Gittin' Through: A Southern Town During World War Ii

GITTIN’ THROUGH

A Southern Town during World War II

Roy T. Matthews

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© Copyright 2011 Roy T. Matthews.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Printed in the United States of America.

isbn:

978-1-4269-7436-6 (sc)

isbn: 978-1-4269-7394-9 (hc)

isbn: 978-1-4269-7437-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011910916

Trafford rev. 07/27/2011

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Contents

PREFACE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

To Lee Ann

PREFACE

Gittin’ Through, a historical novel, was drawn from my memories, my research and my imagination. I recorded my own recollections and talked to family and friends. To authenticate many of the events I researched the town’s weekly newspaper and the two major regional newspapers and read memoirs of several prominent citizens. Fictional and composite characters and many of the town’s citizens are woven into the narrative.

The narrative follows life in a small southern town from 1938 to 1945. The story line unfolds daily, weekly, sometimes hourly, as the townspeople struggle to understand what is happening in the world, their nation and their hometown. Events are sometimes seen through the eyes of children, other times adults. Their reactions are recorded in conversations and arguments in homes, business establishments, on the telephone, and in the solitude of their minds.

Among the books read on World War II, I should note Reporting World War II, Part Two: American Journalism 1944-1946 and Remaking Dixie: The Impact of World War II on the American South (edited by Neil R. McMillen). I examined The Norfolk Virginian Pilot, The Richmond Times Dispatch and The Tidewater News. I am especially indebted to Dan Balfour, Southampton County and Franklin: A Pictorial History, Joseph Gittler, Virginia’s People: A Cultural Panorama, Edgar B. Jackson, Fall Out to the Right of the Road!, Thomas C. Parramore, Southampton County, Virginia, Francis Lawrence Webb, Recollections of Franklin and Historical Sketches of Southampton County, and the unpublished history of the Pretlow, Cook, Rawls, Paddison and Holland families by Joel Cook Pretlow. I have shamelessly borrowed oft-told tales and reminiscences from friends with whom I share fond memories.

I wish to thank the staff of the Michigan State University Library who helped in supplying microfilm and advice, the staff in the Microform Division of the Library of Congress, and the staff of The Tidewater News who permitted me to handle the fragile copies of their newspaper before they were transferred to microfilm.

My extended and immediate family supported me at every phase of the book. My cousin, the late Meta Matthews Councill and her husband, the late Bobbie Councill, hosted me while I poured over files at the Tidewater News office. Other cousins, Bill Holland and Nancy Holland Tucker , helped me recall stories about our families. Randy, my son, and Elizabeth, my daughter, gave me moral support and long ago learned not ask when was I going to finish my novel.

I know I never would have completed my book without LeeAnn, my wife, who worked with me on the last two revisions. She stayed by my side for months until we felt the manuscript was ready for publishing. I hope we are correct in our assessment. I, alone, am to blame for the omissions and commissions in Gittin’ Through.

Chapter One

A PLEASANT PLACE

When Jimmy Jordan’s father turned his 1937 black Buick off the main highway to head toward Madison, Jimmy saw the red clay outcroppings of the scattered hills whose presence had long ago determined the road’s twists and turns. He followed the lines of split rail fences trailing into the distance until they turned into thin lines and disappeared in the stands of hardwoods or pines. Farm houses and outbuildings sat on the hills’ crowns or hugged their sides. After fifteen miles through the red clay hills the narrow two lane highway straightened onto the flattened terrain. On both sides of the road the fields hugged the edge of the asphalt and faded into the distance, up against stands of tall pines that changed from light to dark green as the sun and shadows played upon the needles. If the farmer had run the rows of peanuts perpendicular to the road, Jimmy could count them as long as his father didn’t drive so fast that the rows became a blur. If the rows were planted parallel to the road, they looked to Jimmy like small waves rippling across the ocean on a calm day.

This state highway was called, by some people who still remembered, the Ridge Route to distinguish it from the Old Stage Route. The Old Stage Route ran down from the capital to the port cities on the north side of the estuary that separated the southern tier of counties from those to the north. The Ridge Route, more or less parallel to the Old Stage Route, was laid out on the southern side of the estuary. Starting from Seaport the Ridge Route headed inland to the west and gradually veered north through small towns and by farms to the capital. Both the Ridge Route and the Old Stage Route, built with state and federal funds near the end of World War I when the U.S. Government started subsidizing highway programs, were in constant need of repair. Jimmy could tell this as his dad dodged the potholes and cursed under his breath.

Along the Ridge Route Jimmy caught glimpses of isolated farm houses which sat on low mounds away from the highway, up long lanes flanked by oaks or cedars. The longer the lane and the wider the front porch, the more imposing the house, originally white but usually a fading ivory or dingy gray, subject to the last painting or whitewashing which, in turn, depended on whether the owner had scratched out any small profit. The bottom had fallen out of the cash crops eight years ago and since then some farmers had given up and now worked in the textile mill in Jimmy’s hometown.

In those houses lived the county folks who, in Jimmy’s mind, were different from town people, different because, well, living on the land or making a living on the land was not the same as living in the town. Jimmy had some friends whose parents farmed, and when he went to visit his friends, what struck him was that living in the country was just plain hard work that never seemed to end. How could those folks survive, if what he heard his parents and grandfather say was true that farmers weren’t getting much for their cotton and they might as well give away their peanuts.

What Jimmy did not know was that their information was coming out of newspapers and state reports. A majority of the state’s population still made their living off the land, but that number had been declining in the late 1930s. Some had gone to work in plants, but a lot more were finding jobs in banks, insurance companies and the government. White folks were getting along a little better, but the colored were not doing as well. Jobs for them were scarce, and most of them still scraped out some kind of existence on the land.

But that data was far from Jimmy’s reading and thinking. And the houses and farms turned hazy and finally became a blank in his mind.

Wake up, son. We’re home. Ya musta been sleepin’ for the last hour.

*     *     *

Six days a week Harris and Bobbie Blythe unlocked the door of Blythe Brothers’ Barbershop. As Harris turned the key to the left with his right hand while lifting the door knob with the left to release the lock, he damned their landlord, Cap’n Joyner, and sent him straight to hell. Eighteen years of slamming and banging the door had knocked it so out of line that Harris’s routine was the only way to unlock his shop. As the door swung open, cologne and powder scents slipped up their nostrils, reminding them that another day of work was about to begin. The black and white octagonal tiles, swept clean before closing by Amos, the shoeshine boy, reflected the dull glare of the hanging lights after Bobbie flipped up the light switch. The ceiling fixtures, with three bulbs encased in translucent tulip shades, would illuminate the rectangular room all day, although the sun would pour through the Venetian blinds hanging across the plate glass front.

Five barber chairs, with round black leather covered seats and backs, white marble arm supports, and patterned metal foot rests, alternated with the dangling lamps. A row of eight wooden seats, bought two years ago at the grammar school furniture auction, offered customers uncomfortable places to sit, to talk or to read the outdated magazines piled on the scarred wooden end table. At the back of the shop, in the corner, Amos shined shoes, and, when needed, ran errands for the Blythe brothers and their patrons, fetching the morning papers or buying a co-cola at the drugstore. Next to the shoeshine stand a door opened to a short hall. On the left side was a supply room and on the right a toilet which businessmen frequented throughout the day and customers used when they felt the urge or maybe got bored waiting their turn. The flanking mirrors along the walls reproduced and shrank the image of each person just like Jimmy imagined it was at the Fun House in Ocean View as he sat in the barber’s chair.

By three-thirty Bobbie and Harris had, between them, shaved four faces, snipped twelve heads. About this time every day except Saturday, Cap’n Al Joyner dropped by and the ritual started. Grown men either sat back and enjoyed the conversation or chipped in their opinions, while kids like Jimmy looked on wondering what was happening.

Why weren’t ya at the fish fry last night, Cap’n Joyner? Cost too much for ya? Harris asked and answered his own question before the Cap’n spoke.

Well, you know he would never spend a dollar and a half, whatever may be the cause, said Scott Taylor, in that meticulous tone he had cultivated while working for the federal government in Washington. Some in town admired Scott for the way he spoke, believing that it helped raise the standard of speech as he never dropped a word ending, in particular always emphasizing every ing. Most thought he was just putting on airs, trying to impress others.

That money wasn’t gonna go to the po’ folks, that’s for sure. You know that, Scott, Not when it comes to the Baptists. They got mo’ money than anybody else in town. I believe you hep out those who need it the most. So why should I give ’em any, any, any money? ‘Sides, Bill Jackson told me they nearly burned up the fish an’ the fish muddle was as thin, as thin, as dishwater.

Well, whatever you wanna say ‘bout the fish muddle, hepin’ po’ folks, charity, it’s still givin’ up ya money, and Cap’n Al ain’t going to do much of that.

Now, now, now, you lis’en here, Bobbie Blythe, I’m gonna give as much as the next person, but I’ll be durn if I’m gonna let them rich church folks have my money.

But wait a minute. The Baptists don’t keep the money. They send it to the missionaries in Africa or China or, maybe hep the po’ right here at home. ‘Sides, the Methodists and Christians do the same; it’s those ‘Piscapalians who’re different, they’re always sendin’ their money off on some hair-brained scheme like what’s goin’ on in Chicago or Philadelphia. Now, why do the ‘Piscopalians do that? asked Herman Lowe, owner of the Madison Drug Store. Herman’s calculated comment and question hit his target as Scott Taylor stiffened in his seat and cleared his throat."

Now, look, I am not going to defend everything that minister of mine says and does. We do as much as anybody else in this town to aid the unfortunate. It is just that we go about it in another way.

Scott Taylor rambled on about how Episcopalians were as generous as any other believers while omitting what everybody in the barber shop knew: the really rich, Madison’s old money, all huddled together in that small sanctuary every Sunday. That meant that more wealth was concentrated in one place for one hour than in any bank or store in the whole town for the next six days.

Since everybody knew this, they ignored Scott’s predictable defense of his fellow parishioners and stared at Cap’n Joyner, standing about two feet inside the door in his blue and white striped seersucker suit, sucking on a toothpick and rocking back and forth in his Bostonian black and white wing tips. After Labor Day any respected male did not wear white shoes or white linen suits. But Cap’n Joyner got by in seersucker until about October 1 when he went to gabardine suits and changed his black and white wing tips for black or brown shoes.

As the stingiest man in the county, Cap’n Joyner always provided good entertainment, holding his own against all comers and serving as a target for the latest joke. But what passed for banter and humor could not, with any certainty, be distinguished from envy or admiration by the other men sitting in the barber shop.

Does anyone think that this agreement jest signed in Germany will do any good? asked Jim Clark

I heard something on the radio and read the newspapers, but I’m still not sure what all this means. But, I tell ya, the last thing we wanna do in this county is get involved in another war. We bailed ’em out the last time and look what good it done us, Harris Blythe replied.

Everyone knew how Harris felt about another war. In 1918 Harris and Bobbie’s father came home suffering from shell shock, set up his barber business, but, in 1920, went into the VA hospital and never came out. The brothers, then in their late teens, took over the shop and had been there for eighteen years.

What I can’t understand, Herman Low replied, is what that guy Hitler really wants. He’s got Austria and all those Germans. He’s pulled his country outta’ the depression. I was jest talkin’ to a man in the capital who’d been over there on business ‘bout two months ago, and he told me the factories where he went were in full production, somethin’ we can’t say about America, and the folks he saw seemed satisfied with the way things were going. But, then, I jest don’t know ya can trust him.

Hell, Herman, we can’t trust any of them leaders. Look at that man in the White House. ‘Sides, we not only sent ou’ boys, ou’ boys, over there, but lent ’em all that money, and not a one of ‘em paid back a cent, not a red cent.

That’s for sure, Cap’n Joyner. That’s for sure. And nobody knows more than you ‘bout collectin’ every red cent, nodded Bobbie Blythe.

But this guy’s different. He’s not goin’ to be satisfied ‘til he conquers Europe, if not the world, and we’d better understand that. I mean, the more you read about this man, the more you see what he’s up to. Talk about not being able to trust someone, he’s never kept his word. But, then, what’re we gonna do? The French don’t wanna fight again. You sure can’t count on them. And there’s Russia. Who knows what’s going on there? As for the British, they’ll make a deal with anybody as long as it helps ’em keep their empire. It just don’t look good, no matter.

But what can anybody do, Jim? asked Scott Taylor. Look, this man now has the largest Army in Europe. Did you see the newsreel last week at the movie show? All those troops marching by Hitler? Those tanks and cannons? It is scary. The British haven’t got half that, and the French are hiding behind that defense line they built. You’re right, Jim, about Russia and we might as well forget all those little countries. And it looks like Italy’s going to back Hitler and who knows what’s going to happen in Spain.

*     *     *

Harris Blythe brushed off the back of Jimmy’s Jordan’s neck, put more powder on the bristles and whisked away the last sticking hairs. He pumped the handle and the chair slowly glided down allowing Jimmy to touch the floor. He handed Mr. Blythe a quarter, and the conversation faded away as he slipped out the door unnoticed. His mind was hardly on Cap’n Joyner, although he had seen him around town for years. But what about that Hitler guy and all that talk about war.

As he stepped out onto the sidewalk, a cool breath of air hit his face. The late September days were finally breaking the summer heat. August, thank God, was gone. So, now, when Jimmy went to bed he could turn over and the sheets didn’t stick to his legs and were no longer coming untucked from under his mattress. Cooler days meant school, but he didn’t mind. There was a lot of catching up to do with his buddies and always two or three new students in class.

Jimmy turned left on to Main Street and walked by the dime store, Madison Drug Store, his dad’s clothing store, crossed the street and ducked up an ally between two brick buildings and then on to a narrow street of four small white buildings housing offices of doctors, dentists, and lawyers and the public library. He trudged up the hill that separated the business and residential parts of town. He always thought that this hill made sense because it neatly divided the downtown stores from the houses, churches and schools. All towns, he felt, should be laid out like Madison, not in some higgledy-piggledy fashion. For this and many other reasons, Jimmy Jordan had concluded a few years ago that this was the best town to live in anywhere in the world.

At the top of the hill, he moved past the Methodist Church which sat on the corner, like most churches did in Madison, and then turned left, crossing one block to the next toward his house. He could hear occasional cheers and shouts coming from the high school football field which sounded sharper and clearer than those echoed only a few weeks when the humidity was muffling every voice and car horn. As Jimmy slammed the screen door and made his way toward the kitchen, his mother wanted to know if he had done his homework.

Well, no, ‘cause I had to get a haircut.

Oh, that’s right, I forgot.

Don’t have much to do. Some spellin’ words, a few ‘rithmetic problems and chapters in my history and geography books. Mama, do you think we gonna have a war?

Goodness gracious, why are you askin’ such a question?

Well, I heard a bunch of men in the barbershop talkin’ ‘bout what was goin’ on and I was jest won’ering. I couldn’t understand all of it, so I thought I would ask you. You and dad seem to talk ‘bout these things.

Jimmy, you’ll have to ask your father. It all seems so crazy to me. After all, it seems like we jest got out of war. I was about your age and remember your daddy’s cousin goin’ into the navy. He was on a battleship or something like that. I sure hope that we don’t git into another one; they’re jest so awful with all that killin’. I really don’t know what to say to ya. Your father’ll be home in ‘round an hour. Now, go on up and start your homework. I want you to bed by ten; you’ve been stayin’ up too late these last few nights.

Martha Jordan’s soft brown eyes followed her son out of the room. Her eyes, some people called them cow eyes, gave her an expression of constant surprise, as if she had been asked a question and was thinking about an answer. Her brown curly hair, worn at shoulder length now that the bob was out of fashion, framed what could be called a pretty face in the sense of a wholesomeness that did not demand much lipstick and only a dab of rouge as her checks always seemed to be ever so slightly pink. There was a freshness about her looks, as there was with many young girls who had grown up on farms. If she had stayed on the farm and done the work demanded of her and had subjected herself to the sun and dust, her beauty would have faded years ago. But Martha Holloway had escaped farm life when she married James Jordan and moved to Madison.

She shared the looks of many women in the county whose genes descended from the Anglo-Normans who had settled the land two centuries ago and had remained over the years, clearing the forests, planting crops and rearing families. Sometimes, on a Saturday afternoon in downtown Madison or in one of its churches on a Sunday it looked as if all the women might have been second or third cousins.

Jimmy left the kitchen which smelled of collard greens and ham hock, not his favorite dish, to go to his room when, walking though the living room, his eyes caught the Seaport Times funnies. The newspaper had started a new strip, Dick Tracy. Jimmy liked the characters, especially Dick, and Chief, his boss, and Pat, his sidekick. He already found it fun to read, and not silly like Popeye or boring like Mags and Jiggs. Jimmy’s father approved of the strip when he had read earlier in the Seaport Times that it was going to feature Dick Tracy because it was unquestionably superior to other comics and would teach impressionable youth that crime did not pay.

After reading the comics, he tossed the paper on the couch and bounded up the steps, two at a time, to his room. He’d been in this room since he could remember. He was lucky as he thought about his friends who had to share rooms with a brother or, worse, had a sister using the same bathroom. But, then, when he started to count up his buddies he realized that most of them did not have a brother or sister, and if they did, only one. It was different with his buddies from the country; they all had bunches of brothers and sisters. Maybe his dad could tell him why that was the case and if we were gonna go to war.

He sat down at his desk that his parents had just bought. He was starting the fourth grade, and they realized that Jimmy had outgrown the plywood table that had passed for a desk his first three years in grammar school. They told him that he would be using it for a long time, probably until he finished high school. When in the world would that happen? Nobody could see that far. But the desk, he had to admit, was pretty nice with a lotta’ room to write on, a shelf for his books and drawers on each side. From his desk he could look out the windows on the two sides of his corner room down on the streets and keep an eye on the cars going back and forth. When he got bored with his homework he’d listen for a car, guess its make by the motor’s sound and then peer out to see if he was right. But today time passed quickly as he ticked off the assignment: a twelve page chapter on mountains, ten pages on the colonial period in his home state, ten multiplication problems, and fifteen new words to memorize. Other smells from the kitchen soon drifted up to his room overwhelming that awful collard odor, maybe supper wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Just before supper James Jordan went into the living room and turned on his pride and joy, a Sears Silvertone console radio. At $50.00, he had convinced Martha that they could afford this latest model with its automatic volume control and ten-inch speaker. Jimmy’s dad could get eight stations by pushing buttons and tune in on domestic and foreign broadcasts. Looking it his new radio standing in the corner of the living room, set in its dark wooden case that blended in with the furniture, James knew that he had made the right choice. He heard Paul Douglas report the baseball scores and then switched stations to Lowell Thomas for the latest news.

James normally ignored what went on beyond his business and family, but, for the past few weeks, what he had been reading in the Capital Dispatch disturbed him. He could not get out of his mind the two photographs which appeared earlier in the month on the front page. One showed German soldiers, marching down a street in Nuremberg in shining helmets and black uniforms, holding their rifles straight up on their shoulders, heads turned right, and goose stepping with their right legs high and nearly parallel to the ground. Placed below this picture was one showing a crooked line of straggling French troops with rifles resting at various angles on their left shoulders plodding through the open countryside near the German border.

My God! James exclaimed. Could these Frenchmen really defeat those Germans? Look at the differences in the way they are marching, look at those uniforms. In a battle, the Germans would win, no doubt about it.

Those two photographs flashed across his mind as he listened to Lowell Thomas talk about the Munich agreement. Those images reconfirmed what Thomas was saying. The German Army was much better prepared to fight than the French army.

Would this mean the British would be defeated too? Would we get involved? Let’s hope not. Let ’em fight their own damn wars.

James, dinner is ready.

Coming, sweetie.

Jimmy heard his mother call his dad about the time he was half way through memorizing his list of new words and hurried down the steps. As he was unfolding his napkin, James Jordan glanced at his son, thought he noticed something different and proceeded to congratulate him for finally getting a haircut. Jimmy nodded and smiled slightly before sitting down on the side of the dining room table.

James, I was in the A & P today, and the manager told me that they’re re-designin’ the store and puttin’ in a new way to shop. They’re gonna close the store for a whole day next week. He told me that from now on we’d be usin’ something called shoppin’ carts rather than those baskets. Now, you’re gonna be able to push around this cart all over the store and jest help yourself to vegetables, fruits, canned goods, everything. You’ll now pay for it all at once before you leave the store at what the manager called the checkout counter and not every time you pick up somethin’ in the vegetable and fruit area or at the meat counter. He seems to think that this’ll help us housewives, but I wonder. And what’s goin’ to happen to the clerks who work there. They’re so helpful in findin’ things for me, always polite in weighin’ the vegetables and makin’ sure you get the best and freshest. Do you think they’ll lose their jobs? I do like Mr. Council so much, such a sweet man; and his wife just had a baby. He needs that job.

Martha, I doubt if Mighty Fine will lose his job. He’s been there for years, and you know Jack Fowler as well as I do. He’s not goin’ to fire anybody if he can hep it. But times are changin’. Jack’s got to keep up with the changes. What worries me is what will happen to the Bailey brothers. I mean, they’re just hanging on by their finger nails, and if the A & P store can draw in more customers with this new way of shoppin’, those boys’ll be in more trouble. I know they get in good meat, but the place is so dingy looking. Needs new lights, they oughtta’ put in these new tube lights I’ve seen in other stores. Wouldn’t be surprised if they’re out of bidness in a year. I jest don’t see how they’re gonna make it. Last week somebody told me that new chain store out of Seaport was goin’ to open a place down at the end of Main Street.

Well, James, I guess you’re right. You can’t stop progress. But I’m worried about Mr. Council and some of the other workers there. Suppose they raise the prices; somebody’s got to pay for all those changes. Maybe I should buy my groceries at the Bailey Brothers.

Well, I’d like to help, Martha, but their prices are always higher than the A & P, and we need to save our pennies. Maybe ya should buy your meat there; that’ll hep ’em.

Dad, why do they call Mr. Council, Mighty Fine? That can’t be his name.

His real name’s Milton Fergus. Would you like to be called Milton or Fergus or both? When you ask him how he’s feelin’, he’ll say Mighty Fine. So, the name’s stuck. His initials are M. F. Like I jest said, he always answers Mighty Fine and folks call ’im that. Does that make sense?

Yeah, yeah, Dad. I guess it does.

After enjoying the collard greens and ham hock, two pieces of corn bread and mashed potatoes, washed down with sweetened ice tea, James Jordan returned to the living room to listen to One Man’s Family. Tommy Dorsey and his orchestra came next, and after an hour of variety broadcasts, James sat back to listen to one of his favorites: Kay Kyser and his Kollege of Musical Knowledge. James knew people who had been in college with Kyser and had heard him and his small band at fraternity house parties. Now here he was on national radio, playing songs like the Dipsey Doodle and Abba Dabba.

Jimmy slipped into the living room and cleared his throat.

Dad?

What is it, Son?

Dad, Mama said that I should ask you if we’re gonna go to war.

Well, Son, why are you askin’ me?

Oh, I dunno, ‘cept, today, when I was in the barber shop, I heard a bunch of men talkin’ about what was goin’ over in Europe, and it kinda scared me. I mean, do you think that we gonna go fight?

Son, Europe is a long way away. We’ve got a big ocean between us and those folks. They can’t get over here. Besides, it’s not any of our business, much less yours. You’ve got other things to worry about. Have you finished your homework?

Not quite, I’ve got a few more spellin’ words to memorize.

Well, jest give your mama a kiss goodnight and me a hug, get that lesson done, and go on to bed. And don’t worry. Everything’ll be all right.

James gave his son a quick embrace, turned up the volume to catch the Count Basie orchestra playing String of Pearls and let his mind wander. He imagined Martha and him dancing at the Beach Club under the stars, but he could not get those pictures of the German and French troops out of his mind.

*     *     *

Six hours before James Jordon daydreamed about dancing with Martha at the Beach Club, Jim Clark had eased into the chair just vacated by Jimmy, and as Harris Blythe snipped a few stray hairs and trimmed along his temples Jim let his thoughts wander.

What if the Germans are really serious about invading Czechoslovakia? Would the French and British stand by and let this happen? Certainly the U.S. would not get involved. Roosevelt could never get Congress to support France and Britain. And what about the Russians? Anybody looking at a map could see what this would mean to them if Germany took Czechoslovakia. But, all this seems so far off. But, then, maybe it’s not. I’ll walk over and see if Dennis is in.

Coming out of his wanderings, Jim Clark caught bits of a conversation between Harris and Bill Wright about the high school football team. Was Bill’s kid going to be the tailback now that the Rawls boy had gone off to college? What about the twins who played end and pulling guard last year? Would their daddy let them play if they got the peanuts in early? Was it getting harder to find boys really wanting to go out for football?

Harris brushed the hairs off Jim’s neck. The questions about Madison’s football team expunged from Jim’s thoughts anything that had to do with the possibility of war in Europe. Jim nodded in agreement that the team would have a good season, paid Harris, and said his good-byes.

The Madison Publishing Company, which sat diagonally across Main Street from the barber shop, did more than just put out the Madison Weekly for the county. Here businessmen had their stationery, invoices, and statements printed; young brides and grooms ordered their invitations; kids bought their school supplies; and anyone could get an opinion on any topic by talking to Walt Johnson, the general manager.

When the last editor left five years ago, Walt Johnson became the general manager and part owner of the Madison Publishing Company. He tried to run the paper and the printing shop, but he soon realized that he was no editor. Since that day two years ago when Dennis Rountree walked into his office, Walt knew that he had hired the right man. Dennis, who had just graduated from the state university, had come in looking for a job soon after his Dad was transferred to Madison.

Walt liked what he saw in this young man. He figured out quickly that Dennis had a keen mind and a grasp of the world around him. He also liked the way Dennis came across: assured but not a young smart ass, to use Walt’s term. The university had not ruined him that way. Walt saw in Dennis a maturing youth who possessed a winning but crooked smile, friendly brown eyes, and dark brown unruly hair which Walt thought was too long. Walt was not certain how Dennis would fit in with the country folks, whether he would be accepted by the older men at the Lion’s Club or be taken seriously at the Town Council meetings. But, the general manager prided himself in being a good judge of character and in hiring young editors and training them.

Jim Clark opened the door to the publishing office. Off to his left were two eight foot long glass display counters. Fountain pens, bottles of blue and black ink, typewriter ribbons, typewriter erasers with small brushes sticking out from their red rubber circle, bundled packages of pencils, brown boxes of stationery, onion skin paper, carbon paper, all covered with a fine layer of dust, sat on the counter top. As Jim closed the glass panel door, he spotted Susie Council, the secretary, sitting at her desk while Walt Johnson stood behind her puffing on a Camel and dictating a letter. Behind them a bare wall, with a swinging door cut in the middle, closed off the front office from the printing room.The blackened oiled floor vibrated slightly from the thudding of the machines printing and cutting the weekly newspaper on the other side of the swinging door.

Is Dennis in?

Yep, he’s up in his office.

Jim turned to his right, held on to the railing and walked up the wobbly wood stairs nestled against the far right wall to a loft that had been built out over the main office. Dennis, sitting behind the ornate maple wood table that served as his desk, motioned to Jim to take a seat while he scribbled on a legal pad. After a few minutes of silence, broken only by the printing press’s constant thuds and shakes from downstairs, Dennis put down his pen.

Sorry, Jim, I just had to get that thought down on paper. Givin’ a talk at the Lion’s Club meetin’ on Tuesday and wanted to make sure that last point didn’t get away from me.

I understand, jest hope I’m not botherin’ you.

"Jim, you never bother me, as you put it. What’s on your mind?"

"Did you see the Seaport Times this morning? I mean, what’s goin’ on? Not that horrible hurricane in New England which is bad enough. But what happened in Munich? Do you think we’ve escaped war or jest delayed it? I read the front page and what’s goin’ to happen to poor Czechoslovakia, lettin’ the Germans take over that strip of land? It looks like the French and English jest threw the Czechs to the Germans and the Czech government hasn’t even accepted it. What’s clear is that France won’t fight to save Czechoslovakia and the British will only help the French. So what can the Czechs do?"

"Well, Jim, the Seaport Times editorial calls it a peace at a high price, and I have to agree with that. Certainly, as the paper said, Hitler got nearly everything he wanted and the democracies have nothin’ to be proud of except that they escaped going to war. I’m not as optimistic as the Times that now we’ve prevented war for the time being. Something might happen to Hitler and that’ll get us out of any future big war. That’s just wishful thinking. Hell, who knows what will happen? He and Mussolini look like they will be around a long time. Too many ifs in the editorial for it to work. Did you read Lippmann’s column? Obviously he wrote it before the agreement was announced, but what the guy says about any future war is the main point. Hitler will have to fight an offensive war, and all the allies need do is to stay on the defensive and exhaust his resources and fighting spirit. But, if you look at this Munich thing, you have to ask yourself if Britain and France will be willing to even go to war. Lippmann’s whole argument, that all the Allies need to do is to hold on against any offensive Hitler might launch because the defensive strategy will win out, makes not a damn bit of sense if his enemies are not willing to fight. And this Munich thing makes me think that they will back down if push comes to shove."

By the way, did ya see in the paper a coupla’ days ago that Sammy Snead had won over $12,000 this year? Can you believe that? Man, that’s a lotta’ money. Do you think Foxx’ll catch Greenberg in the home run race?

Will Jimmy Foxx do it? I doubt it. By the way, why are you always quoting that Lippmann guy? I read him on occasion, but I sure in hell don’t agree with ‘im much.

"Wel-l-l, I guess it goes back to my college days. I had a prof who was always quotin’ him or tryin’ to get us to read 'im. I started readin’ The New Republic which he had helped get goin’. See that pile over there? Don’t know when I’ll get through 'em. Wel-l-l, anyway, he then moved on to workin’ for newspapers and began that column for the New York Herald Tribune. Read his book, Public Opinion, which all of us newspaper folks oughtta’ read ‘cause he writes about whether we journalists can get to the truth and explain so many fast moving complex issues to the public without jest slippin’ into meaningless phrases and slogans. It really got me to thinkin’ ‘bout what I do here even in this small, peaceful town with its weekly rag. I mean, he oughtta’ know what he’s talkin’ ‘bout. Hell, he helped Wilson come up with some of his ideas on what do to at the Versailles Peace Conference. Wilson sent him over there to Paris."

"Maybe I’ll start readin’ him. But let me say this. I agree with ya that the French and British are not gonna fight to save the Czechs. Whatever those folks put together in 1919 has been falling apart for the past three years, and any will they had to protect those countries disappeared once Hitler started his ranting and raving. I sure in hell don’t trust the British. Chamberlain has weakened his position flying off to Germany every time Hitler raises the ante. Did you see Chamberlain’s speech in the Dispatch?"

Haven’t had time to read it.

Well, you ought to. Full text, the whole thing. Do you really think that Chamberlain believes Hitler that once this Czech thing is settled, he’ll not ask for more? Chamberlain delivered that address just before goin’ off to Munich, and now that they reached an agreement, it looks like he just caved in to the Germans. He said that the British Empire could not go to war jest to protect a small nation from a big and powerful one. But what does it take to get a nation to go to war? Obviously, Chamberlain doesn’t feel that Great Britain’s interests are threatened, and he clearly doesn’t believe Germany’s out to conquer the world. Do you think that Hitler will stop here?

Look, Jim, I don’t think you can trust this man for five minutes. We’ve got a person in power who will stop at nothing, and yet the French and British, in a way, brought this on themselves, or they inherited what Wilson and others created by their insistence on self-determination. Did you see the editorial in the Seaport paper about that ten days ago?

Don’t think I did.

Let me see-e-e-. I think I still have it in this pile. Yep, here it is.

"Look, Hitler’s no fool, and what he did in his Nuremberg speech was to turn the tables by demanding self-determination for the Germans in Czechoslovakia, just as Wilson and his supporters had argued for it for the Czechs at Versailles. The editor quotes from Lansing, who, as you may remember, was Wilson’s Secretary of State. Lansing was against Wilson’s arguments for self-determination because he figured that groups were too mixed up and whichever group got the upper hand would come to dominate any minority under its control. Anyway, what swung the final decision, if you go along with Lansing, was the economic concerns of the new state; that is, the Germans had to be included in Czechoslovakia for economic reasons if Czechoslovakia was to make a go of it. This seemed to work until Hitler came along with his race-blood-soil rantings and convinced the Germans in Czechoslovakia that they were being denied their own self-determination. So, argues the editorial, the principle of self-determination may now be turned upside down as the Germans call for their rights, even if they threaten to use force to get their way. Idealism fades in the face of power, as the Times says. As we now know, the French and the British have given Hitler what he wants. Will he be satisfied? I doubt it. By the way, are you going to listen to Hitler’s speech on the radio? It’s a rebroadcast of the one that brought the French and British scurrying to Munich. You can tune in on the Seaport station which is hooked up to the Blue Network or other stations linked to the network. Isn’t it amazing what you can hear these days?"

Sure is, Dennis. Look, I’ve got to go. Got to git to work at the store. Dad is not well, as you know, and the clerks and hired help need supervising. I’ll try to catch the broadcast, jest to hear the guy. Are you going to write an editorial on all of this?

I dunno, Jim, I just dunno.

Jim closed the door as Dennis turned back to his desk. His eye caught a pile of Sunday papers.

"Anything worthwhile in them? Let’s see, Society, Amusements, Travel. What’s in Amusements? Here’s an article about newsreels and by a woman, too. This may be some help to git the brain going. No date line or location, probably by a local writer at the Capital Dispatch. Seems like girl talk to me but let’s read on. OK, so a group of women are sitting around talkin’ about the European situation, and one of the women comments that she thought that this crisis had been understood better than anything that had happened lately. Another woman adds that the events had occurred in an order that could be understood, one after another so that one event made sense before another happened. Now here’s another person who thought that the charts and maps in the newspapers helped in getting a grasp of the situation. Good point, but can’t afford to put in too many maps in our paper. Visuals, like maps, can help sometime, if you can afford them. This third woman who was interviewed says that the newsreels had a lot to do with understanding what was going on. When she saw pictures of places where important events were occurring and then saw an article about them in the newspaper, she would just naturally read about it. Besides, the newsreels kept up with events nearly on a day-to-day basis, only three or four days after an event, and she could see it on the movie screen."

Dennis kept on reading. The author summed up by saying that newsreels were now considered to be the high spot on many a movie bill. But what really struck Dennis was the closing comment that men, women and even children were learning more and more about world events without being aware that they were getting an education in contemporary history. He put the article down on the desk.

Is this really true? Are the newsreels that important? I mean, I go to the movies and watch them. I have to admit that some of those pictures stay in my mind, but so does the movie. Am I really learning anything from the newsreel? I guess so. But, then, I prefer to read, I mean, that’s my job. But what about the guy or gal who doesn’t read and only sees what’s happening in a screen in a theater? Maybe that’s better than not knowing anything. But is this the wave of the future? Is this the way most folks will learn about the world? God, let’s hope not.

*     *     *

Dennis Rountree came to Madison to be with his family after his father, Johnson Rountree, was sent there as county agent for the U.S. Department of Agriculture. His father’s presence had grown in the community since the Triple A bill had passed. His father’s job was not easy; he learned to be a diplomat among Roosevelt’s critics while trying to educate farmers about the advantages of limited production and subsidized price schemes. A distrust of the federal government ran through the county as deep and widespread as its artesian water table, and everywhere Dennis’ father looked this distrust, like the springs, bubbled up.

Johnson Rountree slammed the door of his U. S. Government owned ’34 Ford and walked under a steep pitched pediment into a two story red brick building located a half a block off Main Street behind the post office. The Department of Agriculture had rented three rooms on the second floor where Johnson managed a staff of two secretaries and an accountant.

On the first floor Dr. Harry Rawlings, Madison’s only optometrist, advised his patients how to grow tomatoes and what to do with that woman in the White House. As past mayor of Madison he perceived himself as a local sage, but he seldom read a book and only rarely a newspaper. If he did read the paper, it was articles by the FDR hater Westbrook Pegler and the gossip columnist Walter Winchell. But he liked people, could tell a funny off-color joke, and he spent a lot of time at the Madison Drug Store. Somehow, he made enough money fitting glasses to indulge his wife in the latest fashions and to pay rent to Cap’n Joyner who, of course, owned the building. As part of his morning ritual, Johnson Rountree stuck his head in Rawling’s office.

Morning, Doc. You doin’ all right?

Yep, jest fine. Nice day, eh? Looks like the weather’s gettin’ a bit cooler. Better git in your ‘matos.

I’ll do that, Doc.

Now, when am I gonna find time to do that? Johnson asked himself.

He scrambled up the stairs and walked into the front office where his secretary, Miss Winslow, was already typing the reports to the state office he had scrawled out on yellow pads the night before.

Johnson Rountree had started working for the Department of Agriculture under the Hoover Administration and seen the farmers in his state suffer as the Depression took them into bankruptcy and then into poverty. The farmers in his area had never benefited from the so-called good times of the ‘20’s. True, some had made a decent living growing tobacco because everybody seemed to be smoking cigarettes. In the eighteenth century, tobacco had been the foundation of the county’s economy, but the crop quickly exhausted the soil, and the landowners to the west and south discovered that their clay soil was better for tobacco than Tidewater’s sandy deposits. Cotton and corn took its place before the Civil War, and now peanuts, which the farmers had started growing in the 1870’s, were the major cash crop. But they had not put much money in the farmers’ pockets in the past ten years.

When Franklin Roosevelt became President, Johnson took heart, especially after the first Triple A bill passed. When cotton growers across the country signed on to reduce their acreage and get cash from the government, the price of cotton jumped from five and one-half cents to nine and one-half cents a pound. But in 1937 the Supreme Court declared the program unconstitutional. Now a second Triple A bill had passed in February which gave Johnson hope and helped him stop his second guessing that he’d made a mistake coming back to his home town. With this new act, just maybe he could help the farmers, both white and colored.

Recently Roosevelt had delivered a speech which really hit Johnson hard. Naming the South the nation’s number one economic problem, Roosevelt had cited a long list of statistics to prove his point and called for remedies to help the area catch up to the rest of the country. A few days later Johnson clipped out an editorial from the Philadelphia Record which had been reprinted in the Capital Dispatch. Rereading the article in his office, he nodded his head in agreement with the writer. The South had been exploited by Northern business groups and by Southerners who profited from these arrangements as economic carpetbaggers replaced the political carpetbaggers after the Civil War. Now, Southern political leaders, with the support of Northerners who had economic interest in the area, were crying outside interference when efforts were made to establish a minimum wage, to pass an anti-lynching law or unionize workers. What caught Johnson’s attention was the editor’s statement that the South, which had half the nation’s farm population, received only one-fifth of the farm income. Whether that was true or not, Johnson knew that the farmers in his county were not getting their fair share of the pie, and he agreed with the editorial that the South had been exploited long enough.

He wheeled around in his chair and grabbed the statistics from the 1930 census.

There are 2,300 farms in the county, 1,300 operated by whites in a little over 141,000 acres; 1,900 by Negroes with just over 125,000; about 59,000 acres by tenant farmers. Let’s see, says the land, per acre, is $27, but that’s gone up to around $35.

Well, what does all of this mean? Maybe some improvement since the 1930 census, but all I need do is to drive out in the country and see that lottsa’ farmers are really bad off. No matter how long and hard I talk to ‘em, they’re not signin’ up. I explain to ’em how much better off they’re gonna be if they cut back on their crops. This’ll help raise prices. And what’s not sold on the market, we’ll buy. Besides, they can get loans on their crops, and we can help ’em out in this new soil conservation plan. I just don’t understand why they’re so damn stubborn. I’m a long way from gettin’ a majority of these farmers on my side, much less the two-thirds of ‘em I need to sign up. How many do I have so far? Only 800; that means I’ve got to git 2,000 more. That’s a helluva lot. Hm-m-m. What’s the best approach? If I could get two or three of the big landowners to sign up, that would bring in their tenants, and these large land owners could probably influence some of the smaller farmers. I know. I’ll drive over to see old man Rawls. If I can persuade him, then I can line up some more, and, maybe, jest maybe, he’ll talk to some of his friends.

Johnson gathered some brochures and his notes, stuffed them into his briefcase and headed out of his office.

Miss, Winslow, I’m off to see Mr. Rawls. Will be back about three. If the capital office calls, tell ’em I’ll get that report in the mail as soon as you finish typing it and I can reread it. OK?

Yes, Mr. Rountree. Anything else?

Well, if Mrs. Rountree calls, tell her that I’ll get the groceries on the way home this evening. And tell her to cover the tomatoes tonight.

Johnson threw his briefcase on the front seat and shut the door. The more he drove his U. S. Department of Agriculture Official Business Only Ford around the county, the more people realized the gummint man was doing his job, whether they liked it or not. He headed north out of town, on the Ridge Route to the capital, about five miles before turning right on one of the newly paved county roads toward the farming community of Hanover.

Hanover, which consisted of a post office inside a general store, a Baptist church, a gas station, and a shade-tree auto repair shop, was an extension of the Rawls’ agricultural empire. Johnson pulled up in front of the gray clapboard general store where the tenant families bought their supplies and groceries. He pushed open the screen door with its metal sign instructing all who entered to Buy Wonder Bread and put down his five cents for a Coca-Cola. The clerk, a middle aged white man whose honesty slightly trumped his laziness, shuffled off to the red rectangular box, lifted the lid, and slipped his hand into the cool circulating water. He pulled out a small green bottle and slowly lowered the top with his left hand while placing the bottle under the opener attached to the side of the container and pried off the metal cap. A weak fizzy sound cut through the still air.

Here’s your co-cola, Mr. Rountree. Want any nabs?

No thanks, Henry. The co-cola’s jest fine.

Johnson Rountree didn’t even want the soft drink, but he had learned that stopping in general stores to chat and making your presence known helped. Johnson passed a few minutes with the clerk discussing the recent rain storms and how the crops were doing. They agreed that the peanuts rows were meeting in the middle, right where they should be in late September. The cotton had been picked and baled, and the field corn would be harvested for silage in a few weeks. Things looked pretty good, but the prices, they agreed, were not promising.

When he came out of the store, he spotted two colored tenant farmers sitting on the steps. They were sharing a box of soda crackers and a can of sardines and swilling down bottles of Nehi Orange. Johnson knew both men; they had been pointed out to him on one of his earlier visits to this part of the county as being hard working and respected in the Negro community. He felt that if he could count on them then maybe they would persuade other colored tenants to go along with the signing.

How you fellows doin’?

Well, Misa’ Rountree. What brings ya to this ole place? Ain’t you got nuttin’ better to do in Madison?

I’m out here to see Mr. Rawls, but I’m glad I ran into you two. Remember, last time I saw you, we talked about signin’ up for the crop plan? Well, I was wonderin’ if you’re interested in doing this ’cause it will hep you make more money next year. I’m sure Mr.Rawls‘ll get in touch with you and the others, but if I could get your support now, that’ll make my life easier.

Lawd, Misa’ Rountree, I guess we’ll do it. If you think it’ll make us mo. I’m for dat. But gettin’ messed up wit da gummint is not sompin’ I wants to do. They’s always after you once ya sign a paper. They got yur address an’ they’ll houn’ ya to death.

Look, I’ll promise you that won’t happen. You jest tell Mr. Rawls ya wanna sign up, and he’ll take care of the rest. Can I count on you two?

We’ll think ‘bout it, Misa’ Rountree.

Johnson swigged down the last swallow, put the bottle on the wide plank porch floor and stepped onto the sandy ground. The car started after a few tries, and a quarter mile down the highway, he spotted the lane flanked by tall cedars that identified the Rawls’ farm.

The house dated back before the Civil War. Stories still circulated about the Yankee raid, toward the end of the war, when Union troops were camped across the river. The capital was under siege and the Yankees who were gathering for one final push came across the river looking for food and horses. They took what bags of grain they could find on the Rawls’ farm, but the horses had been driven into the woods, along with the pigs and cows. Only women and a small boy, the father of the present Mr. Rawls, were around. The owner had gone off to war in the spring of 1862 as a member of the local cavalry troop. He rode with Stonewall Jackson in the Valley and later with Longstreet.

The Yankees had spared the family farmhouse. Two red brick chimneys still stood at each end as if they were holding up the structure. Six paired windows, two for the three upstairs rooms, stared out at the visitor riding up the lane. Below, a porch ran the length of the house where Joshua Rawls sat as Johnson Rountree maneuverd his automobile around the holes and ruts and pulled up on the grass in front of the veranda.

Joshua Rawls strolled down the steps to greet his guest. He was a large man, over six feet, with a shock of wavy gray hair that he combed straight back, light blue eyes, and a fair skin turned ruddy by time