Some time back, before he passed away, my brother Joe was taking some college courses, and found that not only did he enjoy writing, but that he was actually good at it. No one was more surprised at this than Joe. He loved telling jokes, and spinning yarns, and was happiest when he could drag it out on an unsuspecting victim who listened intently for quite some time, only later to realize that Joe had been pulling their leg. But it seems that he found that in writing, he could paint a picture in words, and I believe that gave him much pleasure.
This story was found in an old folder where it was placed many years ago when Joe handed it to Donna to read while he was in the hospital. It brought tears to our eyes as we read it today, and I felt compelled to post it here today. (I am taking the liberty to add some pictures I found online to go with the story, but other than that, the story is unedited)
SOUTHERN TOWNS
Joe Fitch1106 G St.
Washougal,
552 56 0359
(360) 835 5462
I love small southern towns. I spent a good part of my youth in them, and
even though I have since moved north to find work and raise my family in a large
city, I have never lost my fondness for the easier tempo of country living.
A few years ago, I took a vacation to visit my "Granny" down in
She still keeps a small farm about eight miles outside of town and leases the fields to
a local man. He cares for the crops and the few head of dairy cows she has left from
the days when she and Grandpa did it all and raised seven kids. Grandpa is gone
now, and Granny is in her eighties, but the old farm still does well enough for her to
live independently. "
I still had two hours left to drive, so I pulled off the turnpike at
This part of western
with hardwood forests, lakes, rivers, and ponds; much as I remembered from my
boyhood.
Driving into the main part of town, I was pleased to see what appeared to be a one
hundred-year-old red brick courthouse, a blocky, three story remnant of the post
Civil war "Reconstruction" era. The main floor was, reached by climbing twenty
stone steps from the ground level to the massive front doors. Directly above was a
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sign cut in native stone: Butler County Court 1870. Fresh white paint covered all
the woodwork near the main entrance, as well as the functioning storm shutters that
flanked every window that let into the main and upper levels. The well-clipped
lawns around the place were sprinkled generously with huge white oaks, hickories,
and beech trees, shading the ample rhododendrons and azaleas that lent their rich
colors to the scene. The lower floor was halfway belowground, and judging from
the white painted and closely spaced bars at every window, this was the county lockup.
The courthouse and surrounding lawns formed a square, around which all the
traffic flowed, and daily business went on around it in a relaxed fashion. There was
a war memorial of some sort next to the main steps, with its attendant World War I
howitzer and bronze plaque set into a large granite stone. A few people strolled
around the grounds, visiting, cutting through on errands, or maybe just loafing in
the late spring sunshine.
Directly across from the front of the courthouse was my destination.
"Leona's" was a smallish cafe in the 1940s style featuring a long counter
across the entire back wall of the room with stools covered in red plastic and
chrome. Six tables were scattered around the central area, spread with bright tablecloths. Eight booths crowded against the front windows, and I picked one
to sit down. Each booth had its own juke box console, and as I looked over the selections, I noticed the sign near the coin slot: 10c per play, 3 plays for 25c. Now that brought back some
memories.
The waitress brought over a glass of ice water, and asked if I wanted some coffee, and gave me
the menu. I said "Yes" to the coffee, and she moved behind the counter. She was lovely; maybe three years out of high school, tall and slender, her long brown hair tied back in a ponytail. She wore a bright yellow print dress, a white
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starched apron, and low white athletic shoes. She moved with an economy of motion
that was meant, I'm sure, to conserve energy over a long day spent on her feet.
When she brought my coffee over, I asked her name. "Willy Givens" she said, and
smiled radiantly. "What's yours?" I told her, and remarked that I liked her town.
"Thanks," she said, then "Will you be staying in town for a while? We're having a
parade and fair later this week."
"No, I'm just here for a little while, and then driving on to Russellville to see
my family. I'll be passing back through on Saturday, though, on my way back
home."
"The fair starts Friday at
can,"
she said.
"Thanks, Willy, I might just do that. I could use a little fun before I head
back to work for another year." She beamed that brilliant smile at me again, and I
ordered a hamburger to go along with my coffee. The sandwich was good, and I
took my time eating it, enjoying watching Willy as she moved among the other
customers, chatting with each as if he or she was the only one in the place.
I paid for my lunch, leaving what I hoped was a nice tip, and walked back
into the sunshine again. I felt good, so I walked about a bit peering into the stores as
I passed. There was a Western Auto store with some swell fishing rods in the
window, lawnmowers and wheelbarrows set out on the sidewalk. A movie house was
showing two western films that I had already seen. The drug store had paperbacks
on a rack outside the store, and I looked at the selection, but couldn't find anything I
wanted to read. It suddenly dawned on me that it had been a long time since I had
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seen someone put his or her wares out on the sidewalk for anybody to sort through.
In a city, that's just asking to be ripped off by anyone who comes by.
Walking back to my car, I hoped that it would be a long time, if ever, before
these nice folks felt the need to change their ways.
Leaving
Russellville, enjoying the rolling backcountry views as they unfolded before me.
Fields of corn and tobacco blended with acres of grass hay, and patches of sweet gum
trees crowded close to the pavement as I drew closer to Granny's place. Ponds full
of catfish called to me from the roadside, daring me to stop for awhile; to slow and
enjoy the clock-stopping pace that I missed while living in a large city. The last
hours of my drive here were nearly done, and as I pulled onto the sweetbrier
bordered lane that led to the old farm, the last of the city-born tensions slipped off
my shoulders.
I was home.
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