlor recalling his childhood for the reporter. “Cecil always loved a funeral. From the time he was six years old, you bring him a dead cat and you had yourself a funeral. Flowers, music, and headstone to boot.” His other elderly aunt, Mrs. Ethel Moss, agreed. “It’s true. Whenever most boys were off playing ball he’d be down at Shims’s Mortuary in his little blue suit attending somebody’s funeral. It didn’t matter whether he knew the family or not. Did it, Mozelle?”

“No,” she agreed. “He just liked mingling with the crowd and sympathizing with the grieving relatives. By the time he was twelve Mr. Shims had already put him to work overseeing the visitors book and handing out fans. Remember, Ethel?”

Ethel nodded. “That’s right and he made good money, too, and I’ll tell you this, if there is such a thing as a born mortician, he’s it. Cecil just loves the public, dead or alive, and he always did.”

“And,” said Mozelle, “he was just a natural florist right from the get-go. Cecil was always a whiz with flowers, wasn’t he, Ethel?”

“Oh yes, that boy could whip up an arrangement out of what most people threw away . . . and creative! Remember that spray of wheat and corn shucks he arranged for old Nannie Dotts’s casket? He’s just a miracle worker when it comes to arranging. You hand him five dandelions and a handful of weeds and by the time he gets done, you’ve got yourself a dining room table centerpiece.”

“I remember when he first started out,” Mozelle said. “He bought Mr. Shims’s place. He was a one-man band as far as the funeral business. He did the flowers, embalmed the departed, greeted the mourners, sang the hymns, and preached the sermon . . . and if that wasn’t enough, he drove the hearse. Now, if that’s not service, I don’t know what is. But he’s come a long way from those days. I know Ursa is proud of him. He’s been a good son. How many boys that age would bring their mother to live with them and be so sweet? He takes her everywhere, buys her anything she wants. Hired a maid for her and treats her like a queen. She doesn’t have to lift a finger.”

Mozelle shook her head, puzzled. “A sweet boy like that but he never married and I don’t know why. He was always real popular. Wasn’t he, Ethel?”

“He was. Cecil was the band major in high school and was in all the school plays.”

The reporter asked, “Did he have a high school sweetheart?”

Mozelle said, “Well . . . there was that one girl—remember?—that he went around with for a while. We thought maybe something would happen but when I asked Ursa about it she said that girl was a Christian Scientist and it never would have worked out. But he has lots of friends. He’s very active in the Young Men’s Christian Association and he directs the Miss Missouri contest every year and runs the Little Theater group up there in Kansas City.”

“And directs sacred-music festivals,” Ethel added. “And don’t forget his church work. He’s choir director over at the big Methodist church. So with all his theater and music friends, I’m sure he never has time to be lonesome. He’s made a lot of friends in the gospel world. There’s not a gospel-singing family in a six-state area that’s not a customer. When one of them dies he’s the first one they call to come and officiate.”

Ethel nodded. “They’re always falling out with massive strokes and heart attacks and things. Cecil said he has to special-order the caskets and keep a few in stock just for them.”

Mozelle said, “That gospel crowd alone keeps him busy night and day.”

The reporter addressed the next question to both of them. “What would you say is the secret of his success?”

They both thought about it and Mozelle spoke first. “I would say that it’s his love of pageantry and knowing people. He told me one time, he said, ‘Aunt Mo’—Mo, that’s what he calls me—he said, ‘Aunt Mo, people need a little help to cry over their departed.’ He said most people try to hold it in when they should let go and get it over with. And believe me, with his theater background he knows exactly how to tug at your heartstrings . . . with music and lighting and all. He really knows how to pull it out of you.”

“That’s true. I’ll guarantee you will not go to one of Cecil’s funerals and not wind up crying along with the rest of them. I know. He did Old Lady Brock’s funeral and by the time we were halfway into the service he had me carrying on like she was my own mother. By the time he’s done you come out feeling like a dishrag—but you feel good too, don’t you?”

“You do,” said the other aunt. “And with him it’s not just a business. I’ve never been to one of his services that he didn’t get all emotional himself. Every time, no matter who the departed is, he sits in the back and has himself a good cry. I think he enjoys his work as much as the customers do. And he is not afraid to spend money. He hires only the best cosmeticians and hair people.”

“That’s right. I’ve yet to go to one of his funerals where the family didn’t say that the deceased looked better dead than when they were alive.”

The reporter thanked them and went home and wrote her story. She was tempted to headline the piece “Better Dead Than Alive” but thought better of it and used “Funeral King Kind to His Mother” instead.

Ferris’s Funeral

TRUE ENOUGH, when Ferris Oatman died suddenly in 1952 of a massive stroke, Cecil Figgs was the first one called. Although it was seventy-five miles from Ferris’s hometown, Cecil decided the service was to be held at the old Boutwell Auditorium in Birmingham, where the Oatmans had sung at so many sacred-music festivals. On the day of the funeral every gospel group in America showed up to pay their respects. Everyone said it was one of the biggest the gospel world had seen, by far. Besides all the Oatmans and the Varners and the devoted fans, and the gospel groups by the hundreds, so many buses rolled in that they did not have room to park them all. Even the mayor and the governor himself showed up.

Ferris’s large white casket was covered in a spray of white carnations with black musical notes shaped out of little black pipe stems that Cecil had personally designed. As a tribute, Beatrice Woods, backed up by a stage full of twenty-six gospel groups, sang “There Will Be Peace in the Valley.” By the time it was over, Minnie was so torn apart she had to be put in a wheelchair and rolled out of the auditorium. It was a fine funeral, just the kind that Cecil Figgs loved. Big and showy. Everything had gone well except for Ferris’s brother Le Roy. He had been so riddled with guilt over leaving the group and joining up with the hillbilly band that he showed up drunk and kept yelling all through the service for Ferris to forgive him. Betty Raye was the only member of the family that would speak to him that day.

Hamm had driven Betty Raye over to Birmingham for her father’s funeral and he used this opportunity to shake hands and introduce himself to as many people as he could. Before the service started, while working the crowd, Hamm had watched the governor out of the corner of his eye. He had never been this close to a real governor, a man of such power and importance. He noticed with fascination how everyone clambered around him, how all the men on his staff jumped when he said jump, and how the entire auditorium hung on his every word as he delivered his short eulogy.

Before the day was over and they went back home, two momentous things had happened.

1. Hamm had discovered exactly what office he wanted to run for.

2. Hamm had met Cecil Figgs.

Emmett Crimpler

BEATRICE WOODS HAD been the first to call Dorothy and tell her what had happened to Minnie. Dorothy immediately got on the phone and called Betty Raye, who had taken the baby and gone over to be by her mother’s side.

Dorothy said, “Honey, I just heard. Is there anything you need or anything Doc and I can do to help?”

“Oh, thank you,” Betty Raye said, “but I just don’t know what anybody can do now. I’m so worried about her—she won’t see the doctor, and it’s been almost three weeks since she’s eaten a thing.”

“Oh, dear. Well, keep me posted and just know we are all sending you our love.”

After Ferris’s funeral Minnie had said to the boys and Uncle Floyd, “Take me home.” They’d put her on the bus and drove her, Minnie crying all the way. When she got to the little house in Sand Mountain, she announced, after the boys helped her get in bed, “I can’t go on without Ferris. I’ve come home to die.”

The entire family was so upset that they called in her personal preacher, the Reverend W. W. Nails, and prayed over her. But it did no good. “It’s no use, Reverend Nails,” she said weakly. “Yea . . . though I have oft walked through the valley of the shadow of death, due to high blood pressure, diabetes, inflammatory arthritis, and gout, I always prayed myself out the other side. But now I don’t want to come out the other side. I’m just gonna lay here reading Scriptures until I go.”

The Reverend W. W. Nails came out of the bedroom and reported, “That woman has gone sick to the soul with grief and nothing can help her now except a miracle.”

Everyone pleaded with her. Betty Raye cried and begged her to at least eat a cracker. But she would not. The house was flooded with flowers and letters from fans, although nothing helped. Chester the dummy came in and pleaded his little wooden heart out. “Oh, Momma Oatman,” he said, “get up, we need you. What will happen to the Oatman family without you?”

“Little Chester,” she said, “honey, I lost the will to sing when we lost your Uncle Ferris. . . . You take care of Floyd and be a good boy.”

Floyd could not take it and ran out of the room and locked himself in the bathroom again.

Bervin and Vernon came in, not knowing what to say. She took their hands and said, “Boys, music is left my heart. You and the rest is going to have to be brave and go on without me.”

There was great speculation in the entire gospel world. Articles appeared in the Singing News wondering if the death of Ferris meant the end of the Oatmans. Someone even called and asked if their bus was for sale.

But help was on the way in a six-foot-five-inch package called Crimpler. A few days later a green Studebaker drove up to the house and he got out.

Vernon saw him first and exclaimed, “It’s Emmett Crimpler!” The boys threw the door of her bedroom open and said, “Somebody’s here to see you, Momma.” Minnie was so weak at this point she could barely sit up. Emmett walked in and stood at the end of her bed and, not saying a word, he opened his mouth and sang to her “Sweeter as the Days Go By” in the most beautiful bass voice she had ever heard. After he finished he said, “Minnie, if you can hear me, I’ve come to tell you that I’m available to sing with you if you want me.”

Minnie sat up a little more in the bed. Emmett Crimpler was considered, along with J. D. Sumner and James (Big Chief) Wetherington, as one of the great basses in gospel music. He told Minnie he had had a dream where Ferris had come to him and told him to leave the group he was with and to go over and take his place.

After an hour she said to Bervin, “Run down to the drive-in and get me an order of fries and a ham-and-cheese sandwich.”

Emmett did not mention that he had wanted to leave the Harmony Boys for over a year but it did not matter. His arrival had been a miracle, said Reverend Nails.

Minnie had lost over thirty-five pounds—and the Oatmans were on the road once more!

A Man of the People

HAMM SPARKS WAS NOT, as noted, particularly good-looking, not very tall, only about five foot nine, and of average build. He had brown hair, dark brown eyes, but he had something more. He had charm and was naturally seductive and he did not even know it. There is a certain kind of appeal about people who know exactly what they want and let you know up front what you can do to help them get it and what you can expect in return.

But the most seductive thing about Hamm, which made his overt, raw ambition oddly charming, was that, unlike most ambitious men, he meant what he said. There was not a covert or phony bone in his body. He believed that everyone was his friend and that he was his or her friend. He believed that he was the person to speak for them, to fight for the average person, and for those who were being pushed around. And he was a man looking for a fight. Dukes up, ready to take on the world. He was nice but tough and single-minded and came from a long line of proud people.

When the Tennessee Valley Authority had wanted to take over the family’s land and build a dam to supply electricity for the entire region, his father had fought them as hard and as long as he could. But to no avail. In the end the TVA flooded the entire area and nothing of theirs was left. They even dug up his ancestors who had fought and died in the Civil War and moved them to another place. Unlike most of the others in Norris, Tennessee, who had made the best of a bad situation and had gone to work for them, his father had refused to accept a government job or to live in the company town they had created. He had moved his family around and had spent his remaining years painting the roofs of barns all over the South with SEE ROCK CITY. It was a rough job and paid little money and eventually killed him at age forty-one but by God he had not caved in to the federal government. And as far as his son was concerned, he died a hero. His father had told him over and over, “Son, if the federal government can steal one man’s land and get away with it, democracy is in danger of failing. Once they sacrifice one for the so-called good of many, you’ve got socialism. Now, if they had asked me for my land, I might have given it up. I’m not dumb enough not to realize that electricity was a good thing but when they just come in and don’t give me a choice—that’s what wars are fought over. That’s why I fought, to be able to be free from government. To own my own land. That’s all we had. And the bastards took it away from us and don’t ever forget it.” This one event had changed his father and his family’s life forever. It had forged Hamm into a fierce defender of individual rights. His own and everybody else’s. In this one respect he was like a horse with blinders and could see neither left nor right. Now that the Depression and the war were over, he thought that Roosevelt’s handout programs should be stopped. He had no sympathy for anyone who would not work if they could. He knew firsthand what a toll a handout exacts from the spirit and dignity of a man. The only time he had ever taken anything from the federal government was one terrible day after his father had died. His mother was sick and he had walked all the way to Knoxville to get help. Although they had not signed up for it, the woman at the welfare office had begrudgingly handed him a sack with navy beans, a piece of a side of beef, a few potatoes, flour, and sugar in it. He had taken it and cried all the way home, thinking about how his father would have felt. But they were just about starving to death so they ate it. Afterward he had gone outside and vomited it back up. Sick with shame. That day he’d vowed never to take another thing from the government as long as he lived.

He went to work the next day at age thirteen and saved enough money to buy a used twenty-two rifle and every day before and after school he hunted and brought home meat for the table. In summer he fished and planted vegetables, swapped catfish and turnips for eggs, sugar, and cornmeal. Swapped rabbits, deer, and squirrels for money to buy shoes and clothes for his sisters. It was understandable why Hamm was to grow up hard-pressed to understand why any man that could would not work. To have little patience with men who would not fight and die for what they believed. Just like his father and grandfather before him, within a few hours after Pearl Harbor he had joined the army as a foot soldier. Hamm’s total belief that he was put here on this earth for a purpose and would certainly not die made him the perfect soldier and leader of ground troops. His expert ability with a gun and his lack of fear caused him to do things that another man would not have. In war, if you want to live, these feats are rewarded with medals and offers of advancement. But even then, between battles, some in the deepest jungles of the Pacific, he considered his future. When the army tapped him for officers’ training, he declined. He knew that after the war, just by sheer numbers, a lot more enlisted men would be voting than officers. He made a lot of good and loyal friends while he was in the army. When he returned home he worked part-time and almost finished college, but after he and Betty Raye married he dropped out and went to work full-time, trying to save a little more money for a house. But in 1952 the urge to go into politics was too great, so he quit his job at the Allis-Chalmers tractor company and ran for Pettis County commissioner of agriculture.

Even though it was just a county election, their rented house was in constant upheaval. Phones ringing, people in and out, and after he won, Betty Raye made him promise not to do that to her again. He held that office for a year and did a good job. But he was anxious to move on. What Hamm wanted next was to run for the office of state commissioner of agriculture. All Betty Raye wanted was for them to buy a small home of their own and have some security. At the moment they did not have anything but a two-year-old baby and the use of a car the county had provided and now they were about to lose that. The county job had paid very little and they’d had to move from one rental to another. But Hamm was not thinking about a house or security. He was thinking about his future. He knew that if he could just win this one election it would get his foot in the door of statewide politics. All those years of selling tractors and shaking hands had to add up to something. But he would be running against a strong incumbent. He needed campaign money and a car. He tried to get a bank loan but the bank turned him down. He knew only one person who might be able to lend him the money. He hated to do it but he called his old army buddy Rodney Tillman. Rodney had been a top Pontiac showroom salesman before the war and now owned a few used-car lots outside of Sedalia. When Hamm got him on the phone, Rodney listened a few minutes without comment, then said, “How much do you need, Hambo? If I haven’t got it, I’ll get it.”

Hamm said, “I think I can do it with five hundred.”

“I’ll get you six.”

Hamm said, “I’ll pay you back.”

“I know you will.”

“I’ll never forget this, buddy,” said Hamm.

“Don’t worry about it. You just go out and win the damn thing.”

Once again they moved and again Betty Raye’s home life was turned upside down. As soon as he announced, the house was filled with men coming and going, day and night. When she went to bed there were men in her living room. She slept, got up, got dressed, got the baby changed, and by breakfast there were already four or five men sitting at the kitchen table, filling up the place with cigar smoke. She hardly ever saw Hamm alone. If he was not traveling, he was always with his pack of cronies. The house was in a constant mess and she spent most of her time cleaning up after them. There was only one bathroom, so all day long men were traipsing through her bedroom. And if she went into the bathroom she could never be sure that some man would not walk in on her. She tried her best but when she woke up with a strange man she had never seen before walking through her bedroom, that was the last straw. Hamm never understood why she was so upset. It did not bother him at all to have people around him twenty-four hours a day. In fact, he thrived on it. It seemed to energize him. This constant and relentless lack of privacy, however, was making a nervous wreck out of Betty Raye. She could not even find a place to sit down and cry by herself. Six long months later, it was all over: between the radio ads, the posters, and Hamm stumping all over the farm areas, he’d won. He was now state commissioner of agriculture.

Betty Raye was so glad when it was final. At last she could have her husband all to herself and they could get back to a normal life again.

Hamm and Rodney

THE PHONE RANG in the office of the Tillman and Reid used-car lot and Rodney Tillman picked it up. “Hello?”

A man’s voice said, “Hey, sport, what are you doing?”

It was his friend Hamm Sparks. Rodney said, “Right now I’m sitting here trying to figure out if I should kill my ex-brother-in-law or not.”

Hamm laughed. “What’s he done now?”

“We got the best-looking little forty-nine Chevy in here and he went out and started fooling around with the odometer after I told him not to and the damned idiot just put an extra two hundred miles on the thing.”

“Why don’t you just run it back the other way like you always do?”

“I would if I could, Hambo,” he said, glaring at his ex-brother-in-law, who’d just passed by, “but the damned thing’s stuck. What are you doing?”

“I’m gonna be working in your area today. Why don’t you come take a ride with me this afternoon, keep me company.”

Rodney looked through the glass window at the lot, full of dusty cars and empty of customers. “Might as well.”

As they rode out to the farms Hamm was checking on that day, Rodney pulled his pint out of his back pocket and took a swig. “I tell you, son, some days I wish I had just stayed and married that little Japanese gal; this alimony is about to kill me. You sure lucked out with Betty Raye. Now, that’s a sweet woman.”

“Yes, she is,” said Hamm.

While he stopped at the farms on his list, Rodney sat in the car scrunched up in the front seat and watched Hamm trudging out in the fields, walking around in barnyards and pigsties, talking to each farmer, patting them on the back, saying whatever agriculture people say to each other, and swigged from his pint. After about the fifth farm Rodney asked, “How many more places do you have to go to today?”

“Just six more.”

“Well, can we stop somewhere? I need to eat something.”

“Oh sure, there’s a place right up the road.”

Right up the road turned out to be twenty-three miles.

As they came out of the small roadside filling station and country store with sausage biscuits, cheese crackers, and Cokes, Hamm headed back to the car.

“Can we eat outside?” Rodney said. “I hate to say it, buddy, but you’re beginning to smell like a barnyard. God knows what you’ve been stepping in, and those hog-snout marks on your pants ain’t all that appetizing, either.”

Hamm looked down at his pants and laughed. “Yeah, I see what you mean. Sorry, it’s just part of the job.”

They walked over to a wooden bench set up beside a creek behind the store and sat down. Rodney handed Hamm his Coke. “Drink some of this for me, will you.” Hamm took a swig and handed it back and Rodney filled it back up to the top with whiskey, took a drink, and said, “Now, that’s a Coke. So, Hambo, is this what you do every day? Stomp around in barnyards?”

“Just about.”

Rodney examined the sausage biscuit in his hand with skepticism but bit into it anyway. “Why you ever wanted this job in the first place is a mystery to me. I know you aren’t making any money.”

Hamm agreed, “No, it’s sure not the money. But somebody has to give these folks a hand, trying to scratch out a living with nothing but these little piecrust roads between them and the market. Most of them are just hanging on by a thread as it is.” Hamm bit into a cheese cracker with peanut butter in the middle and said, “When it rains, they can’t get out and the government won’t fix the roads. They throw money at the big cities and build fancy buildings and all those overpasses and underpasses and in the meantime the small farmer is getting ignored. I’ll tell you . . . it makes me mad to see good, hardworking, tax-paying people being kicked around like that. I watched my daddy get kicked around like that, so I know how it feels. . . . But I can’t do much. Just give them a little encouragement.”

“Well, that’s life, Hambo. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer, bless their pea-pickin’ little hearts. The only difference between you and me and the rich is they’ve got money and we don’t.”

Hamm said, “Naw, Rodney, I don’t think it’s just the money—they are different from us. I was around a few of those rich people once and found that out myself.”

“When was this?”

“After the war, when I was in school, I met a few of those rich college boys while I was waiting tables. I used to joke around with them every once in a while. I wasn’t friends with them or nothing like that, but this one kid from Minneapolis must have thought I was unique or something and invited me to go home with him one weekend.”

“Wait a minute. You? Unique?”

Hamm smiled. “Yeah, well, they thought I had a funny accent and I laid it on a bit, you know, played the hayseed for them. So anyhow, I go home with him and we pull up to this big, huge three-story deal where he lives. I never saw anything like that in my life, the whole damn backyard is a lake.”

“What lake was it?”

“It was their lake. I’m telling you, these people were rich, and the kid tells me it’s their summerhouse. I said, Where do you live in the winter, Buckingham damn Palace? Anyhow, I never felt so out of place in my life. That family of his was nothing but a bunch of cold fish. I don’t even think they liked each other and they treated me like I was something that just dropped out of a tree. And I’ll tell you something: After that weekend, I’d take any one of those farmers over them any day of the week. I don’t want a thing they have. They can keep all their big houses, the servants, the cars, I don’t need them.” Then his voice trailed off. He looked down at the little stream with a faraway look in his eyes and said quietly, “But they did have this boat. One day his old man took us all out on the lake in it and oh, man alive, that was the prettiest thing you ever saw . . . all white, with shiny wood inside.” He shook his head. “To tell you the truth, sport, I’d cut off my right arm for a boat like that.”

Rodney suddenly felt sorry for him. He tried to cheer him up. “You know what you need, Hambo? You need to come up to St. Louis with me, play a little poker, we’ve got some good games up there, and fool around a little. Have some fun for a change, what do you say?”

“Wish I could but I just don’t have the time to spare,” Hamm said, getting up to leave.

“Well, you know what I always say . . . if you can’t get anywhere in this world, you might as well have fun while you aren’t getting there.”

Up in a Tree

AFTER AUNT ELNER lost her husband, Will, she had wanted to stay on the farm but Norma was worried about her living out in the country all by herself and insisted she move to town. She wanted her close so she could keep an eye on her and she was not going to rest until she did. So Aunt Elner sold the farm and Norma and Macky found her a house a couple of blocks from them. It was a small house, with a bedroom, kitchen, living room, and a nice front porch; but the thing Aunt Elner liked right away was the big fig tree in the backyard. She brought a few of her favorite chickens and her cat Sonny and moved in, but Norma still checked on her day and night. Aunt Elner said, “You’d think two blocks was twenty miles the way you carry on. I might as well have stayed out on the farm.”

“Yes, but at least I know we can get to you in a few minutes if anything happens.”

“Honey, if I die here or out on the farm, getting to me faster is not going to make much difference.”

“Maybe not to you but I’ll feel better knowing you’re not lying around in the yard dead, with the chickens pecking at you.”

Aunt Elner laughed. “It would not bother me. I’ve eaten enough of them in my day.” Aunt Elner liked to tease her but promised her she would take good care of herself. Even though Elner said and meant it, she was still capable of upsetting Norma from time to time. Just this morning there had been an incident, and Norma was still going on and on about it. “You shouldn’t even be climbing stairs at your age, much less a ten-foot ladder. I have never been so close to fainting in my life. I came out into the yard and looked up and there you were just hanging in the top of the tree.”

“I wasn’t hanging, I was sitting.”

“Well, sitting or hanging, what if I had not come over? You’ve got to be more careful. What if I’d found you dead on the ground?”

“Oh, Norma, I’ve picked fruit all my life and I’m not dead yet. Besides, it’s that Griggs dog’s fault. He’s the one that knocked the ladder down chasing after poor Sonny. Go fuss at him.”

“I don’t care whose fault it was, promise me you will not get on that ladder again. Let Macky do it or call next door and get Merle.”

“All right.”

“You are not as young as you used to be, you know.”

Later that night, Aunt Elner called. “Norma, let me ask you this.”

“What?”

“Who is younger than they used to be? I don’t know anybody; even those that get face-lifts are still just as old as they were. Even if you went into a different time zone you’d still be the same age, wouldn’t you?”

Norma had to admit she was right but added, “That’s not the point; the point is you need to be more careful.”

“The point is that Griggs dog ought to stay out of my yard and quit chasing my cat.”

“Aunt Elner.”

“I know, a promise is a promise.”

But a new day is a new day. The next morning around ten, when Linda was at school, the phone rang. Norma picked up.

“Norma? I have a question for you,” said Aunt Elner.

“Hold on, let me turn off my beans.”

“What kind of beans are you making?”

“String beans. I just threw in a handful so Macky would have something green with his lunch. Why?”

“I just wondered. . . . What’s he getting?”

“Salmon croquettes, sliced tomatoes, corn, and string beans.”

“What kind of bread?”

“Cornbread. I had a few slices left over. Why?”

“Just wondered.”

“Did you have a question for me?”

“Yes, I did.”

“What was it?”

“Wait a minute . . . let me think.”

“What was it about?”

“I know. Norma, do I have any insurance?”

“What kind of insurance?”

“Any kind.”

“Uncle Will had his Mason’s policy, I think. Why?”

“Well, some lady came to the door and wanted to know and I didn’t know what to tell her so I told her she’d have to ask you.”

“What woman?”

“Some woman. I don’t know who she was . . . she left her card. Do you want me to go and get it?”

“Yes.”

There was a loud clack when Aunt Elner put the phone down on the table. A few minutes later she came back on the line.

“Her name is June Garza. Do you know her?”

“No, what company is she with?”

“Aetna . . . Insurance . . . so I told her that my niece and her husband handle all that for me.”

“Good, what did she say?”

“She said she wanted to know where you lived so she could ask you about it.”

“Good Lord, you didn’t tell her, did you?”

“Well, I had to. She asked me.”

“How long ago . . . ?”

“Just a little while ago—”

“Oh Lord . . .”

“She’s real nice. She has on a green suit and—”

“Aunt Elner, let me call you back.”

“Okay . . . I just wanted you to be on the lookout.”

“I’ll call you back.” Norma put down the phone and ran into the living room and looked up and down the street and shut the front door and closed her blinds and pulled the curtains. She went back to the kitchen and closed those blinds and she hid down under the wall phone, reached up, and dialed Macky’s number. When he picked up she whispered, “Macky . . . when you come home, don’t come in the front door, come up the alley and come in the back. And knock three times so I’ll know it’s you.”

“What?”

“Aunt Elner gave some insurance woman our address and she’s headed over here . . . and I don’t want to have to deal with her.”

“You don’t have to deal with her—just go to the door and tell her you don’t need any insurance.”

“I’m not going to be rude to her, for God’s sake.”

“That’s not being rude.”

“You can’t just say no, until you let them go through their sales things. You don’t know why that poor woman is having to work . . . she might have children to support. You might be able to break her heart but I can’t—”

“Norma, you are not going to break her heart. She’s an insurance salesman.”

“She’s probably married to some alcoholic and . . . shhh.” There was a knock at the front door. “Oh my God, she’s here . . . be quiet!” She pulled the phone into the pantry and hid.

“Norma, just go to the door and tell her thank you very much but we don’t need any insurance. If you don’t go now, she’ll just come back. You don’t want to get her hopes up . . . that’s even worse. You have to learn to say no. You don’t have to be rude. Go on now, get it over with.”

The woman at the door continued to knock. She was not going away.

“Oh, Macky, I could just kill you.”

Norma put the phone down, stood there for a moment, screwed her courage to the wall, took a deep breath, and headed for the door.

About forty-five minutes later the bell over the hardware store door rang and a lady of about forty, wearing a green suit and carrying a brown attaché case walked in. She approached Macky with a pleasant smile. “Mr. Warren?”

Macky said, “Yes, ma’am, what can I do for you?”

“Mr. Warren, I’m June Garza from Aetna Insurance and your wife said that you might be interested in hearing about our new three-and-one policy . . . and I wondered if now might be a convenient time?” The phone rang. “I can come back after lunch if you like. . . .”

Macky was caught. “Uh, well . . . excuse me, Mrs. Garza . . . let me get that.” He picked up the phone. Norma was on the other end.

“Macky, is she there yet?”

Macky smiled back at Mrs. Garza. “That’s right.”

“Now, before you get mad at me, I just wanted you to know her husband is a diabetic and lost his left leg and is probably going to lose the other one somewhere down the line.”

“Yes, well, thank you very much.”

Norma continued. “And her mother-in-law has had three strokes and is on very expensive high-blood-pressure medicine. And one of the reasons she has to work today is because they didn’t have insurance.”

“All righty, anything else?” He pretended to be writing down a list of things.

“I know you’re mad at me . . . but—”

Macky tried to sound pleasant. “That’s correct.”

“Don’t take it out on her. Just come on home and take a gun and kill me, shoot me in the head, put me out of my misery.”

“Thank you, I’ll be sure and do that. Good-bye, Mrs. Mud.”

Macky wound up buying two home-owner policies, one for them and one for Aunt Elner.

Small-Town Living, February 1953

If a stranger walked down the street past the barbershop in Elmwood Springs on Saturday afternoon and glanced in, he would see a group of middle-aged, gray-haired men sitting around chewing the fat. But if you were one of the men inside you would see six friends you had grown up with, not old men. Doc didn’t see the wrinkles on Glenn Warren’s face or notice that his neck had turned red and sagged with age or the wide girth straining his suspenders to the breaking point. He saw a skinny boy of seven with lively eyes. They were fixed in one another’s eyes as the boys they used to be. When Doc looked at sixty-eight-year-old Merle he saw the blond boy of ten he used to go swimming with. And to all of them, the balding man in the short sleeves with the little potbelly was still the boy who scored the winning touchdown that won the county championship. There wasn’t a secret among them. They knew one another’s families as well as they knew one another. Their wives, now plump gray matrons in comfortable shoes, they still saw as the pretty dimpled girls of eight or twelve that they had once had crushes on. Since they’d all grown up together, they’d never had to wonder who they were; it was clearly reflected in one another’s eyes. They never questioned friendship; it was just there, like it had been when they were children. They had all been at one another’s weddings. They’d shared in all the sadness and happiness of one another’s lives. It would never occur to them to be lonely. They would never know what it was like to be without friends. They would never have to wander from town to town, looking for a place to be; they had always had a place to come home to, a place where they belonged and where they were welcome. None of these men would ever be rich but they would never be cold or go hungry or be without a friend. They knew if one died the others would quietly step in and their children would be raised and their wives would be cared for; it was unspoken. They had a bond. Small-town people usually take these things for granted. As a certain young man named Bobby Smith was to find out for himself that year.

On January 3 Dwight D. Eisenhower was sworn in as the president of the United States and Tot Whooten was not happy about it. She said, “Just my luck. The first time I take the trouble to vote and my man loses.” On January 21, Neighbor Dorothy and Mother Smith traveled all the way up to Kansas City to welcome Harry and Bess Truman back home to Missouri. They stood in the crowd at the station along with ten thousand other people and waited for the train. It was an hour late but they were there as Harry and Bess arrived and the American Legion Band played the “Missouri Waltz.” It was hard to realize that Harry would no longer be in the White House but, as they say, time marches on. Yet, even though other things in the world may have changed, The Neighbor Dorothy Show remained the same. She still had her same loyal audience, who would no more think of missing her show than not having their first cup of coffee in the morning.

February 19 was a cold, wet, windy day in Elmwood Springs. Dorothy had just finished her last Golden Flake Flour commercial and was rather circumspect and subdued. As the show was ending she said, “You know, so many of you have written in over the years and asked me what is the best thing to do for a blue mood . . . and asked if I have ever been in a blue mood, and yes, you can be sure I have. I can only tell what helps me and that is baking. I can’t tell you how many cakes I have baked over the years, how many cups of flour I have sifted, how many cake pans I have greased, all because there is something about baking a cake that gets me out of a mood, and so I’ll just pass that on for what it’s worth. Speaking of that, you all know I’ve been a little blue lately, missing my children, but I feel so much better today and I’d like to share a letter with you we got from Bobby yesterday . . .

“Dear Mother,

“Since you gave out my address over the radio, you would not believe how many cards and letters and other good stuff has come my way. Please thank them all for me and the rest of the guys. A lot of these guys don’t get mail and they are getting a big kick out of reading mine and helping me eat all the cookies, fudge, and cakes that have made it all the way to Korea. Most of the guys in my company are from big cities. I guess it took sending me all the way over here to really appreciate my hometown. So love to Dad and slam the screen door for me will you, so your listeners won’t be too lonesome for me.

“Love, your son,

“Pfc. Bobby Smith

“And I also want to thank you. You all have been so sweet to write and send him things. You know I don’t like to get sentimental but I will say this: We all know he was a handful and I think of all the times I yelled at him to sit still, to stop running, not to slam the door, but today I’d give a million dollars if I could hear him slam that door or see a cake where he had run a finger around the bottom. Oh, if we could only stop time, and speaking of time . . . I can see by the old clock on the wall that it’s time to go. I can’t wait until tomorrow, when we can visit with each other again . . . you mean so much to us . . . each and every one of you. This is Neighbor Dorothy with Mother Smith on the organ . . . saying . . . have a nice day.”

To Dorothy’s great disappointment, the very day Bobby had turned eighteen Monroe had driven him over to Poplar Bluff and he had joined the army and left school. It had come as a surprise to everyone but there was nothing they could do. The night before he left Jimmy had come into Bobby’s room and handed him his watch. “I want you to wear this for me while you’re gone. I’d be going if I could.”

Bobby was touched and put it on. “Thanks, Jimmy, I’ll take good care of it.”

“Well, I won’t get a chance to see you in the morning, so good luck to you over there, buddy.”

“He’s just going to training camp,” said Doc to Dorothy, trying not to make a big deal out of it, but the next day when he looked up and saw the 10:45 bus drive by the drugstore with his son on it, he wondered if he would ever see him again.

As soon as he finished dispensing Mrs. Whatley’s thyroid pills, he stepped out in the back alley for a moment and leaned against the building. The sun was shining and he could hear the high school band practicing over at the football field just as if it were another ordinary fall day.

Winter Wonderland, March 1953

FROM THE TIME Bobby had arrived in Korea he’d felt as if he were trapped inside of the big display he used to see in the window at the Morgan Brothers department store every Christmas. Only in this winter wonderland the things moving around were ugly, brown, grinding tanks, men with machine guns, and medics carrying stretchers full of wounded, dead, or dying soldiers. Bloodstains littered the white snow, as did an arm or blown-off leg, as well as bodies that lay twenty feet away. Trees that had been shot into nothing except shattered sticks were lying on the ground. He vowed that if he ever got out of there alive he never wanted to see snow again.

But with each hour that passed the chances of him getting out of there alive grew less likely. His company was surrounded on all sides.

It had happened overnight. They heard the North Korean tanks to the south and more moving in from the north. As it was, there were only fourteen men left. They had lost all communications a few days ago and were huddled together in a round ditch that they had dug last night. They were supposed to have been relieved a week ago by another company but they had been pushed back so far behind the lines, they couldn’t be sure they would be found. In the frantic scramble they had lost most of their K rations and had no idea where they were or how far away the other Americans were.

Everything was cold and white. They couldn’t see more than a foot in front of them. When it wasn’t snowing, a white misty ground fog came in. It was such a strange, surreal war, as if it were being fought in cotton. The sound of machine-gun fire was all around them, soft and muffled, but still they knew it was deadly. So strange to be so terrified with the whole world gone soft and white or to be covered with sweat in the middle of a snowstorm. They could occasionally hear voices calling out in the distance, to them or to one another, they didn’t know. Most of these men, including Bobby, had grown up in movie theaters watching World War II movies, and the shrill, high-pitched, Oriental language that sounded just like Japanese struck a twelve-year-old’s fear in their hearts. But this was no movie. And their sergeant was not John Wayne. He was a twenty-two-year-old kid from Akron, Ohio, who had just gotten married a year ago. Soon they had run out of everything, food, ammunition, and any options. They could not signal where they were or they would be ambushed. They were trapped. Dead if they moved, dead if they didn’t.

Then, at about one o’clock that afternoon, Bobby suddenly said to the man beside him, “The hell with this. I’m going to go and find them.” He handed the man his gun and crawled over the top of the ditch and disappeared. He knew he could not stand up without getting his head shot off, so he crawled. As he slowly inched forward in the snow he suddenly remembered something Jimmy had told him at the Trolley Car Diner years ago, right before the bubble gum contest: “Don’t look to your right. Don’t look to your left. Concentrate. Remain calm, stay the course.” He kept repeating it over and over in his mind. Thinking about that day, thinking about the bubble he blew, thinking about the applause. . . . Don’t get rattled. Concentrate. Nice and easy all the way.

While he continued to move forward inch by inch, moving for his life and the life of the other men on the line, thousands of miles away in Elmwood Springs, the high school senior class was busy with such benign matters as who to vote for in “Who’s Who,” what color stone they wanted in the senior ring, and who they were going to ask to the prom. That afternoon his best friend, Monroe, would be sitting in the drugstore drinking cherry Cokes with his girlfriend, Peggy, and asking Doc if he had heard from him.

Twenty-eight hours later he had crawled within six feet of a dead body and twenty feet past a North Korean machine-gun nest, where three soldiers were sleeping. But he never saw any of them. After he made it up the hill, he stood up and ran and fell and ran again until someone heard him yelling at the top of his lungs, “Hi-yo, Silver, away!” The Americans, nervous and quick to shoot at anything that moved, knew at once that this was no Korean and came out and found him. He was half out of his mind and had no idea why he had been yelling, but it saved his life.

By the time he was able to lead that company to his outfit, six of the men had already frozen to death but they were able to save the rest. He refused a medal and never told anyone what he had done. As he explained to the major, “There was nothing brave about it. I was just too scared to stay there and die.”

A Close Call

BOBBY CAME OUT of the army happy to be home but a very different man from the one who had left. He was quiet and introspective and seemed to have lost his old zest for life. Although his parents did not say anything, they were worried. He did not seem to have any desire to date or go out with his old friends. While he was gone Monroe had married Peggy and was working for her father down at the tire store. They had gone fishing and bowling a few times but he mostly just sat around the house or went down to the diner and talked to Jimmy.

After a few months Dorothy became very concerned. She began to wonder if he would ever go back to being his old self or be able to find a girl he liked. She thought if he just found a nice girl and fell in love, maybe it would help him. She did not know it, but her son had fallen hopelessly in love and he was not over it yet. Maybe it was because he had seen too many movies, but Bobby had always been wildly imaginative and full of idealistic visions of knights in shining armor, damsels in distress, and living happily ever after. He had had his little crushes on girls for years but when he was seventeen he had fallen so completely and painfully head over heels in love that it had almost killed him. It had consumed him like a raging fire. She had been the first thing on his mind when he awoke and the last thing he thought about before he went to sleep and dreamed about her. It had not been just an infatuation. This was a real overwhelming passion, an obsession, and he had been almost sick with it. So in love with her that at times it hurt to breathe. When she’d smiled at him or spoke to him in the most casual way, he had lived off of it for a week. He was a gangly, awkward, pimply-faced boy and she was a grown, mature woman of twenty-eight. He could not tell anyone, not even Monroe, about how he felt, so he suffered in silence. He was sent flying into the heights of ecstasy and thrown down into the depths of hell by her slightest move, sometimes in the same day.

Miss Anne Hatcher, the drama teacher with the beautiful voice and soft brown eyes . . . Miss Anne Hatcher, who had broken his heart when at the start of his junior year she became engaged to Hugh Sparrow, the high school civics teacher. Sparrow was an older widower with two children. Bobby had been a movie usher that year and they had come to the theater a couple of times and he had walked the two of them down the aisle to their seats. He hated the way the paunchy, balding man had walked in front of her and it almost made him sick to his stomach when he saw him put his arm around the back of her seat like he owned her. He hated his guts. It was clear to him that Sparrow had no idea how wonderful she was. How special. He could not possibly love and appreciate her like Bobby did. All Sparrow wanted was a mother for his children. Bobby fantasized about going over to her house, declaring his love, and asking her to marry him. He fantasized about challenging the civics teacher to a duel and killing him. But he did neither. Instead, the day he was eighteen he joined the army. Anything other than being around for their wedding. He had thought about her all through the war. And now that he was home, what had been a raging, burning love was a dull ache in the pit of his stomach whenever he saw her or heard someone speak her name.

He had come back not feeling much enthusiasm about anything. He was feeling the same way he used to feel when he and Monroe would stumble out of the Elmwood Theater each Saturday, bleary-eyed from sitting through four hours of movies and cartoons. Compared to the Technicolor images they had just seen, the world outside the theater had always looked so gray and dingy. Real life had no beautiful background music, and all the people in town had seemed so dull and bland.

It seemed as if all the magic had gone out of the world and he was bored and restless.

But then one night, Monroe and his wife, Peggy, took Bobby with them to the Polar Bear Tastee-Freez drive-in and Wanda Ricketts, wearing a short skirt with fringe, skated up to the car and took their order and suddenly a light came back into Bobby’s eyes. “Who’s that?” he asked as she skated away. Peggy told him the Ricketts family had moved to town a few years ago and added, “I hear she’s a little fast.”

“Really?” said Bobby, his curiosity piqued even further. As it turned out, Wanda was quite the little femme fatale of the Elmwood Springs high school set. A few boys already had WANDA tattooed on their arms, including the Dockrill boy, who was going to be a preacher.

She had been dating three or four different boys in town but they were no match for Bobby, who had grown into a good-looking young man. Pretty soon he and Miss Wanda Ricketts were a hot-and-heavy item and his old enthusiasm started coming back, along with his imagination. As usual, Bobby started to romanticize Wanda and to see things that were not there. He spent a dazzled two months convinced she looked exactly like Marilyn Monroe, which could not have been further from the truth. Other than their dyed blond hair and being female, the similarity ended. When he brought her home for dinner the first time, after she had stuck her chewing gum on the side of her plate, she announced, “Me and my family are big wrestling fans. Me and Momma think Gorgeous George is cute enough to eat. Momma says he can put his shoes under her bed anytime.”

“Oh, really?” said Dorothy pleasantly, but secretly horrified. Doc and Mother Smith had just stared at their plates but Bobby, oblivious to the sudden lull in the dinner conversation, continued to stare at her with a goofy look on his face. Needless to say, Dorothy had not been favorably impressed with Wanda, but she never said a word against her.

One day Bobby was down at the Trolley Car Diner going on and on about how beautiful Wanda was and asked Jimmy what he thought about the idea of them getting married. Jimmy had not said anything before but since he had been asked he said, “Frankly, I think it would be the biggest mistake you ever made. Your parents aren’t going to say anything but I don’t want to see you mess up your entire life just because some little carhop has you all whipped around and not thinking straight. If that girl were to come up pregnant, you’re stuck with her. Think about what you’re doing, buddy, before it’s too late.”

Just then Ed the barber came in for a chili dog and sat down. Before Jimmy went over he said quietly, “I’m telling you, that girl is not for you. You can do better than that.”

Bobby felt like someone had just thrown cold water in his face. But Jimmy was right, of course. The rose-colored glasses started clearing up a little and he started noticing Wanda’s black roots and how she began to look less and less like Marilyn Monroe. He suddenly took a closer look at the Ricketts family, the mother, an older version of Wanda with wrinkles and the same dyed blond hair and penciled-in eyebrows, who at fifty still wore short shorts and a halter top; the father, with the dirty fingernails and the collection of Over Sexteen magazines he kept trying to show Bobby; and the rest of the strangely misshapen Ricketts brothers and sisters . . . and the spell was broken. The thought of spending the holidays with the Rickettses for the rest of his life finally did the trick. Earlier, Mother Smith had offered her opinion of the entire Ricketts family to Dorothy quite succinctly. “Common, honey, just plain common.” But when Bobby told his mother he had broken up with Wanda she did not ask why. All she said was, “Well, I’m sure you know best, dear.”

When he asked Monroe what he thought he said, “I’m glad to hear it. Peggy and I hadn’t wanted to say anything but that girl was as dumb as a post.”

Several months later, Wanda, clearly not heartbroken over breaking up with Bobby, ran off and married the twenty-five-year-old manager of the Polar Bear drive-in.

Two weeks later, the next time Macky saw Bobby at the barbershop he said, “Had yourself a kind of a close call there, didn’t you?”

It was a small town.

Tot Whooten Strikes Again

THE FRIDAY AFTER Macky had run into Bobby, he was busy searching through his stock for a fifteen-foot extension cord for Old Man Henderson when the phone rang. He said, “Let me get this,” and went back and picked up. “Hardware.”

It was Norma on the other end. “Macky.”

“Hi, honey. Can I call you back? I’ve got a customer.”

“I’ll hold on.”

“Okay.”

He put the phone down and returned to the old man standing in the aisle pulling out all the cords, trying to read the packages.

Macky said, “Are you sure you need fifteen feet?”

The old man said, “Yeah or I might use twenty. . . . Do you have that?”

“What’s it for?”

“I want to put my television set out on the porch so I can see the ball game.”

“Don’t you have a plug on the porch?”

“Well, if I did I wouldn’t need an extension cord, would I?”

Macky searched through the cords. “Here’s a twenty-five.”

Mr. Henderson scowled at him. “How much more is it by the foot?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll just charge you for a fifteen-foot. I thought I had them in stock but I guess I sold them.”

“Well, I guess I’d rather it be too long than too short.”

“Do you think St. Louis has a chance this year?” asked Macky.

“They might . . . if everybody else was to suddenly drop dead.”

Macky pulled out a paper bag.

“I don’t need a sack,” Mr. Henderson said.

“All right, well, you have a good day now.”

The old man slammed the door shut too hard and the bell on the door rang in Macky’s ears. Macky started putting the cords back up on the hooks, trying to figure out just how old Old Man Henderson was. He had been a friend of his grandfather’s, so that would make him at least in his early eighties. Then Macky remembered that Norma was holding on. He went back and took the phone.

“Honey, are you still there?”

“Yes . . . I am.”

“I’m sorry. What’s up?”

Norma sounded extremely controlled. After a pregnant pause she said, “I just had my hair done.”

Macky sat down on the stool behind the counter. Today was her appointment with Tot Whooten. He knew what was coming.

“Do not say one word to me, Macky, I do not want to hear one word about my hair. If you’re going to come home and say anything, just don’t come home.”

“I’m not going to say anything. What did she do this time?”

“I’m upset enough as it is without you saying something.”

“Norma! I haven’t said a word. I haven’t even seen you.”

“Well, I want you to promise me . . . give me your word . . . you won’t say anything or I’m just going to check into the Howard Johnson’s motel, and that’s all there is to it.”

“All right, Norma, calm down.”

“I mean it now.”

“I won’t say a word.”

“I am putting your lunch on the table . . . and I am just going to stay in the bedroom if you’re going to make some smart remark.”

“Norma, I won’t say anything, O.K.? Just give me a hint. What did you have done?”

There was a long silence. “We tried something new.”

“And?”

There was a longer silence. “It didn’t work out.”

Macky rolled his eyes. “Oh God.”

“See! There you go. I knew it, just don’t come home if you’re going to have that attitude—”

“I don’t have an attitude. I just said, Oh God, that’s all.”

“Yes . . . but it’s how you said it. I know you’re sitting there rolling your eyes, so if you do come home, I do not want you to even look at my hair.”

“Norma, where am I supposed to look? Your face is attached to your head. Do you want me to talk to your knees?”

“See, there you go again. You just can’t resist trying to be funny. I have had a serious hair mishap and I need your support. I don’t need you to make me feel worse than I do!”

“All right. I’m sorry but at least tell me what you two were trying to do.”

“A body wave.”

“A body wave?”

“Yes, like a permanent only lighter. It was supposed to be a light body wave. . . .”

“What happened?”

“We don’t know, all we know is it wasn’t light.”

“Well, honey, don’t worry about it. It will grow out . . . it did the last time. . . .”

“It doesn’t have to grow out,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because if you must know, if it’s so important to you to know . . . she cut it off.”

“Oh Jesus.”

“See! I can’t tell you a thing without you having a negative attitude—you ask me to tell you, then you say something smart.”

“O.K., O.K. . . . I’m sorry. But anyway, I’ll bet it looks great.” He held off. “How short is it?”

There was no answer on the other end.

“It can’t be all that short, can it?”

“It’s short.”

“How short?”

“It’s an Italian boy cut.”

“What?”

“It’s called an Italian boy cut.”

“Oh Jesus . . .”

“That’s it! Get your own lunch. I’m going to the motel.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Norma, you’re not going to any motel. I’ll be home in a little while.”

Macky had been home for ten minutes but Norma would not come out of the bedroom. Finally, after much coaxing, she stood in the doorway. He looked at her but did not react.

“Well, don’t you have anything to say? I know you’re just dying to say something—get it over with, just go ahead.”

“Well . . . it’s short all right.”

Norma burst into tears. “I’m ruined . . . I look awful . . . it’s horrible . . . I just want to die. I was supposed to look like Audrey Hepburn. . . . It looked cute in the picture.”

“Oh, honey, honey, stop it. It looks cute.”

“No, it doesn’t. You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“No, I’m not. . . . It’s cute. Really.”

Later that night, just before Norma was about to fall asleep, Macky turned over and said, “Honey, I just wanted you to know one thing. . . .”

“What?”

“You are the sexiest Italian boy I ever slept with.”

There was a pause. Then Norma patted his hand. “Muchos gracias, senor.”

Miss Henderson

BOBBY HAD FINISHED his high school equivalency test in the army and he had been home about four months when he finally decided that he would go to college after all and try to get a degree in something. In what he did not know. At one time Doc had hoped he would follow in his footsteps and become a pharmacist but, considering how bad Bobby was at math and chemistry, that was obviously out. He guessed maybe he would take business administration but he still was not sure about it. A week before he was to leave he was out on the porch thinking about it when he looked up and saw old Miss Henderson, his sixth-grade teacher, home from her summer vacation, slowly coming up the front steps of the house. “Hello, Robert,” she said, a little winded. “Your mother told me you were home.”

He jumped up, surprisingly happy to see her. “Hello, Miss Henderson, how are you?” he said and pulled out a chair for her to sit down.

“Just fine,” she said, sitting down. She said, “You’re headed off to college, is that right?”

“Yes, ma’am, Missouri State.”

She started to rummage around in her purse, looking for something. “I wanted to stop by before you left and give you a little present I had for you. I had hoped to give it to you when you graduated from high school but you had already left for the army so I thought I’d bring it to you now.”

She handed Bobby a slightly frayed package that had clearly been wrapped for a long time. Bobby was thoroughly surprised. “Thank you, Miss Henderson.” As he was unwrapping it, she said, “You know, Bobby, you may not have known it, but you were always one of my favorite pupils.”

“Me?” he said. “You’re kidding.”

Inside was a beautiful leather miniature map of the world with a written note attached that said Yours for the taking. Good luck in all you do. Miss Henderson.

Bobby was overwhelmed. “I don’t know what to say, Miss Henderson, except thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You know, Miss Henderson, I always thought I must have been the dumbest one in your class.”

She smiled. “Well, you may not have made the best grades and you were not the easiest boy to keep quiet, but you had that one thing most of the others didn’t—you had a curious mind. And a curious mind is what we teachers look for.”

Bobby, who had been caught so off guard, suddenly remembered his manners. “Oh, sorry, Miss Henderson—can I get you some iced tea or anything to drink?”

“No, I can’t stay. But your mother also tells me you are struggling a little trying to decide what you are going to major in, is that right?”

“Yes, ma’am. I just hope I don’t flunk out.”

She nodded. “Having had you as my student for two years and knowing you as well as I do, all I can advise is for you to be sure to study something that you really like, Bobby, a subject that can hold your interest—and if you do, I know you will do just fine.”

“Thank you, Miss Henderson,” he said as she walked back down the stairs, “and thank you for the map.”

He thought about what she said, but he was interested in everything in the world and it was still hard to pin down to one thing. He still had not made up his mind until he arrived on campus and reread all the options available. Everyone was surprised when he called home and announced what he had chosen. The only person who was not surprised at the news when she heard it was Miss Henderson. As far as she was concerned, American history was perfect for Bobby.

However, in the romance department, many times when a person does not know what is bad for them, they often do not know what is good for them, either. Bobby started dating Lois Scott, an English major, in his sophomore year after more or less playing the field. He had met her through a friend and, as it turned out, she was from Poplar Bluff and they had a lot of friends in common. Her mother had even been to his house to see his mother’s radio show and had exchanged letters with her. On their first date Lois took him out on the tennis court and beat the socks off him. She was smart, attractive, had a great sense of humor, beautiful red hair, and most important, she was crazy about him.

The Christmas holidays of 1955 came rolling around and on the morning of December 23 a proud Macky Warren stood outside the hardware store and waved at his daughter, Linda, as she marched by with Dixie Cahill and sixteen other little girls in costumes, all wearing jingle bells, headed over to be on Dorothy’s Christmas show. Norma and Aunt Elner were already sitting in the audience, waiting along with Ernest Koonitz and the handbell choir from the Methodist church. Ed, the barber, had already made up his first batch of eggnog and Bess and Ada Goodnight were dressed as Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus and over at the grammar school giving out presents, as usual. There was a new tree at the house but it was decorated with the same old ornaments, and the lights they always had, the same cream-colored cardboard candles with the blue lights, were in every window. Anna Lee and her husband, William, who was now a practicing dermatologist in Seattle, Washington, and their little girls had already arrived to spend Christmas at home. The only thing different this year was that Bobby was bringing Lois Scott home for Christmas.

Outnumbered and Hog-tied

DOROTHY HAD TAKEN to Lois in two seconds, in the mysterious way women do when they know the perfect daughter-in-law has just walked in the door. The next thing Bobby knew they were all chummy and were sharing little secrets with each other. And it was not only his mother; everybody liked her right away—Mother Smith, Anna Lee, and Doc. Jimmy even remarked, “Now, that’s more like it.” At the end of the visit they had all said that she was the perfect girl for him, and that they made a perfect couple. All this “perfect” talk began to irritate him and scare him at the same time.

He did not want to be the perfect couple. Bobby wanted a stormy, passionate relationship like the ones he had seen in the movies. It was because she was so perfect for him that he did not trust it. He also knew that once he made a commitment, Lois was not the kind of girl you could fool around with and he was beginning to suspect that his own mother would take her side against him. He felt like a big fish that had to have just a few more jumps out of the water before he was reeled in for good and he could feel everybody trying to pull him in. So he made a decision. One night before she went into the dorm, he said, trying to sound as casual as possible, “You know, Lois, I was thinking. Since we are both going home for the summer, I wonder if it might not be a good idea if we were to start seeing other people for a while. We can still go out but maybe if we take a little break it might give us a chance to find out how we really feel about each other.”

She seemed perfectly calm to him.

“Fine, Bobby, if that’s what you want to do.”

He quickly added, “We don’t have to, of course—it’s just something to think about.” As she got out of the car he said, “I’ll call you tomorrow.” Once inside the dorm, she, of course, cried all night. The next day he was handed a letter by one of Lois’s sorority sisters, who glared at him with disgust. “Here,” she said. “And I thought you were nice!” She marched off and he opened the envelope and read the short note inside.

Do not call me. Do not write me. I do not want to see you.

Lois

When he went home that summer and told his mother what had happened, she did not say anything but he could tell she was not pleased and for some reason seemed to blame him.

He called Anna Lee in Seattle to talk it over.

“I don’t know what’s the matter with Lois. She’s acting crazy.”

“What did you do to her?”

“Nothing. I just told her I thought we should think about seeing other people for a while.”

“I see.”

“I can’t marry somebody just because Mother likes her.”

“I know.”

“I have to be the one to make the decision, this is my life.”

“You’re right, Bobby, you have to do what you think is the best for you.”

“Anyhow, I need to get out of here for a while. Can I come out there and see you?”

“Of course you can. You know you are always welcome anytime, and stay as long as you like. The girls would love to see you, and so would William and I.”

“Thanks, Anna Lee.”

Bobby was in Seattle with Anna Lee for a month. He went out with a few girls Anna Lee and William had set him up with and they had been fun. One pretty nurse was a lot of fun. But he always went back to his sister’s house feeling lonely and feeling like he had just cheated on Lois and his mother. One night around three A.M. he sat up in bed and broke out in a cold sweat. A thought had hit him like a ton of bricks. What if Lois had met someone else and he had lost her? He immediately went into a panic, jumped up, put his clothes on, and ran out the door to find a pay phone so he would not wake the entire house. He ran up the street; he had to get her back before it was too late. What had he been thinking of? By the time he found a phone his imagination had her already married with two children, even though it had only been a few months since he had seen her. He called her parents’ house and was so relieved to hear her voice and know that at least she had not married anyone else yet and he still had a chance. She did not hang up on him and listened to what he said about what a fool he had been and how he wanted to get married right away, how sorry he was he had put her through anything, and how he had never been surer of anything in his life. But after he had poured his heart out, there was a definite coolness in her response. She informed him that now she was not really sure how she felt about him anymore and now she needed more time to think.

More panic. He ran back to Anna Lee’s house, packed in the dark, left a note, and headed for Poplar Bluff. Now he had the drama and the conflict he had wanted but it was not like it was in the movies. This was terrible. He might lose her forever. When he thought he could not have her he wanted her more than life itself. She had a student-teaching job and two days later he was standing outside the school when she came out, hoping that just the sight of him would change her mind, but it did not. Of course she was more beautiful than he had ever remembered, more everything than he’d remembered, but it took him a long time to convince her that he was a changed man, that he was sure he would never doubt the way he felt about her again. He was shameless. He even had his mother call and plead his case. “Lois, it’s Dorothy,” she said. “I know you have to do what is best for you but if you care anything at all about this son of mine”—at this point she glared at Bobby, who was standing there—“although I don’t know why you should after the way he has acted, you better come over here and take him off my hands because he’s not going to be of any use to himself or anybody until you do.”

Finally he got her back and after all that, just like a man, the night before his wedding he wondered if he was doing the right thing after all and was it too late to back out now, all the things you think right before you jump off a mountain. But his best man calmed him down with these few words of wisdom. “You stupid jackass,” Monroe said. “She’s the best thing that ever happened to you.”

Yet the next day, after Mother Smith played “Here Comes the Bride” and Anna Lee and her three little girls started the wedding procession, he felt like he wanted to leap through a glass window and run. Then he saw Lois coming down the aisle. She looked at him and smiled and Bobby almost fainted when he realized that this beautiful woman was actually going to marry him.

Cecil Saves the Day

In 1956 Betty Raye had just had another little baby boy and was enjoying life as a wife and mother, even though they still lived in a rented house. Hamm was saving money to make a down payment on it and buy it. Everything was going along according to plan until, after serving only two years as state commissioner of agriculture, he found himself becoming angrier and more frustrated by the day with the way the small farmer was being ignored. He drove all the way to Jefferson City, the state capital, to have a meeting with the governor but was told, as usual, that something had come up and that he would have to reschedule. This was the fifth time this had happened. That day he walked over and stood outside the huge governor’s mansion and stared at it. It’s not all that big, he said to himself. That day he made up his mind. He was finally so fed up with not having any power to do anything that he decided to enter the Democratic primary for governor of the state of Missouri. Despite Betty Raye begging him not to.

It was not only Betty Raye who thought it a bad idea. Everybody tried to tell him he was a fool to think he could launch a gubernatorial campaign out of nowhere and with no money but he had made his mind up and he refused to listen. “Betty Raye,” he said, “honey, if you just go along with me just this one time, I promise you if I lose I will get out of politics for good. But I can’t give up without even trying.” All she would have to do is just pose for one picture with him and the kids, and after that she would not have to be involved and would never have to appear in public. He would do the rest.

What could she do? She loved him. So Hamm Sparks entered the primaries with nothing more than a good reputation with farmers, a name that sounded vaguely familiar, and a willingness to work night and day if he had to. He was convinced he did not need flashy billboards or fancy campaign headquarters with a staff of political advisers and so-called experts. He said his headquarters would be the back roads and small towns across the state. All he had to do to get his platform across was look people in the eye and tell it to them like it was. Tell them they needed someone who would be on the side of the veteran, the workingman, and the small farmer. “Why, there are smart people all over this state who can make up their own minds and not be led into the polls like sheep by some big-city political machine. All I need to do is find them and explain how they’re being taken advantage of by the big mules running the party in Kansas City.” This sounded good but after running up and down the state for over a month in a field of twelve hopefuls, he was running dead last. Most people in the state had no idea who he was and he did not have a snowball’s chance in hell of even making it through the primaries if he could not do something about that—and fast. He had already gone through their savings. He scrambled around and got some backing from a few friends but the kind of money he needed to get his name and platform out to the public was much more money than Rodney Tillman had. More than anyone he knew or had ever met . . . or so he thought.

Just four hundred miles away, in the six-room Kansas City apartment he shared with his mother, Cecil Figgs was preparing to go to work. He stood at his dressing table and carefully attached a small toupee to the front of his large round head and placed a fresh flower in his lapel and was ready to face the day. When he walked into his large, thickly carpeted office at the funeral home, he found a note from his assistant telling him that his first appointment of the day was going to be ten minutes late. He picked up the newspaper on his desk. Usually he just skipped straight through to the obituaries to check his ads but a picture of Sparks jumped out at him. He was listed as one of the remaining candidates running for governor. Cecil Figgs supposed Hamm would probably not remember meeting him four years ago at Ferris Oatman’s funeral but Cecil had never forgotten the day he’d met Hamm Sparks. When the funeral had concluded, Hamm had walked up to him at the reception afterward and introduced himself as Betty Raye Oatman’s husband, shaking his hand vigorously and telling him what a good job he had done. He then shoved a business card at him, patted him on the back, and said, “Mr. Figgs, if you’re ever in the market for a good tractor or a combine, be sure and give me a call,” and walked away.

Cecil had been dumbfounded. Was Hamm insane? He was the last person on earth that would ever be in the market for a tractor. Cecil could have been highly insulted and offended at such an outrageous assumption but there was something so genuinely earnest and sincere about the man that instead of tearing Hamm’s card up, he put it in his pocket. For some unknown reason he had been very affected by the hunky little guy.

Although Cecil had been busy dealing with all the details, he had watched Hamm out of the corner of his eye, walking around the reception with nothing going for him but a bad blue suit, a two-dollar haircut, and sheer nerve, trying so hard to mingle with the governor and his staff. Hamm had more or less been ignored of course, but the little guy hung in there. That afternoon something unexpected happened to Cecil. He did not know what it was about Sparks but he found that he had developed a sort of odd affection for this complete stranger. He had felt sorry for him in a way and yet at the same time admired him. Maybe it was because he had noticed Hamm trying to hide the fact that the sleeves of his jacket were too short when he shook his hand or maybe it was that he reminded him of another young man he had known and liked years ago. Whatever it was, because of this strange attachment he had formed to Hamm Sparks, when he saw his picture in the paper, wearing the same bad suit with the same bad haircut, he felt compelled to look him up and try to help him if he could. And nobody needed more help at the moment.

Hamm had no real staff except for his old friends who stopped by every once in a while and Rodney Tillman. His campaign office at the moment was a small one-room storefront that used to be a lamp store before it went out of business. The amenities consisted of a desk, four metal folding chairs, and a phone, plus three old dusty lamps that had been left behind.

Cecil picked up the phone and called Hamm to set up a meeting and was somewhat surprised that Hamm seemed to remember him. Cecil did not seem to understand that he was a man that very few people would forget meeting. How many men in Missouri wear purple flowers in their lapel and a bad hairpiece the color of root beer?

A few days later Cecil walked into the campaign office, looked around the messy, dingy room, and shook his head. The first thing he said to Hamm was “Oh, honey, you need a better place than this.” Cecil cleaned off a chair, sat down, and said: “Listen, if you expect to stay in this thing, you are going to have to get a decent place to work out of and some better advertising. Now, I have a lot of money and if you are really serious about staying in this thing, I’m willing to back you.”

Hamm could not believe his luck. This was the first time in his life anybody had ever offered him something before he even had to ask. He jumped up and came around the desk and shook Cecil’s hand. “Mr. Figgs, I’m as serious as a boil on an old maid’s behind and if you will help me I promise to fight as hard as I can. I’ll work night and day.”

“I’m sure you will,” said Cecil. “Just figure out how much you need, let me know, and it’s Cecil.” Then he got up and started to leave. Hamm followed him to the door. “Hey, wait a minute. Don’t you need to hear my platform?”

“Oh no, darling,” Cecil said, dismissing him. “I don’t know a thing about platforms. I’ll just give you the money and leave the politics part up to you.”

Thus began the most unlikely of friendships between the two men, one that nobody ever understood. They did not even understand it themselves.

When Rodney came sauntering into the office with a bottle of whiskey and two paper cups, as he did every afternoon, Hamm was sitting at his desk beaming from ear to ear.

“Hey, Hambo, what’s up?”

“Rodney, I just got a serious backer with big money.”

“Who?”

“Cecil Figgs, the Funeral King. You just missed him. He said he would pay for the whole campaign, give me whatever I needed. I’m writing out a list right now.”

Rodney looked somewhat skeptical. He knew how much money it would take. “Ol’ buddy, I’m afraid somebody’s been kidding you. Nobody’s that rich.”

But Cecil had not been kidding. He was that rich. Not only was he the Funeral King of Missouri, over the years he had quietly bought mortuaries in seven other states and branched out into wider areas as well. With the mortuary and floral business, combined with his 50 percent interest in the Perpetual Rest Custom Casket Company, he was a very wealthy man and he had no qualms about spending it. In his business he was reminded on an hourly basis that life was short and you cannot take it with you. He had no children to leave it to, so why not spend it and, in this case, take a chance on a dark horse? However, in this case there were also other motivations at play. There was something he wanted in return but he did not want to tip his hand yet.

As for Hamm, he was so excited he could hardly contain himself. All he really needed was a little advertising, a good hillbilly band, and a flatbed truck with good sound equipment and he would be on his way. He immediately phoned Betty Raye’s uncle Le Roy Oatman over in Nashville, who had a hillbilly band called the Tennessee Plowboys and hired them. A week later Hamm Sparks, with a flatbed truck and Le Roy’s group, renamed the Missouri Plowboys, said good-bye to Betty Raye and the kids and hit the road. They went everywhere, from VFW fish frys, Elks Club pancake breakfasts, and Kiwanis meetings to bingo games and even family reunions . . . anyplace where more than ten people gathered, Hamm was there.

Coleman and Barnes Public Relations handled all the advertising for the Cecil Figgs funeral homes, so when Cecil called Arthur Coleman, the ad man jumped on the phone immediately. Cecil was not only a good friend of his wife, Bipsey, but he was also one of his biggest and most lucrative accounts.

“Cecil, how are you?”

“Fine.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Honey, I need you to do me a little favor.”

“Sure, what do you need?”

“Could you take a look at someone for me on the Q.T. and tell me what you think?”

“Absolutely. Be glad to. Who is it?”

“His name is Hamm Sparks and he’s running for governor. I’d like to help him if I can but I don’t know a thing about politics.”

“What is it that I’m looking for?”

“Just see if you think anything can be done to enhance his public image. You know about those things, I don’t.”

Arthur wrote the name down. “Hamm Sparks? Isn’t he that hicky-looking guy with the bad hair?”

Cecil sighed. “Yes, that’s him.”

Good News, Bad News

TWO WEEKS LATER Coleman called Cecil with his report. “I checked out your man.” He laughed. “You sure picked yourself one hell of a wingdinger there, Cecil, but he’s colorful, I’ll give him that.”

“What do you think he should do?”

“Honestly? Not a thing.”

“You don’t think that maybe it would help if he got a suit that fits and maybe cleaned up his English just a little?”

“No. From a public-image point of view, I wouldn’t mess with him a bit. This guy is all natural and if you try and fool with him at this point it will just confuse him.”

“So you wouldn’t suggest changing anything?”

“No. He has good instincts and he’s doing just fine the way he is. And as far as the whole package, it’s not bad—two kids, a nice little wife-and-mother type who doesn’t get in the way . . . but now, Cecil, you do know that this guy doesn’t stand a chance in hell against Wendell Hewitt, don’t you?”

“Yes, but thank you anyway.”

“Anytime. But I am curious. What made you decide to back this particular candidate?”

Cecil said sincerely, “I don’t know, honey, I wish I could tell you. But I really don’t know. Just a hunch I had, I guess.”

Wendell Hewitt, clearly the people’s choice for governor, took the lead in the polls right from the first day of the race and kept it. He was a six-foot-two, affable, hard-drinking man with an eye for the ladies who was not only a good solid politician with a law background but an independent thinker. Most important, people liked him. However, the state Democratic higher-ups did not like him, and did not support him. They wanted a party man they could control and Wendell Hewitt was not it. As far as they were concerned, he was a loose cannon. Peter Wheeler, a wealthy, well-educated, rather effete insurance executive from Kansas City, was their man. But they had a problem. Their man was a bit stuffy and could never win against such a popular choice as Wendell. Behind closed doors, Earl Finley, the head of the party, agreed it would be best if Hewitt were to be out of the race altogether. A month later, by some miracle and a lot of money exchanging hands, their prayers were answered. A photograph of Wendell Hewitt leaving a motel room with someone other than his wife appeared in the Kansas City Star and was picked up by papers all over the state. Wendell and his staff assumed it had been the Republicans that had done him in but he took it like a good sport and did not whine about it or try to lie his way out of it. In his television address he said, “Due to recent events I have no choice but to withdraw from the governor’s race because, ladies and gentlemen, if my opponents are going to continue to stoop so low and use beautiful young blondes as bait . . . I can tell you right now they are going to catch me every time.”

With Wendell out of the race, Pete Wheeler was a shoo-in. Or so they thought.

To Earl Finley and the boys, Hamm Sparks was a man they had never considered as anything more than a joke, some pie-in-the-sky candidate thinking he could fiddle his way into the governor’s mansion, running around the state with his half-baked, pseudo-cracker-barrel philosophy and hillbilly singers. But during the weeks they had been concentrating on getting rid of Wendell Hewitt and pushing Pete Wheeler forward, the Hamm Sparks dog-and-pony show had crisscrossed the state and hit every small town, farm community, creek bed, and railroad crossing with a vengeance.

Hamm more or less did the same speech everywhere he went but it seemed to hit a nerve with the farmers and with the people in the country towns he spoke to. As his numbers started to rise, Earl Finley started to wonder about him and sent out a man with a newsreel camera to see just what in the hell he was doing and saying. The man caught up with the Sparks campaign, such as it was, at a stop outside of Cooter, Missouri, close to the Tennessee-Arkansas border. What the big boys saw on film later was a shot of a dirt-road farm town where about seventy-five to eighty country people had all gathered around the back of a flatbed truck where Hamm stood speaking into a bad microphone. Every time he made a point or told a joke, someone in the crowd rang a cowbell. The audience seemed to be hanging on to every word he said. The men in overalls and John Deere caps, the women in cotton dresses and bonnets laughed and nodded and seemed to agree with what he was telling them.

“Now, folks,” he said, “I’m not gonna get here and try to fool you with fancy language. First of all, I wouldn’t know how, you have to be a lawyer to do that, and second of all, I think every American deserves the truth in plain English and I trust the people to know it when they hear it.

“Make no mistake, the big mules want your vote. Oh, they smile and grin at you and promise to love, honor, and obey. Trying to get you to the altar. But you should hear how they talk about you behind closed doors. . . . They think you’re stupid. They think you’ll fall for anything they tell you. They think they can just do anything they want up there and get away with it. It reminds me of when I was a boy growing up out in the country. My mother would open up the pantry and here would be all these mealy worms and moths eating away at our cornmeal and flour. And she would yell out, ‘Daddy, we’ve got pests in the pantry.’ Now, I’ve been up at the state capital for a few years and I’ve seen how that bunch up there is stealing the taxpayers blind, and folks, we’ve got pests in the state’s pantry right now and if you elect me I’m gonna get rid of every one of them. I’ll chop all that extra fat right off the budget and put that money back in the workingman’s pocket, where it belongs, not to pay the salaries of folks in the governor’s mansion to cook up lace-panty lamb chops and serve a lot of little sissy food on silver plates. Good old American hamburger is just fine with me.

“Now, I know my opponent, Mr. Peter Wheeler, claims his family goes way back. And that’s fine. But I ask you, whose family don’t? Oh, I may not have the poodle-dog pedigree behind me and I may not get invited to their little high-society pink-tea affairs. But I’d stack my momma and daddy and your mommas and your daddies right up there with the best of them. I know that bunch up in Kansas City, all dressed up in their furs and diamonds, driving in fancy cars to their million-dollar brick churches. But let me tell you this: A vote don’t care if you’re fat or skinny or if your socks don’t match or if you smoke store-bought cigarettes or roll your own. A vote don’t care if you listen to the Grand Ole Opry or sip your coffee out of a saucer. . . . Why, it don’t even care if you’re wearing silk drawers or flour-sack skivvies.” By this time he had the audience laughing and cheering. “A vote is the best friend we have. A vote from my momma and yours that walks to a little ramshackle wooden church in the country counts just as much as the rich man’s vote. Now, I hear some of you saying it don’t matter if I vote or not, the whole thing is fixed anyway . . . and you’re right, it is fixed. The man who gets the most votes wins—and I want your vote . . . I won’t lie to you. I could have gone after support from some of these big-money interest groups and be doing a whole lot better but I didn’t. Why? Because I don’t want to be in debt to anybody but you. So I’m asking you to give me a little something today, it don’t have to be much, just a little loan. What will I put up for collateral? Well, I don’t have much. I don’t own a house, my car’s not paid for. You can’t have my wife. But I’ll tell you what you can have is my word. My word that if you send me up there as your governor, I’ll work for you. And I want you to hold me to it. The only payback I want to have to make is to you people . . . and I’ll pay it back, law by law, road by road, school by school, and electric pole by electric pole.”

While the Missouri Plowboys played, the Finley men watched as every one of the farmers came up and put money in a big barrel that had HAMM’S PEST CONTROL written on the side and shook hands with him. When the lights went off and the projector shut down, Earl smiled. “This guy’s an idiot. We can beat him at his own game.”

The next day they hired for Pete Wheeler a huge Dixieland band to travel with him and brought in top entertainers from Hollywood and New York to appear at all his fund-raisers. At the big Kansas City “Peter Wheeler for Governor” dinner, they even flew big Kate Smith in from New York to open the evening by singing “God Bless America.”

The New Dog-and-Pony Show

Now, with all the parties, money, and efforts going into the Peter Wheeler campaign, Hamm started to worry. The more he thought about the promise he’d made to Betty Raye to quit politics if he lost, the more desperate he became. After being gone for a week he came into the bedroom around 3:00 A.M. and tried to wake Betty Raye without waking the baby. “Sweetheart,” he said, shaking her.

She opened her eyes. “Hey . . . what time is it?”

He sat down on the bed. “It’s late. But I need to talk to you.”

“Is anything wrong? Has anything happened?”

“No.”

She sat up and switched on the light. “Are you hungry?”

“No. The boys and I stopped on the way home and got a bite.”

She reached for her glasses and put them on and looked at him in the light. She could tell by the worried expression on his face that something was wrong. “What is it?”

He sighed. “Honey, you know I never wanted to bother you with any of this. And I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to, but I need your help.”

He had never asked her for anything before except to marry him, so she knew it must be pretty serious. He looked so pitiful, she reached over and took his hand. He hesitated a moment and then said, “I hate to ask . . . but with all the big money being thrown at Peter Wheeler, I’m in trouble.”

“What can I do?”

“Well,” he said, “like I say, I hate to ask, but the boys were talking and they think that since your momma and the Oatmans have such a big following now, that if you were on the platform with me and let me introduce you to the audience it might help.”

The baby in the other room suddenly started to cry. Betty Raye got up out of bed and Hamm followed her. “All you would have to do is just sit there, honey, you wouldn’t have to sing or anything. And I’d get to be with you and the kids a lot more. . . . It would only be for a little while. . . .”

On April 6, Neighbor Dorothy reported to her listeners that the dessert cookbook had received an entry all the way from Lake Martin, Minnesota. “Mrs. Verna Pridgen writes, ‘Dear Neighbor Dorothy, I am sending you a recipe for a layer cake, some have called it a Minnehaha cake but while it is similar to the Minnehaha cake it is even nicer. I live out here on the Minnesota prairie and we call it a prairie cake.’ Thank you, Verna, but whatever it is called I can assure you it is a good one. And, let’s see, I got a call from Tot Whooten and she said to tell all her customers that the beauty shop would be opened back up this Wednesday. As you all know, last week Tot had a faulty dryer blow up and had to have all her wiring redone and it’s taken longer to fix than expected. Also, this morning I want to say how happy we were to see a picture of our little friend Betty Raye in the paper and to see how big Hamm Junior has grown. It seems like only yesterday when she was still in high school.”

For the next two or three weeks of the campaign, they moved in a caravan made up of a large black platform truck loaded with sound equipment, wooden folding chairs, and HAMM SPARKS FOR GOVERNOR banners, followed by three cars: Le Roy and the Missouri Plowboys in one, Hamm and assorted cronies in another, and Betty Raye, Hamm Jr., and the baby in the last car. And for Betty Raye it was also the last place in the world she wanted to be but she could not seem to refuse Hamm anything. They traveled up and down the state from sunup to sundown, sometimes making six or seven stops in one day. This was a grueling schedule for the men, but with two children to take care of, by the end of a few weeks Betty Raye was exhausted. Still, Hamm kept his promise. All Betty Raye had to do was sit off to the side in a chair and smile and wave as he introduced her as not only his wife but also the daughter of Minnie Oatman, the great gospel star, and the announcement was met with strong applause.

She did all of this without complaining but a week later, when Hamm did his speech in Clark County, he pushed her over the edge. Right in the middle of it, out of a clear blue sky, he paused and said, “You know, folks, I have a soft spot in my heart for Clark County. My wife and I spent our honeymoon right up the road here.” Then he looked over to where she was sitting and said, “So you might say that little Hamm Sparks Junior, there got his start in Clark County.” And if that was not bad enough, amid hoops and hollers and guffaws from the audience, he put his hand up and said, “That’s all right, folks, I assure you the pleasure was all mine.”

Betty Raye wanted to die right there on the spot.

She did not know if it was because she was so tired or because she had been so embarrassed but when she got back in the car she burst into tears. When Hamm finally came over, he was surprised to see she was upset.

“What’s the matter?” he said, opening the door.

“Why did you say that?”

“Say what?”

“About our honeymoon . . . all those men laughing, looking at me funny—and it’s not even true.”

He chuckled and climbed in beside her. “Oh, come on, sweetheart. Don’t be like that. Nobody was looking at you funny. It was just a little joke, that’s all, made them feel good. People like to feel like where they live is special. Nobody was laughing at you, honey.” He kissed her and put his arm around her. “Besides, if you think about it, it could have been true, couldn’t it?”

The baby started to cry again. Hamm said, “Aw now, look, honey, you’ve got the baby all upset.” He rolled down the window and called out, “Hamm Junior, come over here and give your mother a kiss and tell her to stop crying.”

Hamm Jr., who at five was already turning into a charmer just like his daddy, crawled in over him and put his arms around her neck and gave her six big kisses. What could she do? She was outnumbered.

Because he had gotten such a big laugh in Clark County, Hamm continued to use the same line everywhere they went in the next few weeks. After a while Rayford Fusser, the bass fiddle player for the Missouri Plowboys, who was not too bright, turned and asked Le Roy: “How many honeymoons did this guy go on?”

The big newspapers, who were all against him, always referred to him with derogatory names, such as Hamm “Pests in the Pantry” Sparks, Hillbilly Hamm, or sometimes even Honeymoon Hamm, but not one compared with the names he was being called by Earl Finley’s men when his numbers started to rise.

As Election Day grew closer, to counterattack Hamm’s constant charges that Peter Wheeler was nothing but a rich man’s son, a new slogan was added to his campaign ads. They began billing him as Pete Wheeler, “the little man’s friend.” But Hamm was smarter than they thought. He went on statewide television and made a statement right into the camera. “Folks, usually I try to remain friendly with my opponents but when Mr. Peter Wheeler says he is for the little man, I just have to take exception to that. Because, ladies and gentlemen, there’s no such thing as a little man or a little woman in America. According to the Constitution we are all supposed to be equal. I may not be rich like old Pete, but being called a little man sort of hurt my feelings.”

Hamm also announced that if elected he would ban all alcohol from the governor’s mansion and not allow it to be served at any state function. This was a good move. He knew that would sit well with the state’s large Baptist and Pentecostal population. Hamm also knew they would always vote dry as long as they were able to stagger to the polls. It was smart politics to give the church something to get behind and vote against.

The Earl Finley crowd found out the hard way that Hamm was a scrapper. Everything they threw at him he threw right back. When a hastily staged photograph of Peter Wheeler sitting in a field of corn on a tractor appeared in all the papers, Hamm made the best of it. At his next press conference he said, “Old farmer Pete must have been surprised when he ripped up all his corn with that big number four wheat thresher he was sitting on.”

On the morning of May 8 Cecil received a call from Coleman, at the advertising agency, who laughed and said, “Well, Cecil, where do I go and eat a little crow?”

Cecil said, “Oh, honey, I’m just as surprised as you are.”

What it all boiled down to in the end was not so much that Hamm Sparks won the primary but that more than a lot of people just did not warm up to Peter Wheeler. However, the next day a lot of people in the state woke up and said, “Who is Hamm Sparks?” Fortunately for Hamm, his Republican opponent in the election, incumbent Delbert K. Whisenknot, had a terrible voting record and the looks and personality of a hedgehog; but even still, beating him was no easy feat and the election was not a landslide by any means. Hedgehog or not, Delbert was at least a familiar hedgehog. Hamm and Delbert were neck and neck right down to the wire and Hamm won by only a narrow margin. In fact, he just barely squeaked in with a lot of last-minute help. In the rural counties the farmers backed him 100 percent, to the man. And late in the day, when it looked like he might lose, it was truly amazing how many goats, mules, bulls, and heifers showed up at the last minute to vote. One black-and-white sowbelly hog over in Sullivan County by the name of Buddy T. Bacon even voted twice. But this phenomenon was certainly no more amazing than the large number of deceased people around the state who suddenly rose from the dead and stuffed their names in the ballot boxes, voting for Hamm. And nobody knew more names of the dear departed than Cecil Figgs. It would not be an exaggeration to say that a lot of the polling places were loosely run. But none as loosely as the polling places set up in the Italian and Polish neighborhoods of St. Louis. One or two large fellows sitting outside the voting booth with a baseball bat more or less guaranteed a vote for Hamm.

The New Administration

Back in Elmwood Springs, Dorothy made it a policy never to discuss politics on her show or certainly never to brag about the important people she knew but she was so happy for Betty Raye she just had to say something. In early January 1957, after she announced the winner of the What Is Your Favorite Holiday and Why Contest, she said, “As some of you know, Mother Smith and Doc and I were lucky enough to be invited to the inauguration of our new governor and all I can say is we all can be mighty proud of the new first lady of Missouri. She looked as pretty as a picture in that stylish pink outfit and we all wish her just the very best of good luck!”

Jimmy had received an invitation as well but he decided that he would stay home and watch it on television with his buddies down at the VFW hall. And he was glad he did because it turned out to be the TV event of the year. The entire Oatman gang showed up, including Chester, dressed in formalwear for the occasion, and they all sat on the platform behind Betty Raye. During the ceremony Minnie kept waving her big white handkerchief at everyone in the crowd and the whole time Hamm was being sworn in Chester was in camera range, shooting his eyebrows up and down at people in the front row. It was a live show and somehow the wrong button got pushed and the audience at home heard the director in the booth screaming through the headsets, “Get that #$%&*@! dummy out of there!”

Other than that it went fine.

On the morning of November 5, to her secret horror, Betty Raye had awakened and been told she was now married to the governor of the state of Missouri. She was not alone in her shock. A lot of other people had also been horrified to wake up and realize that some unknown ex–agriculture commissioner was now their new governor. But on the first day of his administration Hamm did an admirable and also a smart thing. His first phone call was to Peter Wheeler, to offer him a position in his administration. Which Wheeler graciously declined, as Hamm knew he would. Next he called Wendell Hewitt, another man he had defeated in the primary, and asked him if he would consider the office of state attorney general. Hewitt said yes. It was a good move. Even though Wendell Hewitt had been caught in a motel with a blonde, he was still a popular man with the people.

The second thing he did was to save the taxpayers a lot of money. As part of his “Get Rid of the Pests in the Pantry” program, he announced he was eliminating all the paid staff at the governor’s mansion and replacing all the cooks, maids, gardeners, and so on with inmates, trustees from the state prison, and from now on all the vegetables used at the state dinners would come from the garden he was putting in at the back of the mansion and all the eggs and milk from their own livestock.

And if anything could be said for Hamm, it was that he was loyal. His third order of business was to pay back all of those who had helped him. He brought in about twenty old friends and gave each of them an office. Everybody got something. Le Roy Oatman and the Missouri Plowboys were named “state musicians” and were hired to play for all the functions at the governor’s mansion during his administration. Rodney Tillman was appointed his press secretary and Seymour Gravel, another old army buddy down on his luck, was named public safety director and was to serve as his personal bodyguard. These appointments came as a slight surprise but, more important, everyone wondered just how Cecil Figgs would fit into the new administration. They were curious. Figgs was not a politician. What could he possibly want from Hamm?

A few weeks later they found out. A very unhappy Rodney came into Wendell’s office with the bad news. “He’s just appointed Cecil ‘chief of protocol of the state.’ ”

“What? There’s no such thing as chief of protocol for the state of Missouri.”

“There is now. He’s giving him the office across the hall.”

Wendell shook his head in disgust. “Jesus Christ . . . things are bad enough with all these bozos he’s brought in that don’t know what they’re doing. Now we’re going to have Cecil Figgs fluttering around here for the next four years.”

In Kansas City Earl Finley sat in a room in the back of Democratic headquarters with ten other worried men, chewing on his cigar, his pig eyes darting back and forth.

“Well, boys,” he said, “we now have a tractor salesman, an ex–gospel singer, a fairy mortician, and a drunk sitting up in the governor’s mansion. Now, just how in the hell are we going to get them out?”

The Real First Lady

PEOPLE MAY HAVE wondered why Cecil Figgs, who was so successful in the mortuary and floral business and certainly did not need the measly little pittance the office of chief of protocol paid, had accepted the post. But Cecil had a very good reason. After reaching the top of his profession, he had become increasingly restless and bored as the years went by. He no longer planned the smaller funerals, only the large and important ones, but they were few and far between. Cecil had a burning need to stage the big event. He loved those with music, special lighting, spectacular sets, and fancy costumes. He had been so bored that last year he had thrown a big funeral for Miss Lily Mae Caldwell, who had been dead for over ten years. She had founded the Miss Missouri Pageant, so he invited all the ex–Miss Missouris to come back for the huge memorial service to be held on the stage of the theater where all the Miss Missouris had been crowned. Most of the girls had not liked her very much, but they came anyway. They more or less had to. Cecil had arranged for the entire evening to be filmed and not to show up would have made you look bad. The memorial pageant was a grand affair. He’d hired Bert Parks to emcee and had filled the stage with an orchestra and twenty-four different church choirs from all over Kansas City, wearing specially designed blue velvet robes with a jeweled Miss Missouri crown embedded on the front. Ten of the ex–Miss Missouris performed their old talent numbers and all of the others dressed in evening gowns were called onstage one by one. After they had all arrived there, when Cecil gave the cue, twenty-five white doves were released as a huge portrait of Lily Mae Caldwell, lit up at the top of a long pair of glittering silver stairs, was revealed, and Karen Bo Bo, an ex–Miss Missouri, sang “I’ll Build a Stairway to Paradise.” That extravaganza had kept him busy for a while but after it was over he felt empty and hollow again. What Cecil wanted was a bigger venue and now, thanks to his investment in Hamm’s campaign, he had the entire state to work with.

The first thing Cecil did as the new chief of protocol was to insist on changing the state troopers’ uniforms. He came flying into the governor’s mansion with his costume designer from the Little Theater and hundreds of sketches of the costumes the designer had done for The Student Prince. He explained to a room full of flabbergasted state senators, invited for a gala breakfast, who would have to pass the bill to get the funding, that he wanted to eliminate all the old gray-and-brown uniforms and create a new look, bright blue with red stripes and lots of gold buttons. Cecil got nowhere fast. At the end of the day he’d managed to get funding to create a special governor’s Honor Guard uniform to trot out on state occasions. However, there were three stipulations in the bill: 1) No swords; 2) No plumes; 3) No white boots. Cecil was in a fit over that but at least he got his Honor Guard. The next week he had a slew of decorators descend on the mansion, laden with swatches and paint samples. Thanks to Hamm cutting the budget, the entire staff working in the governor’s mansion were trustees brought in from the state penitentiary. The cooks down to a woman were all murderers, as well as the maids and yard workers, with a few thieves and one five-time bigamist thrown in for good measure. But no matter their checkered past, Cecil set out to make sure they were all in starched white uniforms, neat and clean at all times. One ice-pick murderess named Alberta Peets, who did not like to wear shoes when she cooked, was told by Cecil that she was no longer allowed to go barefoot around the mansion. This upset her very much and some said Cecil was living on borrowed time.

He did not seem to notice. He was too busy making sure that when out-of-town dignitaries came to visit they would not think they were in Dogpatch, USA. He was determined to see that Governor Sparks’s administration was one that would move the state forward and he had a lot of moving to do. Most of the men who surrounded Governor Sparks still wore white socks and brown shoes. After about a month of Cecil Figgs and his decorator friends running amok through the place, jerking down curtains, putting up new ones, and insisting that every male wear a fresh flower in his lapel, Rodney Tillman, at the behest of everyone, went into Hamm’s office and complained about him.

But Hamm just dismissed it and said, “Oh let him have his fun—he earned it.”

“But Hamm, he’s upsetting the staff,” said Rodney.

“Well, that’s their problem. They’re just going to have to learn to put up with him; he’s not hurting anybody.”

Rodney made no headway with Hamm. Whatever Hamm’s reason for keeping Cecil around, he must have known what he was doing. Hamm was not going to stop Cecil from doing anything he wanted. It was clear Cecil had full run of the governor’s mansion and there were no two ways about it. It also became clear that if you wanted the governor’s ear, it was a good move to go through Cecil.

Of course, there were jokes. People snickered behind their backs that Cecil Figgs was really the first lady but Hamm didn’t hear it and, besides, he was too busy to deal with that silly little gossip stuff. And Cecil was far too busy, as he said, “trying to bring a little couth into the governor’s mansion.” He did complain daily about Hamm’s ban on alcohol. He said it had been an embarrassment to the state, offering only lemonade and grape Kool-Aid to the president and first lady of France when they visited. And even though he could be a holy terror and fly into a fit over the smallest detail, he was always kind to Betty Raye.

As far as Betty Raye was concerned, she was more than happy, even relieved, to let Cecil plan the parties and act as host or hostess and entertain the various guests who came to the mansion. She was grateful to have someone who knew how to do all the things that she had no idea how to do. Even though Hamm had promised her she would not have to get involved, she would do the few events Cecil said she should. Cecil understood how shy she was and would ask her to come to a function only if he thought it was absolutely necessary. “Darling,” he would say, looking at her with his big eyes, “you really should come in just for a minute. It just wouldn’t look right for the state if you didn’t put in just a tiny appearance.” She would go whenever he did ask and try her best but she always felt uncomfortable and was glad when Cecil gave her the nod that she could slip out.

Other than those few functions, she mostly remained pretty much in the background and tried her best just to stay out of everybody’s way. It was not too hard being first lady. Not many people ever recognized her. When Cecil had taken her shopping to buy a dress for the inauguration, one woman had come up to her and asked, “Miss, do you have this in a size fourteen?” And another had asked if she had anything in a black, off-the-shoulder evening gown. As a few unkind reporters had said in newspaper articles, she was not the most charismatic of first ladies. In fact, as only a few people had ever heard her, one said they even wondered if she could speak. The one thing she hated more than anything about being first lady was having to raise her children in the mansion. She felt as if they were living in a fish bowl. She was never alone, never had a moment to herself. The place was teeming with people night and day. She could not even go down to the kitchen for a drink of water without running into a tour group. And she could not leave or go anywhere without having a state trooper with her. But she did not complain. Hamm was happier than she had ever seen him. And, after all, it was only for four years. After this term was up, he promised her, he would go back to private life and buy them a home. For that, she could stand it for a few years.

Missouri Power and Light, 1959

IN HIS FIRST two years in office Hamm had proved to be more than just a greenhorn politician and stirred up one hornet’s nest after another but he was determined to do what he had promised, especially to save the taxpayers money. He upset Earl Finley’s sweetheart deals with the concrete and gravel companies and gave contracts to the lowest bidders, and he was particularly interested in utilities and finding out if they were efficient. He conducted surveys all over the state so he could learn where and how he could cut corners, and Elmwood Springs was high on the list.

A thin young man of about twenty, wearing a white short-sleeved shirt, brown slacks, a clip-on bow tie, and black shoes that looked like the kind mailmen wear, walked up the front steps and knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again. He could see the old lady in the kitchen at the back of the house as she passed back and forth. She was ignoring him but he needed three more people for the survey, so he walked around and knocked on the back screen door.

The old lady looked up when she saw him. “Well, hey . . .”

“Ma’am, I knocked on your front door but you must not have heard me.”

The old lady said, “Hold on, let me go and get my hearing aid.” She came back in a moment. “What can I do for you? Are you selling something?”

“No, ma’am. I’m from—”

Before he could finish, she had opened the door. “Well, then, come on in. You’re not a mass murderer, are you? I can’t have any of those in my kitchen. I promised my niece, Norma, I wouldn’t let any men in the house.”

He stepped inside. “No ma’am, I’m conducting a—”

“Have a seat.”

“Thank you. I am conducting a—”

“Do you want a piece of pound cake?”

“No, thank you, ma’am.”

“Are you sure? I just made it.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Do you mind if I have a piece?” she asked, knife in hand. He stared at it.

“Oh no, ma’am, you go right ahead.” He sat down and opened his large brown leather satchel.

The old lady went over and cut herself a slice and put it on a plate, opened a drawer, and took out a fork. “You sure? It looks pretty good this time. The last one I made was a mess. . . .” She looked at the papers he was putting out on the table. “Are you a schoolboy?”

“No, ma’am. I’m out of school. I’m conducting a survey for the Missouri Consumers Bureau for the Missouri Power and Light Company . . . and I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may?”

Suddenly she perked up. “Is there a prize involved if I get the right answer?”

“No, ma’am, this is just an information survey. It’s just for our records.”

Somewhat disappointed, she sat down with her pound cake. “Oh well, go ahead. Fire away.”

“Name?”

“First name Elner, middle name Jane, last name Shimfissle.”

“Date of birth?”

“Well, I’d say sometime between 1850 and 1890, give or take a few years.”

He put down unknown. “Miss, or Mrs.?”

“Mrs. Will Shimfissle, widowed in fifty-three.”

“How many living in residence?”

She thought for a minute. “Five . . . a cat, me, and three mice.”

He forced a small smile, erased the number 5 in front of occupants and wrote a 1.

“Occupation?”

She looked puzzled, as if she had not heard him. In a louder voice he leaned forward and said, “Mrs. Shimfissle, what is it that you do?”

After mulling it over for a long moment, Elner answered, “I just live, I guess, what else is there to do? Isn’t that about what everybody does?”

“No, ma’am, I meant do you work outside of the home?”

“Oh, I see what you’re getting at. . . . Well, I garden a little and take care of my laying hen out back. I used to do a lot more yardwork but my niece’s husband, Macky, comes over every Saturday and cuts my grass and trims my hedges. Norma said she didn’t want me to be fooling with anything sharp. Norma says a rubber hose is safe, so I do water the lawn when it needs it.”

He wrote unemployed. “Do you own your home or rent?”

“I own it, bought and paid for. My husband, Will, said, ‘Elner, don’t let anybody stick you with a mortgage after I’m gone,’ so when I sold the farm, I just paid for it in cash and never had to fool with monthly payments. All I pay is my taxes.”

“How many electrical appliances do you have in your home?”

The old woman brightened up. “Now, that’s a good question. A good many of them. Let’s see . . . all my lights, of course. My stove. My icebox. My toaster. My percolator. My radio, that’s another. My—wait a minute, I have two iceboxes . . . the other one’s on the back porch but it’s not plugged in . . . does that count?”

“Not if you don’t use it.”

“But it works, at least it used to. I told Norma I don’t really need it. I do a lot of canning and I have plenty of room in my new icebox, so I just keep my birdseed and things like that out there. I’m kind of thinking about giving it to some poor person down the line; that’s probably what I should do. They’d be pretty happy to have it, don’t you think?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The young man, trying to move on, said, “All right now—”

“Wait a minute, I’m not through,” she said. “My front-porch light, my vacuum cleaner, my fan, my air cooler. I put that on once in a while when I get—”

“Fine . . . what about gas?”

“What?”

“Gas appliances, do you have anything that uses gas?”

“Should I?”

“No . . . not really. So can we say that you prefer electric to gas?”

“I don’t think we can say that. I don’t rightly know. I don’t have any gas things, only electric.”

He wrote yes. “Mrs. Shimfissle, would you say that the amount of your monthly electric bill is, in your opinion, high, medium, or low?”

“That’s a good one. Hmmm, I would say . . . just about right. To tell the truth, for what all you get for your money, it’s a bargain. Now, don’t hold me to it, but I would pay a lot more if they asked me to but don’t put that down. I don’t want them to raise my bill. That’s just between you and me.”

He checked off low. “So would you say you use your electrical appliances more than the average person?”

“As a matter of fact, I think electricity is just about the best value you can get for your money, other than having a baby or a heart operation. Did I say I had an electric heater in my bathroom?”

“No, ma’am, but—”

“Put that down. You know, sometimes I get to thinking about value . . . and you just wonder how people figure it, don’t you?”

“Ma’am?”

“How people figure the value of things. What things are worth, for instance. Do you know that an automobile costs more than it does to go to the hospital to have a baby? Now, who figured out that a car is worth more than a baby is what I want to know. My neighbor’s husband, Merle, went all the way to Texas and had a doctor put him in a new heart valve so he wouldn’t die, and it cost less than it does to buy a good house trailer. Now, have you ever heard of a house trailer saving a man’s life?”

“No, ma’am but—”

“That’s right, you haven’t. I said, Verbena, what would you rather have, a new house trailer or your husband? You wouldn’t even enjoy that trailer if your husband was dead, would you? And she had to admit I was right. I’d take a heart valve over a house trailer any day, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am. I just have a few more questions.”

“But you’re young yet, so you won’t be needing a heart valve for a long time but when you do, think about this one. Think about how much money that heart valve, something that is no bigger than my thumb, costs and how big that house trailer is. No matter how you slice it . . . you may get something bigger but it won’t keep your heart going. . . . So that brings me back to my point.”

“Ma’am?”

“Electricity is the best value we have going and we can’t even see it!”

He saw an opening and he took it. “So would you say in regards to your electric service that you are very satisfied, moderately satisfied, or not satisfied?”

“I would say that I’m extremely satisfied, satisfied-beyond-my-wildest-dreams satisfied. Back in 1928 my sister Gerta said, Just wait until you get electricity out there on the farm, and I remember the first time they ran it up to the house and I’ve loved it ever since. I don’t know how we ever got along without it. You tell them down at the electric company that I think electricity is perfectly wonderful. Why, just think how much we depend on it and I’ll tell you something else. After Jesus, I think that Thomas Edison is the second most important man that ever lived on this earth . . . bar none. And to think we don’t even have a holiday named after him. They gave Saint Patrick his own day and what did he do but run out a bunch of snakes. Why, Thomas Edison lit up the world. If it hadn’t been for him we’d all still be sitting here in the dark, with nothing but a candle, and we don’t even celebrate his birthday. The Wizard of Menlo Park doesn’t even get a holiday.”

The young man started to push his papers back in his satchel. “Yes, ma’am, that’s true.”

“You’re too young to remember but I remember the day he died, in thirty-one. Everybody put their lights out for one minute. But then after that they forgot all about him. But I don’t forget him. Do you know what I do each year on Tom’s birthday?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I turn on everything I own, all my lights, my washing machine, my fans, my radio, my TV, and I let them play all day. And I say, Happy Birthday, Tom. Now, that is how highly I think of Mr. Thomas Edison.”

“Well, thank you for your time, ma’am.” He stood up, ready to leave.

“Let me ask you this . . . do they have a picture of Thomas Edison on the wall down at the Missouri Power and Light Company?”

“Not that I remember, ma’am.”

“See what I mean? Here none of them would even have a job if it hadn’t been for old Tom Edison and they don’t even put his picture up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He started inching toward the door.

“Am I all done? Is it over?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh . . . well, how’d I do?”

“You did just fine.”

“Above average?”

“I’d say above average.”

She got up. “Wait a minute, let me give you some figs and plums before you go.” She walked over and grabbed a wrinkled brown paper bag from a drawer and started to fill it with fresh fruit. “Now, I used this sack once, but it’s clean, so don’t you worry about germs and you don’t need to wash these. I don’t put any poison on them. I figure whatever bugs get to them first, they are welcome to them. Besides, they always leave me plenty . . . so much I can’t even find enough people to give them away to and I hate to have them go bad, don’t you? So I’m gonna put some extra ones in for your mother, O.K.?”

Dazed, he took the sack and headed for the door. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Well, that’s just fine . . . and I wish you all the best of luck with your project. But tell them they ought to put Tom Edison’s picture on the wall.”

“Yes, ma’am, I certainly will.” He was halfway down the back stairs when she came to the door. “Hey, I just thought of something I forgot . . . put down my electric blanket. Add that to my list, will you? And hey, you need to go over to Norma’s house and give her the test. She has all kinds of appliances. She’s two blocks over at 212 Second Avenue.” Then she added, “But don’t tell her I sent you. She’s still mad about that insurance woman.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, but he was not going to interview anybody related to her. They all might be crazy.

Chris-Crossed

EXCEPT FOR wearing shoes and the flower boutonnieres, all the prison trustees were certainly glad to be living in the governor’s mansion instead of jail and Cecil Figgs was as happy as a lark planning all the social events. But nobody on the governor’s staff was having a better time than his old friend Rodney Tillman. Being in charge of the governor’s public relations was quite a jump from used-car salesman, and he took full advantage of it. One afternoon Rodney came strolling into Hamm’s office looking like the cat who ate the canary, sat down, and casually said, “Hey, Hambo, how would you like to have a boat?”

Hamm looked up from his papers. “A boat? What kind of a boat?”

“A big boat.” He reached into his shirt pocket and threw a photograph of a brand-new thirty-five-foot Chris-Craft cabin cruiser on Hamm’s desk. Hamm picked it up and looked at it and smiled.

“You know I’ve always wanted a boat. Why?”

Rodney leaned in and said, “Because, ol’ buddy, I know a fellow that’s just dying to give you one just like that.”

“Give me one . . . what for?”

“He figured with all the stress you’re under that you need a place where you can go and relax, get away from it all. This boat he’s just dying to give you sleeps eight and can slip on down to Florida or the Bahamas for that matter, anytime you want to take a little trip.”

“Who is this guy?”

“Just one of your big supporters . . . who wants to do something nice for you.”

“What’s the matter with you, Rodney? As long as I’m governor, you know I can’t take any gifts from anybody.”

“Well, hell, Hambo, I know that . . . but there’s a lot of ways to skin a cat. Now, suppose he was to lock this boat up in a boathouse somewhere for you to borrow and take out for a ride anytime you wanted . . . that would be all right, wouldn’t it?”

Hamm looked at him suspiciously. “Come on, Rodney, this sounds fishy.”

“Now wait, hear me out on this. . . . Suppose he was to give me the key to this boathouse to keep it for you, until such time when you are no longer governor and can accept a gift from a friend.” Rodney leaned back in the chair and crossed his hands behind his head. “In the meantime, why, you don’t even know the name of the man who owns it. As far as you’re concerned, I just borrowed it from a friend of a friend.”

Hamm kept gazing at the picture of the boat. He had absolutely no intention of accepting it, but it was a beautiful boat, and for someone who had never made more than sixty-five dollars a week and could never hope to afford anything like this, it was tempting. He pushed the picture back across the desk. “Tell him thanks but I better not.”

Rodney shrugged and said, “All right, I was just thinking how much fun it might be for your boys down the line. You do what you want to . . . but if it were me, I wouldn’t be so quick to look a gift horse in the mouth like that. What’s the point of being governor if you can’t have fun?”

He walked out and left the picture lying on Hamm’s desk. For a week Hamm kept taking that picture out of his desk drawer and looking at it. The second week he called Wendell Hewitt, the attorney general, into his office and said, “Listen, as governor would it be illegal for me to borrow a boat from somebody?”

Wendell said, “No, why?”

“I just wondered.” On the fourth week Hamm decided it would not hurt to go down and just take a look at it. The friend of a friend had so hoped he would accept the gift, he had even gone so far as to have a name painted on the side for him. The moment Hamm saw The Betty Raye he was in love.

When Wendell, who had driven down with them that day, saw the name written on the side of the boat, he said, being no fool, “Don’t tell me a thing, boys. I don’t want to know. I’m just here for a boat ride.”

Hamm did not know it but the friend of a friend was a Mr. Anthony Leo from St. Louis, and when the governor commuted his brother’s scheduled execution to a life sentence he was grateful. All Hamm knew was that Rodney had come into the office that day and seemed very nervous until he had finished signing all his pardons. Wendell, who advised Hamm, agreed with Hamm’s decision; after all, the man had not killed an innocent person; he had just shot some other mob hood.

Hamm said, “He probably did the state a favor.”

They both had done Rodney a favor and did not know it; Rodney had a rather large gambling debt that had just been crossed off the books. But Hamm was no fool either. He never intended to accept a gift from anyone, never told anyone about The Betty Raye except a few people he could trust. But he did use it every chance he got.

One afternoon when he and Rodney were out cruising around the Missouri River, having a few drinks and smoking a few cigars, Hamm said, “You know, Rodney, I’ve been thinking, when my term is up, it sure would be nice if Betty Raye and the kids and I were to have a nice house we could move into right away and not have to wait. Sort of like a loan, and then, when I get settled and get a good job down the line, I can pay for it. What do you think?”

Rodney said, “Oh, I think that could be arranged.”

“I don’t think it would look too good for the ex-governor to have to go back to some little rented place, do you?”

“No, I agree with you there. What kind of a house do you think an ex-governor should live in?”

Hamm leaned back and thought about it. “I suppose it should be in a good neighborhood, for the kids, maybe something with a lot of red brick and a big porch, something along that line. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah, that sounds about right. Let me do a little nosing around and see what I can come up with.”

“And a car. Maybe one of those new DeSotos.”

“No sweat,” Rodney said. “What color?”

“Blue.”

Blue was his favorite color. And after all, as Rodney had said, what is the point of being governor if you can’t have a good time.

Rainbows and Cakes

Dorothy was very happy these days. Both her children were married to wonderful people, she already had three beautiful granddaughters, and Anna Lee had just called and told her she was expecting another baby. So she was particularly cheerful today.

“Good morning, everybody . . . I hope all of you out there are raring to go this morning, because you know what today is? Cakes, cakes, and more cakes is the rally cry of the Annual Golden Flake Cake Baking Contest and in its honor today Mother Smith is going to play a special song, ‘If I Knew You Were Coming I’d Have Baked a Cake.’ So ladies, and any of you men out there, make sure you have all your supplies at hand. Every second counts. Get ready. Get set . . . start your ovens! Let the bakeoff begin! Now, while all of you are waiting for your ovens to preheat, let me run the rules by you once more. Only one cake per contestant. As soon as you have your cake finished and frosted, get it over to the VFW hall as soon as possible for the judging.

“Good luck to one and all and for all you cake eaters out there, remember they all will go on sale after the judging, at around two this afternoon. All the proceeds are going to aid our policemen and firemen all over the state of Missouri. They do such a fine job all year ’round, so come over and buy a cake, and let them know how much we appreciate every one of them. We are so lucky this year to have such fine judges. All the way from Poplar Bluff, we have Mr. Jack Mann, president of Golden Flake Flour Company, also Mrs. Edith Cagle Pool, who is the author of the Edith Cagle Pool Cakes for Every Occasion cookbook and is listed in the Who’s Who in Home Economics, and last but not least, yours truly, so come on by and see us . . . it’s going to be a lot of fun.

“Wrens, robins, bluebirds, redbirds, hummingbirds, bobolinks, and finches have all been spotted so far this year by our bird-watcher, Emma Henson over in Walnut Shade, and Mrs. Joanne Ault of Woodlawn, Missouri, writes in and says . . .

“Dear Neighbor Dorothy,

“I read a good book and I would like to pass it on to your reading listeners. If they want to have a good laugh read Cheaper by the Dozen by Frank Gilbreth, Jr., and Ernestine Gilbreth Carey.

“All right . . . thank you for that. I only like to recommend books that are happy and cheerful. . . . I know there are sad things out in the world . . . but I just don’t want to dwell on them. I guess I’m just like one of those ostriches; I just stick my head in the sand. I don’t want to face the facts. All the scientists are determined to tell us what the moon is made of and what the stars are . . . and why there are rainbows . . . but I just don’t want to know. When I wish on a star, I don’t need to know what it’s made out of—let the men figure it out—as for me, when a thing is beautiful, what does it matter why. I never get tired of looking at the moon. One night it is small and round as a shiny, ice-cold, white marble and the next it’s a big soft yellow moon. How can we be bored when nature gives us so many wonders to look at. Which brings me to my next letter . . . it comes to us from Mrs. Anne Carter of Repton, Missouri. She writes . . .

“Dear Neighbor Dorothy,

“Have you ever wondered what is at the end of the rainbow? Well, I want to share with you what happened to us. Yesterday my family and I were driving out in the country and when a small rainstorm cleared, my son called our attention to a huge rainbow that had suddenly formed across the sky. The end of it seemed to be in the road up ahead of us. I drove as fast as I could to the spot and when we all got out of the car and looked at each other our skin seemed to glow with iridescent colors of pink and blue and green. We could not believe our eyes. We were literally standing in the rainbow. If that is not a miracle, I don’t know what is. God truly blessed my family and me that day and we will never forget it.”

Mother Smith played a little of “Somewhere over the Rainbow.” “Thank you for sharing that beautiful story with us, Mrs. Carter. . . . Now every time I see a rainbow I’ll think of you and your family standing in the rainbow!

“Now I ask you. Isn’t life wonderful?”