Copyright 2006, Terry F. Phillips Sr.
All rights reserved
Chapter 8
I returned the second Sunday, buoyed by the idea I was actually given the title of “minister” and the prestige that went with it. It was a title I planned to enjoy for the next two years before graduation. It might even look good on my resume, when I applied for a job on a big newspaper in Chicago or maybe St. Louis. Maybe Indianapolis wasn’t too far away. Maybe I could get a job working for the Star and continue preaching Sundays at Victory.
It was on the second visit to Victory that I met – her.
She was the most breathtaking creature I had ever seen. I first noticed her face.
Most people think a guy looks elsewhere before he gets around to looking at a woman’s face. That is not true, at least it wasn’t true of me.
I found her attractive beyond degree and wondered how the church could function when she was in the congregation. Obviously, all the men didn’t see her as I did. They must be blind.
By some judicious inquiry, I learned she and her family, the Rogerses, had been on vacation and were not present the previous Sunday, when I spoke.
I first saw her between Sunday school and church.
I once again had sat I the sanctuary during Sunday school, with the 30-somethings, forgetting to ask if there were a more age-appropriate class for me to attend.
When the superintendent rang the electric bell a second time at 10:30, she made her way from the Sunday school rooms into the sanctuary. I had turned just in time to see her and could not believe me eyes.
She was wearing a bright red skirt with white blouse and was giggling and chatting with other young people in the Sunday school’s high school class. Her fine red hair looked like spun glass on her shoulders. She shone brighter than a Christmas tree.
I tried not to stare and make a fool of myself, but it was hard.
I did get beyond her face that Sunday. The rest of her was beautiful, too. She seemed to be elegant and youthful at once. What a wonderful combination, I thought.
I couldn’t find the courage to introduce myself after church, though I did see she didn’t sit with a particular guy, but with two or three girlfriends.
Then I learned one of the real benefits of being the minister – the new minister – at a church. She found out who I was without me having to introduce myself.
As I was shaking people out the front door – it was the minister’s job to greet the congregation as they left the building, I was told – she left with her friends.
I must have blushed when my hand touched hers, for she laughed, her blue eyes dancing ash she took my hand.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Kelly, and you’re--?”
“I’m glad to meet you, Reverend,” she said, giving me only a moment to lightly touch her hand.
And then she was gone. There were other folks who had comments on my sermon but I was off in another world, a world with only two people.
I could see us dining in a green pasture on a perfect day. The grass was the right height and there were no animals around to disturb us or leave droppings that we might step in. It was a perfect day and we sat on a red and white-checkered cloth that perfectly accented her skirt.
But the weekend was nearly over, I would soon drive back to Illinois and would not see her again for at least another week.
On the next Sunday, I thought I was actually getting into the drill:
Get up at 4 a.m. (I’ve never gotten up at 5 a.m.!) Get on the road by 6:30 a.m. Arrive at Victory by 9:30, just in time for their 9:45 a.m. Sunday school.
But, with confidence sometimes comes overconfidence, I found out.
About the time I got to Waynetown, I rubbed my jaw while thinking and realized – I forgot to shave!
Fortunately, I found a store that was open; one that sold shaving supplies. I still had the problem of actually shaving. I knew the one bathroom at the church would be used frequently enough that I couldn’t take the time to shave in it. Besides, the hot water supply didn’t reach the main floor where the rest rooms were located.
What to do? What to do?
I stopped at the corner of 25 and 136, where I normally turned south to Victory. An abandoned gas station set on the right side of the road. I would shave there, in the parking lot. Quickly I found out one cannot shave in compact cars, like my Pinto. What to do? I had an outside mirror!
So, using a rag I found under a seat (a fairly clean rag), I shaved using my can of shaving cream and disposable razor. I knelt down, being careful to not get my right knee dirty, and twisted the mirror outward, so I could see in it and took care of my toiletry right there, even as the good folk of Waynetown drove past. A few cars honked and I waved, assuming the drivers were friendly Hoosiers, greeting me in rural fashion.
Not knowing our church very well, yet, I learned that was not the case. By the time I arrived at our church, I realized I had broken the myth of the poised and gracious pastor.
The honkers were members of our congregation and I knew I would never be considered in the same light again. Instead of being embarrassed, I should have been relieved. My act of embarrassment was one of endearment in their eyes.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Review: "Then and Now" in Brazil, Ind.
By FRANK AND LINDA PHILLIPS
frankphi@hotmail.com
It just makes you darn proud to be part of Brazil.
That’s the only way to describe “Then and Now,” the musical revue that is onstage at the Lark Theatre. The last show is tonight (Saturday).
Dinner starts at 6:30 p.m. and the show starts at 7:30. There is a limited amount of tickets available at $20 each.
It is a lively, fresh production that celebrates the City of Brazil from its naming through today.
Along the way, we meet the various conductors of the Brazil Concert Band (all played by Matt Huber) and we get to enjoy some favorite music, including “Beautiful Dreamer” (performed by Sam Glover), “In the Good Old Summertime” (Amber Payne), “American Patrol” (band), “The Trolley Song” (Ashlee Vitz and David Maurey), “On the Banks of the Wabash” (Harold Burton), “Always” (Michelle McCrea), “Tea for Two,” “Happy Days (Are Here Again)” (Keri Fagg), “The Best Things In Life Are Free” (Carol McConnell), “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” (Ashlee Vitz, Michelle McCrea and Carol McConnell), “Strike Up the Band” (Kevin McCrea and Lee Reberger), “God Bless America,” “Crazy” (Michelle and Kevin McCrea), “When You Wish Upon A Star” (Carol McConnell, CTCC Kids and female cast), “Over the Rainbow” (Janelle Huber), “Seems Like Old Times” (David Maurey) and “Let There Be Peace On Earth” (Harold Burton).
The finale is a star-spangled salute to our country with “The Stars and Stripes Forever.”
One of the novelty songs of note is Jim Garber’s rendition of “Puttin’ On The Dog,” a hilarious ditty about fur coats and fleas that is too funny for words.
This has to be one of our favorite shows produced by Community Theatre of Clay County Inc.
The show was deftly written by the Rev. Edward Randall and Susan Sneddon.
It is tied together by those three men who were given the task of naming our fair city, Judge Owen Thorpe, played by Lee Reberger, who was also co-director with Susan Sneddon, Yankee Bill Stewart (David Maurey) and Chester Hypplehauser (Kevin McCrea), who visit a fortune-teller (Ashley Vitz) “for entertainment purposes only.” A little theatric license is taken as they come back every 25 years from 1844 through 2006. They never age, though they go through at least three generations of fortune-tellers.
We also learn about Brazil through letters from Uncle Al (Carl McKinney) to his friends (Carol McConnell and Michelle McCrea).
The cast also includes Edward Randall, TJ Sneddon and Michael McConnell with the CTCC Singers and musicians Janelle Huber, Bill Morthland, Doris Pell, Bob Pell, Gary vanMiddlesworth, Steve Garlits, Allen Basore, Andy Whittington, Darlene Shepard, Jeff Colvin, John Huber, Wayne Parkins, Jim Pell, Susan Sneddon, the Rev. Steve Newman, Rebecca Beyers, Trey Reberger, McKenna Lunsford and David Swearingen.
Other performers include Bob Lambrecht, David Landes and Rita Rothrock.
We hope this show is reprised in future seasons.
frankphi@hotmail.com
It just makes you darn proud to be part of Brazil.
That’s the only way to describe “Then and Now,” the musical revue that is onstage at the Lark Theatre. The last show is tonight (Saturday).
Dinner starts at 6:30 p.m. and the show starts at 7:30. There is a limited amount of tickets available at $20 each.
It is a lively, fresh production that celebrates the City of Brazil from its naming through today.
Along the way, we meet the various conductors of the Brazil Concert Band (all played by Matt Huber) and we get to enjoy some favorite music, including “Beautiful Dreamer” (performed by Sam Glover), “In the Good Old Summertime” (Amber Payne), “American Patrol” (band), “The Trolley Song” (Ashlee Vitz and David Maurey), “On the Banks of the Wabash” (Harold Burton), “Always” (Michelle McCrea), “Tea for Two,” “Happy Days (Are Here Again)” (Keri Fagg), “The Best Things In Life Are Free” (Carol McConnell), “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” (Ashlee Vitz, Michelle McCrea and Carol McConnell), “Strike Up the Band” (Kevin McCrea and Lee Reberger), “God Bless America,” “Crazy” (Michelle and Kevin McCrea), “When You Wish Upon A Star” (Carol McConnell, CTCC Kids and female cast), “Over the Rainbow” (Janelle Huber), “Seems Like Old Times” (David Maurey) and “Let There Be Peace On Earth” (Harold Burton).
The finale is a star-spangled salute to our country with “The Stars and Stripes Forever.”
One of the novelty songs of note is Jim Garber’s rendition of “Puttin’ On The Dog,” a hilarious ditty about fur coats and fleas that is too funny for words.
This has to be one of our favorite shows produced by Community Theatre of Clay County Inc.
The show was deftly written by the Rev. Edward Randall and Susan Sneddon.
It is tied together by those three men who were given the task of naming our fair city, Judge Owen Thorpe, played by Lee Reberger, who was also co-director with Susan Sneddon, Yankee Bill Stewart (David Maurey) and Chester Hypplehauser (Kevin McCrea), who visit a fortune-teller (Ashley Vitz) “for entertainment purposes only.” A little theatric license is taken as they come back every 25 years from 1844 through 2006. They never age, though they go through at least three generations of fortune-tellers.
We also learn about Brazil through letters from Uncle Al (Carl McKinney) to his friends (Carol McConnell and Michelle McCrea).
The cast also includes Edward Randall, TJ Sneddon and Michael McConnell with the CTCC Singers and musicians Janelle Huber, Bill Morthland, Doris Pell, Bob Pell, Gary vanMiddlesworth, Steve Garlits, Allen Basore, Andy Whittington, Darlene Shepard, Jeff Colvin, John Huber, Wayne Parkins, Jim Pell, Susan Sneddon, the Rev. Steve Newman, Rebecca Beyers, Trey Reberger, McKenna Lunsford and David Swearingen.
Other performers include Bob Lambrecht, David Landes and Rita Rothrock.
We hope this show is reprised in future seasons.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Return of the Green Hornet
Copyright 2006 Terry F. Phillips Sr.
Please send your thoughts, critiques to frank.phillips@gmail.com. Thank you!
Return of the Green Hornet
Fan Fiction by Terry Franklin Phillips Sr.
"There you, are," Mr. Stryker. "Box 5551210. That's the safety deposit box that matches your key."
"Thank you."
Robert Stryker set the box down on the table in the small cubicle and flipped open the end nearest him. The lid opened silently. Inside the box were just three documents -- a deed and two automobile keys. He looked briefly at the deed to find it was for a condominium and then looked at the two keys. They were clearly for two different automobiles, both Ford products, he guessed. He held the keys up to the light and compared the way they were cut, obviously not the same.
He stuffed the deed back into the box, noting the address in his electronic organizer, but put the keys in his pocket.
Outside the bank, he decided to return to the office.
The Daily Sentinel was just a few blocks from the bank. Case decided to enjoy the walk on this fine spring day. He ignored the traffic noises and smell. How much different this was from the Western ranch where he had grown up.
In the newspaper's lobby, he nodded to the pretty receptionist who smiled back and took the elevator to the penthouse office suite.
He looked again at the name plate on the door. It said "publisher," but he found it puzzling that he should be chosen to take the mantle of this great metropolitan newspaper with so little experience. That was just one of the puzzles he had faced since arriving in town.
At his desk he pizked up the telephone an dialed Lenore Case's extension.
"Miss Case, would you come in here, please?"
The door opened a minute or so later and he was greeted by another feminine smile. This one, however, was on the face of a matronly lady old enough to have children, perhaps grandchildren, his age.
She sat pertly on the chair facing his desk. Stryker couldn't help but think she must have been quite a looker in her day.
"Miss Case, I went to the bank and used the key you gave me. There were three items in the box."
"A deed and two automobile keys," she said, interrupting him.
"Yes. But I find my puzzles multiplying."
She looked at him quizzedly.
"You knew what would be in that safety deposit box."
She nodded.
"OK, what are they? I mean, what do the keys open?"
"The deed is to a condominium Mr. Reed, the former publisher of The Daily Sentinel, owned before he became ill and died. You will have to ask his valet, Kato, about the automobile keys. I know Mr. Reed owned a convertible that he never sold. Perhaps the keys are to that automobile."
"The keys are to two automobiles, Miss Case," Stryker said.
Insitead of the reaction he expected, Miss Case just smiled with an attitude of "I'm one up on you," and said, "Perhaps Kato can help you with that, too.
"Is there anything else, Mr. Stryker?"
"Not right now. Thank you."
"I don't need a valet," Stryker said, knowing no one could hear him but the four walls. On one of those walls was a painting. It was a painting he liked but which seemed out of place in the office of a newspaper publisher. The painting seemed very old. It depicted a masked cowboy on a white horse. The horse was rearing up on two feet.
Stryker thought it a cowboy, though he looked more like an old west law enforcement officer of some sort. Maybe a Texas Ranger out of uniform. But why the mask?
He thought the painting might be nothing more than a reminder of the newspaper's role over the centuries -- an agent of fairness and justice. But why the mask?
Stryker tried to tackel some of the paperwork on his desk. Miss Case said it would help him understand the workings of The Sentinel, but it was obvious she was the real administrator of the day-to-day operation of the newspaper.
Soon, he decided to take the afternoon off, visit the condo left to him and, perhaps, fire a valet he didn't need.
The taxi pulled into the drive in front of the condo at the address on the deed.
Stryker paid the cabbie and looked the home over. Then, he rang the bell at the door.
A man dressed in a white coat quickly answered.
"Come in, Mr. Stryker, I've been expecting you."
Stryker looked over the valet after he had stepped into the house. The man was obviously oriental -- hece the name Kato. Although his gray hair and a few facial lines betrayed age, his body seemed fit and he moved with a fluidity that betrayed physical fitness.
"Would you like somethign to drink?"
"Just a Coke or maybe iced tea with lemon and artificial sweetener," Stryker said, sitting on a sofa across from a fireplace.
The valet bowed slightly and left the room.
He seemed nice enough. It was too bad Stryker would have to fire an old man like that. Maybe, if they changed his duties, he could keep him on. With the salary he was being paid by the newspaper, he could certainly afford it.
"Here you are, Mr. Stryker."
The valet took a glass from the siler tray he was carrying and handed it to the young publisher.
"Is there anything else?"
"Yes, Kato, -- first, please sit down."
Kato took a seat near the sofa and waited for Stryker to speak.
"Kato, I went to the bank today and found two automobile keys in the safe deposit box."
"Mr. Reed had a convertible he was very fond of. It was made in the mid-60s."
"There were two keys, Kato. And they don't match."
Kato moved like lightning, despite his age. A kick exerted its maximum force in the spot where Stryker's face would have been, but he had moved.
The next half minute or so was a ballet of fighting moves. It was obvious to Stryker that Kato was holding back as he used feet and hands to try to defeat his new employer.
But Stryker did very well.
Soon, Kato stopped, bowed, and grinned at Stryker very satisfied.
"You are the genuine article," he said.
"Excuse me?"
"I had to be sure you were who you said you were. Miss Case was right. You have been well trained."
"Do you want to explain to me why I shouldn't call 911 and have you arrested?" Stryker said, pulling his cell phone from an inner pocket of his coat and flipping it open.
"Why do you think you were chosen to be publisher of Daily Sentinel when youhave virtually no experience in newspapers?" Kato asked, dropping his humble valet personna.
"How would you know anything about me?"
"You graduated from college, began serving a tour of duty in the U.S. Marine Corps. You were in Iraq for a tour of duty. You thought about re-enlisting but changed your mind when out of nowhere you received an offer to become publisher of The Daily Sentinel. Am I right, so far?"
The oriental fastened his eyes on Stryker, alsmost as if mesermizing him.
"OK, you've got me," Stryker said. "Now, can you answer some questions for me? Let's start with the big one first. How did I get this job? You seem to have all the answers."
Kato began walking in front of the couch as Stryker took his seat and began sipping his drink.
"Excuse me, would you like a drink. Would you get it or shall I serve you?"
"Nothing, right now," Kato said, smirking."Your job.
"You were chosen by Miss Case and myself after Mr. Reid's death. He had been ill for quite a while and though he wanted us to replace him, we couldn't do it until after he had died.
"You were chosen because our connections seemed to indicate you have the talents to do the job we need to do."
"How would you know if I could be a publisher or not?" Stryker decided to play along, though he honestly didn't know whether to believe Kato or not.
"Not that job!" Kato said with a touch of disgust in his voice."That is only window dressing."
"Oh? So, what, pray tell, is my real job?"
"The answer to that is found in the two keys you found in the bank box. May I see them please?
"Follow me," Kato said as he started across the room. Stryker followed.
Kato led Stryker to a garage in the condominium. Setting there was a beautiful 40-year-old Chrysler convertible.
"Wow," Stryker said with admiration. "This is a honey! I think I'll --"
Kato turned the nut driver on a ratchel wrench hanging on a peg board in the immaculate garage. Stryker jumped back as clamps rose from the floor and attached themselves to the axles of the convertible. Immediately the garage was bathed in green light and the floor beneath the car swiveled. As it did so, the convertible swung beneath the floor and in its place a black sedan of no obvious make rose from the floor ans swung upright into place.
"This is the car that goes with the second key," Kato said.
Stryker stared, unable to talk for a moment.
Kato swung the driver's side rear door open and motioned for Stryker ro enter.
Inside, he found a green mask, green hat and a green topcoat. On the mask was the drawing of an insect that looked at first like a bee and then, he thought, wait, this is a hornet. A green hornet!
"OK," Stryker said, wonderinf he could get past Kato and out of the house. "I know what this is. When I was a kid, we read news stories about the Green Hornet. Now, I know where he lives, or where his car is stored. Do you plan to kill me?"
"Now, Mr. Stryker, we know you better than that. Guess again."
"OK, so I'm supposed to become the Green Hornet? Well I won't do it."
He shut the door of the car and stepped back as Kato went to peg board and once again caused the floor to flip and the convertible to re-emerge while the black car swung underground.
"Let's go back into the house where we can talk more comfortably," Kato said.
In the living room, Kato made a telephone call, talking in low tones so he might not be overheard by his new boss.
He went into the kitchen and returned with two large glasses of iced tea with lemon.
"You think Green Hornet was a criminal?" Kato said, after passing one of the drinks to Stryker.
"That's what I've been told, yes."
"Not true," Kato said. "Mrs. Reid let the underworld think so. He even had Mike Axford and the other Sentinel reporters fooled."
For the next few minutes, Kato told Stryker the story of how Britt Reid decided to follow in the footsteps of his famous ancestor, a Texas Ranger shot and left for dead by the Cavendish outlaw gang.
"Then, that answers another question. The masked man astride the white horse in the painting in my office," Stryker said.
"He was known as the Lone Ranger," Kato said, mentally noting this was the first time Stryker had used a personal pronoun indicating ownership of any of the opportunity being given him.
At that moment, the fireplace slid upward revealing a man wearing black horn rim glasses stepping down a staircase into the living room. The fireplace slid back into place when he was in the room.
"Mr. Stryker, meet Frank Scanlon, district attorney."
"Former district attorney," Scanlon corrected Kato while extending his hand to Stryker who had jumped up when the fireplace moved. "I've heard a lot about you, Mr. Stryker. Welcome."
Stryker shook hands, noting the thick ear pieces on the glasses.
Scanlon grinned and removed them from his face.
"Here, try them on," Scanlon said. "Just don't try to walk. They are specially made prescirption glasses."
Stryker looked at Kato and then put the glasses on his head. He saw Kato reach into his pocket and then heard a buzzing sound, like a bee or a hornet.
"A signalling device," Stryker smiled. "Very clever" and handed the glasses back to Scanlon.
"Have a seat, Mr. Scanlon," Stryker said. "Let's talk."
The mood had changed tremendously from the caution Stryker had exhibited when he first entered the house. Now the three men laughed and visited, quite at ease with one another.
"So, I take it, you worked -- covertly -- with Reid, helping him avoid the police."
"Of course," Scanlon said. "After all, he was on our side.
"Mr. Stryker, you are a very young man, but surely you must have learned by now that sometimes agents of good must operate outside the law."
"That sounds like 'Mission Impossible' where the agency disavows any knowledge of the agent's existence."
"Exactly. Before I retired, there were many times the police's hands were tied. Sometimes through badly written laws, sometimes through ineptitude and yes, admittedly, we had some crooked cops. Britt Reid made a real difference as The Green Hornet, and we believe you can, too."
Stryker was sold. He believed he had made a difference in Iraq and now, with the help of his new friends, he was prepared to fight those who would corrupt America.
"I can't wait to get started," he said, raising his glass in a toast. Kato and Scanlon joined him.
Please send your thoughts, critiques to frank.phillips@gmail.com. Thank you!
Return of the Green Hornet
Fan Fiction by Terry Franklin Phillips Sr.
"There you, are," Mr. Stryker. "Box 5551210. That's the safety deposit box that matches your key."
"Thank you."
Robert Stryker set the box down on the table in the small cubicle and flipped open the end nearest him. The lid opened silently. Inside the box were just three documents -- a deed and two automobile keys. He looked briefly at the deed to find it was for a condominium and then looked at the two keys. They were clearly for two different automobiles, both Ford products, he guessed. He held the keys up to the light and compared the way they were cut, obviously not the same.
He stuffed the deed back into the box, noting the address in his electronic organizer, but put the keys in his pocket.
Outside the bank, he decided to return to the office.
The Daily Sentinel was just a few blocks from the bank. Case decided to enjoy the walk on this fine spring day. He ignored the traffic noises and smell. How much different this was from the Western ranch where he had grown up.
In the newspaper's lobby, he nodded to the pretty receptionist who smiled back and took the elevator to the penthouse office suite.
He looked again at the name plate on the door. It said "publisher," but he found it puzzling that he should be chosen to take the mantle of this great metropolitan newspaper with so little experience. That was just one of the puzzles he had faced since arriving in town.
At his desk he pizked up the telephone an dialed Lenore Case's extension.
"Miss Case, would you come in here, please?"
The door opened a minute or so later and he was greeted by another feminine smile. This one, however, was on the face of a matronly lady old enough to have children, perhaps grandchildren, his age.
She sat pertly on the chair facing his desk. Stryker couldn't help but think she must have been quite a looker in her day.
"Miss Case, I went to the bank and used the key you gave me. There were three items in the box."
"A deed and two automobile keys," she said, interrupting him.
"Yes. But I find my puzzles multiplying."
She looked at him quizzedly.
"You knew what would be in that safety deposit box."
She nodded.
"OK, what are they? I mean, what do the keys open?"
"The deed is to a condominium Mr. Reed, the former publisher of The Daily Sentinel, owned before he became ill and died. You will have to ask his valet, Kato, about the automobile keys. I know Mr. Reed owned a convertible that he never sold. Perhaps the keys are to that automobile."
"The keys are to two automobiles, Miss Case," Stryker said.
Insitead of the reaction he expected, Miss Case just smiled with an attitude of "I'm one up on you," and said, "Perhaps Kato can help you with that, too.
"Is there anything else, Mr. Stryker?"
"Not right now. Thank you."
"I don't need a valet," Stryker said, knowing no one could hear him but the four walls. On one of those walls was a painting. It was a painting he liked but which seemed out of place in the office of a newspaper publisher. The painting seemed very old. It depicted a masked cowboy on a white horse. The horse was rearing up on two feet.
Stryker thought it a cowboy, though he looked more like an old west law enforcement officer of some sort. Maybe a Texas Ranger out of uniform. But why the mask?
He thought the painting might be nothing more than a reminder of the newspaper's role over the centuries -- an agent of fairness and justice. But why the mask?
Stryker tried to tackel some of the paperwork on his desk. Miss Case said it would help him understand the workings of The Sentinel, but it was obvious she was the real administrator of the day-to-day operation of the newspaper.
Soon, he decided to take the afternoon off, visit the condo left to him and, perhaps, fire a valet he didn't need.
The taxi pulled into the drive in front of the condo at the address on the deed.
Stryker paid the cabbie and looked the home over. Then, he rang the bell at the door.
A man dressed in a white coat quickly answered.
"Come in, Mr. Stryker, I've been expecting you."
Stryker looked over the valet after he had stepped into the house. The man was obviously oriental -- hece the name Kato. Although his gray hair and a few facial lines betrayed age, his body seemed fit and he moved with a fluidity that betrayed physical fitness.
"Would you like somethign to drink?"
"Just a Coke or maybe iced tea with lemon and artificial sweetener," Stryker said, sitting on a sofa across from a fireplace.
The valet bowed slightly and left the room.
He seemed nice enough. It was too bad Stryker would have to fire an old man like that. Maybe, if they changed his duties, he could keep him on. With the salary he was being paid by the newspaper, he could certainly afford it.
"Here you are, Mr. Stryker."
The valet took a glass from the siler tray he was carrying and handed it to the young publisher.
"Is there anything else?"
"Yes, Kato, -- first, please sit down."
Kato took a seat near the sofa and waited for Stryker to speak.
"Kato, I went to the bank today and found two automobile keys in the safe deposit box."
"Mr. Reed had a convertible he was very fond of. It was made in the mid-60s."
"There were two keys, Kato. And they don't match."
Kato moved like lightning, despite his age. A kick exerted its maximum force in the spot where Stryker's face would have been, but he had moved.
The next half minute or so was a ballet of fighting moves. It was obvious to Stryker that Kato was holding back as he used feet and hands to try to defeat his new employer.
But Stryker did very well.
Soon, Kato stopped, bowed, and grinned at Stryker very satisfied.
"You are the genuine article," he said.
"Excuse me?"
"I had to be sure you were who you said you were. Miss Case was right. You have been well trained."
"Do you want to explain to me why I shouldn't call 911 and have you arrested?" Stryker said, pulling his cell phone from an inner pocket of his coat and flipping it open.
"Why do you think you were chosen to be publisher of Daily Sentinel when youhave virtually no experience in newspapers?" Kato asked, dropping his humble valet personna.
"How would you know anything about me?"
"You graduated from college, began serving a tour of duty in the U.S. Marine Corps. You were in Iraq for a tour of duty. You thought about re-enlisting but changed your mind when out of nowhere you received an offer to become publisher of The Daily Sentinel. Am I right, so far?"
The oriental fastened his eyes on Stryker, alsmost as if mesermizing him.
"OK, you've got me," Stryker said. "Now, can you answer some questions for me? Let's start with the big one first. How did I get this job? You seem to have all the answers."
Kato began walking in front of the couch as Stryker took his seat and began sipping his drink.
"Excuse me, would you like a drink. Would you get it or shall I serve you?"
"Nothing, right now," Kato said, smirking."Your job.
"You were chosen by Miss Case and myself after Mr. Reid's death. He had been ill for quite a while and though he wanted us to replace him, we couldn't do it until after he had died.
"You were chosen because our connections seemed to indicate you have the talents to do the job we need to do."
"How would you know if I could be a publisher or not?" Stryker decided to play along, though he honestly didn't know whether to believe Kato or not.
"Not that job!" Kato said with a touch of disgust in his voice."That is only window dressing."
"Oh? So, what, pray tell, is my real job?"
"The answer to that is found in the two keys you found in the bank box. May I see them please?
"Follow me," Kato said as he started across the room. Stryker followed.
Kato led Stryker to a garage in the condominium. Setting there was a beautiful 40-year-old Chrysler convertible.
"Wow," Stryker said with admiration. "This is a honey! I think I'll --"
Kato turned the nut driver on a ratchel wrench hanging on a peg board in the immaculate garage. Stryker jumped back as clamps rose from the floor and attached themselves to the axles of the convertible. Immediately the garage was bathed in green light and the floor beneath the car swiveled. As it did so, the convertible swung beneath the floor and in its place a black sedan of no obvious make rose from the floor ans swung upright into place.
"This is the car that goes with the second key," Kato said.
Stryker stared, unable to talk for a moment.
Kato swung the driver's side rear door open and motioned for Stryker ro enter.
Inside, he found a green mask, green hat and a green topcoat. On the mask was the drawing of an insect that looked at first like a bee and then, he thought, wait, this is a hornet. A green hornet!
"OK," Stryker said, wonderinf he could get past Kato and out of the house. "I know what this is. When I was a kid, we read news stories about the Green Hornet. Now, I know where he lives, or where his car is stored. Do you plan to kill me?"
"Now, Mr. Stryker, we know you better than that. Guess again."
"OK, so I'm supposed to become the Green Hornet? Well I won't do it."
He shut the door of the car and stepped back as Kato went to peg board and once again caused the floor to flip and the convertible to re-emerge while the black car swung underground.
"Let's go back into the house where we can talk more comfortably," Kato said.
In the living room, Kato made a telephone call, talking in low tones so he might not be overheard by his new boss.
He went into the kitchen and returned with two large glasses of iced tea with lemon.
"You think Green Hornet was a criminal?" Kato said, after passing one of the drinks to Stryker.
"That's what I've been told, yes."
"Not true," Kato said. "Mrs. Reid let the underworld think so. He even had Mike Axford and the other Sentinel reporters fooled."
For the next few minutes, Kato told Stryker the story of how Britt Reid decided to follow in the footsteps of his famous ancestor, a Texas Ranger shot and left for dead by the Cavendish outlaw gang.
"Then, that answers another question. The masked man astride the white horse in the painting in my office," Stryker said.
"He was known as the Lone Ranger," Kato said, mentally noting this was the first time Stryker had used a personal pronoun indicating ownership of any of the opportunity being given him.
At that moment, the fireplace slid upward revealing a man wearing black horn rim glasses stepping down a staircase into the living room. The fireplace slid back into place when he was in the room.
"Mr. Stryker, meet Frank Scanlon, district attorney."
"Former district attorney," Scanlon corrected Kato while extending his hand to Stryker who had jumped up when the fireplace moved. "I've heard a lot about you, Mr. Stryker. Welcome."
Stryker shook hands, noting the thick ear pieces on the glasses.
Scanlon grinned and removed them from his face.
"Here, try them on," Scanlon said. "Just don't try to walk. They are specially made prescirption glasses."
Stryker looked at Kato and then put the glasses on his head. He saw Kato reach into his pocket and then heard a buzzing sound, like a bee or a hornet.
"A signalling device," Stryker smiled. "Very clever" and handed the glasses back to Scanlon.
"Have a seat, Mr. Scanlon," Stryker said. "Let's talk."
The mood had changed tremendously from the caution Stryker had exhibited when he first entered the house. Now the three men laughed and visited, quite at ease with one another.
"So, I take it, you worked -- covertly -- with Reid, helping him avoid the police."
"Of course," Scanlon said. "After all, he was on our side.
"Mr. Stryker, you are a very young man, but surely you must have learned by now that sometimes agents of good must operate outside the law."
"That sounds like 'Mission Impossible' where the agency disavows any knowledge of the agent's existence."
"Exactly. Before I retired, there were many times the police's hands were tied. Sometimes through badly written laws, sometimes through ineptitude and yes, admittedly, we had some crooked cops. Britt Reid made a real difference as The Green Hornet, and we believe you can, too."
Stryker was sold. He believed he had made a difference in Iraq and now, with the help of his new friends, he was prepared to fight those who would corrupt America.
"I can't wait to get started," he said, raising his glass in a toast. Kato and Scanlon joined him.
Living In Victory, Chapter 7
Copyright 2006, Terry F. Phillips Sr.
All Rights Reserved
Chapter 7
I might not have gotten lost if I could have seen the road signs … or the road. The sky did its best to discourage me. It rained; it thundered and lightning fell; it rained some more. The rain was as cold as the ice water in the local diner.
Fortunately, I started out at 6 a.m. that Sunday, thinking I would get to Victory in plenty of time to look around, which wouldn’t take long, if Allen’s description was true.
I spent the trip wondering if the trip would be worthwhile, if they would hire me and if I would want to return the following week.
I drove a two-lane highway to Champaign where I picked up Interstate 74. The next two hours were simple enough. Head east and on’t get off until you see the “Waynetown” exit. If you see a sign for “Crawfordsville” you’ve gone too far.
I got sleep shortly after getting on the interstate. That was to be expected. I always got sleepy in the car. The thought I might have an exhaust leak into the car crossed my mind, but I had not money to have such frivolous possibilities checked out.
So, I pulled off to the side of the road when the rain slackened to a downpour, made sure my flashers were working, got out and did jumping jacks in the light cloth coat I was wearing. I stood behind the car so oncoming vehicles would see me. See me, they did. More vehicles laid on their hors than I care to remember. I didn’t try to imagine what the truckers were saying to one another about me on their Citizens Band radios.
“Breaker, breaker, we’ve got an idiot on the side, come on.”
“Yeah, he looks like he’s trying to take a shower under the cold water, don’t you know?”
“That’s a big 10-roger, what an idiot!”
Shortly after sunrise, my stomach told me it was time to eat. I didn’t know where I was, so, naturally, I pulled off the interstate. I saw a sign for McDonald’s – somewhere miles off the highway – and I wanted an Egg McMuffin and that was that.
My country mouse in the big city fears kicked in and I kept watching for someone with a knife, a gun, or bigger muscles than mine, who might want to rob me of the $4.39 in my pocket.
My overactive imagination was not fulfilled and I got back into the car safe and sound.
Then, somehow, I managed to get on the wrong road and didn’t catch my error until I saw a sign saying not “Waynetown” or even “Crawfordsville,” but “Chicago.” I swore and then realized I was a cussing preacher that Sunday.
I turned around, found my way back to I-74 and headed east again on my incredible journey.
As interesting as the first two parts of the trip had been, the last part, after I exited at Waynetown onto Indiana 25 was much more interesting. I was about to enter the Indiana wilderness.
Instead of lessening, the rain poured harder the closer I got to Victory. A warning from on high? I wondered.
Waynetown was a clean, pretty little town with a Disneyesque downtown. I marveled at the old buildings and wondered why they were built new in that style but new downtown buildings proved to be so plain, so chromed, and so unlikable.
I drove out of town, reached the “T” where 25 turned south again and I said, “Next stop, Victory, Indiana.”
I was talking back to the Chicago radio station that was playing on my AM-only car radio.
Like a radio beacon for airplane pilots or a friendly signal at sea, I felt that as long as I could hear my favorites, WGN and WLS, I was able to go home again. I had thought about heading west, to see what living in Los Angeles was like, but one reason I didn’t was because I didn’t want to cut that tether to my Chicago radio stations.
Then, State Road 25 ended. It just stopped. At State Road 32.
Oh, sure, the road seemed to go on. I mean, it was paved and everything, but the sign said State Road was ending and, I thought it should have also said, “travel ahead at your own risk.”
I had already seen country farmland. Now, the fields gave way to forest. If there were houses around, they were well hidden.
The road became more twisted with curves banked the wrong way.
“I’m glad this Pinto is a small car,” I thought as I made my way down the road.
The rain was now falling so hard it seemed to splash as high as my fenders. And most of it was being thrown at the windshield, but not before it picked up every bug, every bud and every bit of road grime and oil, depositing them all on the windshield.
My windshield wipers couldn’t make up their minds – would they help me or join the coalition that seemed to be working to turn me back to my college town, chalk this up to an interesting Sunday morning drive and apologize to Allen for letting him and the church down.
The latter thought kept me going.
I was committed to the idea that the Lord Jesus cares a great deal for His church and we mustn’t take that love lightly, so doing less than my best simply wasn’t an option.
I pressed on, thinking I would either find Victory or another highway or run out of gas and be eaten as carrion before my bleached bones were found months later.
Finally, I drove past a grayish church building on the left side of the road and a group of buildings that looked like they were being cast in a live version of L’il Abner’s Dogpatch.
That can’t be a town called “Victory” I thought and decided to keep on driving.
Then, on the right, I saw what looked like a school gymnasium, one of the landmarks Mr. Zellers told me to watch for in Victory.
“Oh, no,” I groaned aloud, slamming on the brakes. “This can’t be my appointment with destiny. Not this place!”
Then another thought cheered me.
“Maybe the people won’t like me.”
I backed up the distance of two city blocks, in driving rain, hoping I wouldn’t hit a person, an animal or another vehicle.
For the first time that morning, the Lord seemed to be watching out for me.
I made it to the corner and turned on the street in front of the church.
The streets, amazingly, were paved.
I later learned the paving was part of a WPA project during the Great Depression, some 40 years earlier.
The WPA workers must have done a good job; the streets were in better shape after 40 years than most city streets after five years.
Inside, the Sunday school was singing joyfully. Out of tune and almost screaming, but joyfully.
The song leader was a plump, middle-aged woman with bleached hair that was the color of dishwater
Her head bobbed in time with the chorus, like a parakeet I once owned.
The Sunday school superintendent got up from his seat behind the pulpit.
“Are there any announcements this morning?” he asked.
Hearing none, he said, “Classes may take their places.”
I stayed in the sanctuary, near the door so I could make a quick escape if so inclined, not really knowing where a college-age class might be held.
“It looks as if we have a visitor,” the teacher said.
Clearing my throat I over-enunciated my words, trying to sound as I imagined a “reverend” would sound to these people.
“I’m Kelly Stevens,” I said. “I may be preaching for you later.”
My announcement was met with a few snickers and titters.
“Very well,” the teacher said.
He pulled a lectern from a group of pews at the front of the church and began teaching the class.
Following Sunday school, the superintendent took his place again and announced that since it was the last Sunday of the month, it was time to award the banner.
A deep blue cloth banner was presented. It had the words “Attendance Banner” in white above a design. It was suspended by a gold string with tassels on each end. The banner could have been hung from a nail, but I never saw any class display the banner in such a way. It was usually draped over a chair in the classroom.
“Class 7 wins the banner this time,” he announced, as the song leader fiddled with her songbook, apparently in a hurry to get the service over.
Everyone, except me, seemed to know which class was Class 7. Everyone applauded until an 8-year-old girl made her way to the pulpit to receive the banner.
Between services, one of the deacons introduced himself and asked me to follow him.
I soon realized why the song leader wanted to get the singing over. As soon as Sunday school was dismissed, about two-thirds of the attendance left the building.
Although people filled about two-thirds of the church, the place looked like a vacant storehouse. The Sunday school had been boisterous and had so packed the little church building that when the worship congregation remained it seemed very sparse.
I might have thought they were all leaving because of my announcement about preaching in worship. But, in the Sunday school room, as they called it, I looked about and saw an interesting framed document.
It announced the formation of the Victory Union Sunday School and had been dated many years earlier.
So, I surmised, the Sunday school was not made up of just the Christian Church, but other churches must participate as well.
“Where are they all going to worship?” I asked another man who saw me studying the document.
“Oh, lots of those people are Methodists and Lutherans,” he told me. “They’re going home.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Their churches were closed years ago. Now they come to Sunday school and then leave.”
“Why don’t they stay and worship here?” I asked.
He shrugged and was saved from answering by an announcement from an older man, who seemed to be in charge.
“Uhh, I want you guys to meet Kelly Stevens,” he said, rubbing his hands together. The man’s gray hair was combed straight back and held in place with what used to be called the “greasy kid stuff”.
“This is Kelly. He’s a student at an Illinois college and he wants to be our next minister.
“Do any of you have questions for him?”
The following silence led me to believe that a) they were not interested in me already, b) they had already talked it over and decided to hire me, or not or c) I already had the answer as to why this town looked like Dogpatch.
“Let us pray.”
I thought they might ask me to pray, to see if I could do it, but the chairman of the board, Frank Zellers – I later learned his name – asked a blessing on the service.
The board walked into the sanctuary together, led by the preacher (me). I later learned it was a tradition began when the new Sunday school rooms were completed.
Being new to the situation, I went to the far aisle and walked toward the pulpit. I watched the song leader, trying in vain to stay in step with him. The rest of the board came in behind us; two elders taking their seats on either side of the communion table and two deacons seated in the pew immediately in front of the pulpit.
When the piano stopped, the congregation sang “The Doxology”; I said, “Let us pray.” And we recited “The Lord’s Prayer”.
I got through the service OK, but I noticed some looks of disapproval on the faces of members who were not used to their minister reading his sermon from a manuscript.
I was nervous enough and was glad to look at the sheets of paper in front of me instead of the congregation.
After the service, everyone filed out with the exception of Frank Zellers and another elder.
I had not been paid and groaned inwardly, thinking I would have to pay for gas out of my own meager funds.
The two men questioned me about my family, my beliefs, my education and so forth.
That was all there was to it. I was hired on the spot as the new minister of the Victory Christian Church, Victory, Indiana.
Almost as an afterthought, Frank handed me a check for $15. We shook hands and I left the little church, feeling exultant for reasons I could not fathom.
It was only as I drove north, out of town, that I realized we had not discussed salary. I groaned again.
In the following weeks I learned the church would pay me $100 to drive from Illinois – three hours each way – to preach on Sunday. Before long, there were other duties I would “enjoy.”
All Rights Reserved
Chapter 7
I might not have gotten lost if I could have seen the road signs … or the road. The sky did its best to discourage me. It rained; it thundered and lightning fell; it rained some more. The rain was as cold as the ice water in the local diner.
Fortunately, I started out at 6 a.m. that Sunday, thinking I would get to Victory in plenty of time to look around, which wouldn’t take long, if Allen’s description was true.
I spent the trip wondering if the trip would be worthwhile, if they would hire me and if I would want to return the following week.
I drove a two-lane highway to Champaign where I picked up Interstate 74. The next two hours were simple enough. Head east and on’t get off until you see the “Waynetown” exit. If you see a sign for “Crawfordsville” you’ve gone too far.
I got sleep shortly after getting on the interstate. That was to be expected. I always got sleepy in the car. The thought I might have an exhaust leak into the car crossed my mind, but I had not money to have such frivolous possibilities checked out.
So, I pulled off to the side of the road when the rain slackened to a downpour, made sure my flashers were working, got out and did jumping jacks in the light cloth coat I was wearing. I stood behind the car so oncoming vehicles would see me. See me, they did. More vehicles laid on their hors than I care to remember. I didn’t try to imagine what the truckers were saying to one another about me on their Citizens Band radios.
“Breaker, breaker, we’ve got an idiot on the side, come on.”
“Yeah, he looks like he’s trying to take a shower under the cold water, don’t you know?”
“That’s a big 10-roger, what an idiot!”
Shortly after sunrise, my stomach told me it was time to eat. I didn’t know where I was, so, naturally, I pulled off the interstate. I saw a sign for McDonald’s – somewhere miles off the highway – and I wanted an Egg McMuffin and that was that.
My country mouse in the big city fears kicked in and I kept watching for someone with a knife, a gun, or bigger muscles than mine, who might want to rob me of the $4.39 in my pocket.
My overactive imagination was not fulfilled and I got back into the car safe and sound.
Then, somehow, I managed to get on the wrong road and didn’t catch my error until I saw a sign saying not “Waynetown” or even “Crawfordsville,” but “Chicago.” I swore and then realized I was a cussing preacher that Sunday.
I turned around, found my way back to I-74 and headed east again on my incredible journey.
As interesting as the first two parts of the trip had been, the last part, after I exited at Waynetown onto Indiana 25 was much more interesting. I was about to enter the Indiana wilderness.
Instead of lessening, the rain poured harder the closer I got to Victory. A warning from on high? I wondered.
Waynetown was a clean, pretty little town with a Disneyesque downtown. I marveled at the old buildings and wondered why they were built new in that style but new downtown buildings proved to be so plain, so chromed, and so unlikable.
I drove out of town, reached the “T” where 25 turned south again and I said, “Next stop, Victory, Indiana.”
I was talking back to the Chicago radio station that was playing on my AM-only car radio.
Like a radio beacon for airplane pilots or a friendly signal at sea, I felt that as long as I could hear my favorites, WGN and WLS, I was able to go home again. I had thought about heading west, to see what living in Los Angeles was like, but one reason I didn’t was because I didn’t want to cut that tether to my Chicago radio stations.
Then, State Road 25 ended. It just stopped. At State Road 32.
Oh, sure, the road seemed to go on. I mean, it was paved and everything, but the sign said State Road was ending and, I thought it should have also said, “travel ahead at your own risk.”
I had already seen country farmland. Now, the fields gave way to forest. If there were houses around, they were well hidden.
The road became more twisted with curves banked the wrong way.
“I’m glad this Pinto is a small car,” I thought as I made my way down the road.
The rain was now falling so hard it seemed to splash as high as my fenders. And most of it was being thrown at the windshield, but not before it picked up every bug, every bud and every bit of road grime and oil, depositing them all on the windshield.
My windshield wipers couldn’t make up their minds – would they help me or join the coalition that seemed to be working to turn me back to my college town, chalk this up to an interesting Sunday morning drive and apologize to Allen for letting him and the church down.
The latter thought kept me going.
I was committed to the idea that the Lord Jesus cares a great deal for His church and we mustn’t take that love lightly, so doing less than my best simply wasn’t an option.
I pressed on, thinking I would either find Victory or another highway or run out of gas and be eaten as carrion before my bleached bones were found months later.
Finally, I drove past a grayish church building on the left side of the road and a group of buildings that looked like they were being cast in a live version of L’il Abner’s Dogpatch.
That can’t be a town called “Victory” I thought and decided to keep on driving.
Then, on the right, I saw what looked like a school gymnasium, one of the landmarks Mr. Zellers told me to watch for in Victory.
“Oh, no,” I groaned aloud, slamming on the brakes. “This can’t be my appointment with destiny. Not this place!”
Then another thought cheered me.
“Maybe the people won’t like me.”
I backed up the distance of two city blocks, in driving rain, hoping I wouldn’t hit a person, an animal or another vehicle.
For the first time that morning, the Lord seemed to be watching out for me.
I made it to the corner and turned on the street in front of the church.
The streets, amazingly, were paved.
I later learned the paving was part of a WPA project during the Great Depression, some 40 years earlier.
The WPA workers must have done a good job; the streets were in better shape after 40 years than most city streets after five years.
Inside, the Sunday school was singing joyfully. Out of tune and almost screaming, but joyfully.
The song leader was a plump, middle-aged woman with bleached hair that was the color of dishwater
Her head bobbed in time with the chorus, like a parakeet I once owned.
The Sunday school superintendent got up from his seat behind the pulpit.
“Are there any announcements this morning?” he asked.
Hearing none, he said, “Classes may take their places.”
I stayed in the sanctuary, near the door so I could make a quick escape if so inclined, not really knowing where a college-age class might be held.
“It looks as if we have a visitor,” the teacher said.
Clearing my throat I over-enunciated my words, trying to sound as I imagined a “reverend” would sound to these people.
“I’m Kelly Stevens,” I said. “I may be preaching for you later.”
My announcement was met with a few snickers and titters.
“Very well,” the teacher said.
He pulled a lectern from a group of pews at the front of the church and began teaching the class.
Following Sunday school, the superintendent took his place again and announced that since it was the last Sunday of the month, it was time to award the banner.
A deep blue cloth banner was presented. It had the words “Attendance Banner” in white above a design. It was suspended by a gold string with tassels on each end. The banner could have been hung from a nail, but I never saw any class display the banner in such a way. It was usually draped over a chair in the classroom.
“Class 7 wins the banner this time,” he announced, as the song leader fiddled with her songbook, apparently in a hurry to get the service over.
Everyone, except me, seemed to know which class was Class 7. Everyone applauded until an 8-year-old girl made her way to the pulpit to receive the banner.
Between services, one of the deacons introduced himself and asked me to follow him.
I soon realized why the song leader wanted to get the singing over. As soon as Sunday school was dismissed, about two-thirds of the attendance left the building.
Although people filled about two-thirds of the church, the place looked like a vacant storehouse. The Sunday school had been boisterous and had so packed the little church building that when the worship congregation remained it seemed very sparse.
I might have thought they were all leaving because of my announcement about preaching in worship. But, in the Sunday school room, as they called it, I looked about and saw an interesting framed document.
It announced the formation of the Victory Union Sunday School and had been dated many years earlier.
So, I surmised, the Sunday school was not made up of just the Christian Church, but other churches must participate as well.
“Where are they all going to worship?” I asked another man who saw me studying the document.
“Oh, lots of those people are Methodists and Lutherans,” he told me. “They’re going home.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Their churches were closed years ago. Now they come to Sunday school and then leave.”
“Why don’t they stay and worship here?” I asked.
He shrugged and was saved from answering by an announcement from an older man, who seemed to be in charge.
“Uhh, I want you guys to meet Kelly Stevens,” he said, rubbing his hands together. The man’s gray hair was combed straight back and held in place with what used to be called the “greasy kid stuff”.
“This is Kelly. He’s a student at an Illinois college and he wants to be our next minister.
“Do any of you have questions for him?”
The following silence led me to believe that a) they were not interested in me already, b) they had already talked it over and decided to hire me, or not or c) I already had the answer as to why this town looked like Dogpatch.
“Let us pray.”
I thought they might ask me to pray, to see if I could do it, but the chairman of the board, Frank Zellers – I later learned his name – asked a blessing on the service.
The board walked into the sanctuary together, led by the preacher (me). I later learned it was a tradition began when the new Sunday school rooms were completed.
Being new to the situation, I went to the far aisle and walked toward the pulpit. I watched the song leader, trying in vain to stay in step with him. The rest of the board came in behind us; two elders taking their seats on either side of the communion table and two deacons seated in the pew immediately in front of the pulpit.
When the piano stopped, the congregation sang “The Doxology”; I said, “Let us pray.” And we recited “The Lord’s Prayer”.
I got through the service OK, but I noticed some looks of disapproval on the faces of members who were not used to their minister reading his sermon from a manuscript.
I was nervous enough and was glad to look at the sheets of paper in front of me instead of the congregation.
After the service, everyone filed out with the exception of Frank Zellers and another elder.
I had not been paid and groaned inwardly, thinking I would have to pay for gas out of my own meager funds.
The two men questioned me about my family, my beliefs, my education and so forth.
That was all there was to it. I was hired on the spot as the new minister of the Victory Christian Church, Victory, Indiana.
Almost as an afterthought, Frank handed me a check for $15. We shook hands and I left the little church, feeling exultant for reasons I could not fathom.
It was only as I drove north, out of town, that I realized we had not discussed salary. I groaned again.
In the following weeks I learned the church would pay me $100 to drive from Illinois – three hours each way – to preach on Sunday. Before long, there were other duties I would “enjoy.”
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Living in Victory, Chapter 6
Copyright 2006, Terry F. Phillips Sr.
All rights reserved
Chapter 6 – April, 1975
It was the 1975 when I first came to the town.
I was a college student, an orphan, owning nothing but the little Ford Pinto wagon I drove, the clothes on my back and a few books – textbooks and a few classic novels by Twain, Dickens and Dostoevsky.
I would have not come to the town at all, except for a strange coincidence.
I was studying journalism at a small Illinois college and didn’t have the funds to continue my education. In the early 1970s, the government had not yet guaranteed student loans and I was afraid of debt, anyway. In fact, I was afraid of almost everything – strangers and the future … mostly afraid of the future.
My parents died when I was about 11, during a freakish spring storm. I found myself an orphan. I had been an only child and my Dad’s mother had died when I was three. Mom’s mother had died during World War II and my grandfather on Mom’s side died a year before my parents.
Dad’s lawyer made it possible for me to finish high school and life insurance money paid for their funerals and the first three years of college.
Looking back, I would have done better to choose a tax-supported state college. But I had the money, so I bought a new Pinto and chose the best private college I could afford, that would have me.
I planned to find a job in a small newspaper and hoped to follow other great writers who learned their trade in newspaper offices.
I had found a part-time job opening at the newspaper in the town where my school was located. I needed more money to finish my senior year, but realized there would be little chance of finding more part-time employment in that town.
I also wanted to find a girl friend.
I somehow believed that graduating from college would make me popular with women.
I think seeing Dustin Hoffman in “all the President’s Men” made me think I would become a babe magnet. I don’t know why – Hoffman’s character didn’t seem to be popular – but at least reporters had some money coming in, instead of just watching an estate shrink when the bills were paid each semester.
I had few delusions of grandeur – other than thinking of myself capable of becoming a great writer someday.
Actually, many of my roommates considered themselves writers. After all, anyone can do that!
I hoped to become a reporter in the great tradition of Humphrey Bogart in “Deadline U.S.A.” and I knew many of the great novelists had newspaper backgrounds. Mark Twain was one who came to mind.
I planned to find a job in a small newspaper and follow the path of those other great newspapermen.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to work in that one-horse newspaper. The editor had a terrible temper, I was told. Being a timid soul, I didn’t want to incur his wrath, so I looked elsewhere for employment.
I tried several jobs.
For a short time I worked for a printer. I was an assistant to the pressman – a printer’s devil, I think they used to be called.
Ira and I certainly gave the devil to another.
He called me Kerry full of crap and I called him Ira the irritable.
While I think I was supposed to be learning how to run a press, our time together became an extended debate over philosophy and religion.
While I maintained one could live one’s life by the Bible alone and that churches could be organized on bible principles alone, Ira couldn’t buy that. He thought man made creeds were essential, “How else are you going to separate your church from all the others?” he asked.
Needless to say that job didn’t last long.
One day I was walking past the building. There was a big plate glass window that gave street view to the printing operation. There, running the press, was a classmate of mine. He obviously did not fall into the discussion trap but kept his mind where it belonged – on the business at hand – printing.
I learned of a somewhat-self-employed business venture.
A truck driver had purchased a three-wheeled Cushman scooter. There was a bed behind the cab and he had decorated the thing with a bell that could be rung from the driver’s seat. He also purchased a grinder to make blocks of ice into shaved ice and he outfitted the scooter with four bottles of flavored syrup and paper cones.
The idea was to drive down the street and sell snow cones like vendors sold ice cream treats.
Each snow cone cost 15 cents. I would get a third of the proceeds, the owner would get a third and the remaining third went for gasoline and oil to run the scooter.
I quickly learned the night shift was most profitable.
I learned I would sell next to nothing driving up and down streets, so I drove to the softball diamonds and parked within view of the crowd, but far enough away to avoid being a nuisance. I don’t think anyone was selling refreshments at those games, but they should.
I would clear $20-$30 on a good night.
That was OK, but cold weather would soon come and there would go my snow cone profits.
I coasted through the winter.
Then, a new friend of mine, Allen Campbell, whom I had met through a campus ministry, told me about an opportunity in Indiana. A small church in a town called Victory had lost its minister when he passed away and the church was mourning their loss and looking for a preacher at the same time.
Allen was a seminary student in the town where I attended a liberal arts college. He said he would apply at the church himself, but he already had a preaching appointment in southern Illinois and asked if I would be interested.
I considered myself a fairly spiritual person. I was in services each Sunday and had even taught Sunday school for a while. I was also involved in the campus ministry the two campuses shared.
“So, you would be interested?” he asked as we talked outside the local Wal-Mart one afternoon.
“Maybe,” I said. “Look, how small is this town? And the church. Can they pay me to drive over there every Sunday and not just end up with a worn out auto for my efforts?”
“Hey, have faith, man,” he said. “They should pay for your gas and have some left over to replace your car after you graduate and start working for the Chicago Tribune.”
“Make that the Chicago Sun Times, and you’ve got a deal,” I said. “Who do I call?”
Allen gave me the information and when I called, a man answered. There was a buzzing, like electrical interference on the line.
“Must be Sam Drucker’s store in Hooterville,” I scoffed.
I was not getting a good first impression of Victory. What a name for a town without a decent telephone system!
I made arrangements to try out for the pulpit at the church and be interviewed.
Soon, I was speeding down the Interstate, across the Illinois prairie and into the Hoosier heartland.
I didn’t ask enough questions. The drive took me three hours, not counting the time spent while I was lost.
All rights reserved
Chapter 6 – April, 1975
It was the 1975 when I first came to the town.
I was a college student, an orphan, owning nothing but the little Ford Pinto wagon I drove, the clothes on my back and a few books – textbooks and a few classic novels by Twain, Dickens and Dostoevsky.
I would have not come to the town at all, except for a strange coincidence.
I was studying journalism at a small Illinois college and didn’t have the funds to continue my education. In the early 1970s, the government had not yet guaranteed student loans and I was afraid of debt, anyway. In fact, I was afraid of almost everything – strangers and the future … mostly afraid of the future.
My parents died when I was about 11, during a freakish spring storm. I found myself an orphan. I had been an only child and my Dad’s mother had died when I was three. Mom’s mother had died during World War II and my grandfather on Mom’s side died a year before my parents.
Dad’s lawyer made it possible for me to finish high school and life insurance money paid for their funerals and the first three years of college.
Looking back, I would have done better to choose a tax-supported state college. But I had the money, so I bought a new Pinto and chose the best private college I could afford, that would have me.
I planned to find a job in a small newspaper and hoped to follow other great writers who learned their trade in newspaper offices.
I had found a part-time job opening at the newspaper in the town where my school was located. I needed more money to finish my senior year, but realized there would be little chance of finding more part-time employment in that town.
I also wanted to find a girl friend.
I somehow believed that graduating from college would make me popular with women.
I think seeing Dustin Hoffman in “all the President’s Men” made me think I would become a babe magnet. I don’t know why – Hoffman’s character didn’t seem to be popular – but at least reporters had some money coming in, instead of just watching an estate shrink when the bills were paid each semester.
I had few delusions of grandeur – other than thinking of myself capable of becoming a great writer someday.
Actually, many of my roommates considered themselves writers. After all, anyone can do that!
I hoped to become a reporter in the great tradition of Humphrey Bogart in “Deadline U.S.A.” and I knew many of the great novelists had newspaper backgrounds. Mark Twain was one who came to mind.
I planned to find a job in a small newspaper and follow the path of those other great newspapermen.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to work in that one-horse newspaper. The editor had a terrible temper, I was told. Being a timid soul, I didn’t want to incur his wrath, so I looked elsewhere for employment.
I tried several jobs.
For a short time I worked for a printer. I was an assistant to the pressman – a printer’s devil, I think they used to be called.
Ira and I certainly gave the devil to another.
He called me Kerry full of crap and I called him Ira the irritable.
While I think I was supposed to be learning how to run a press, our time together became an extended debate over philosophy and religion.
While I maintained one could live one’s life by the Bible alone and that churches could be organized on bible principles alone, Ira couldn’t buy that. He thought man made creeds were essential, “How else are you going to separate your church from all the others?” he asked.
Needless to say that job didn’t last long.
One day I was walking past the building. There was a big plate glass window that gave street view to the printing operation. There, running the press, was a classmate of mine. He obviously did not fall into the discussion trap but kept his mind where it belonged – on the business at hand – printing.
I learned of a somewhat-self-employed business venture.
A truck driver had purchased a three-wheeled Cushman scooter. There was a bed behind the cab and he had decorated the thing with a bell that could be rung from the driver’s seat. He also purchased a grinder to make blocks of ice into shaved ice and he outfitted the scooter with four bottles of flavored syrup and paper cones.
The idea was to drive down the street and sell snow cones like vendors sold ice cream treats.
Each snow cone cost 15 cents. I would get a third of the proceeds, the owner would get a third and the remaining third went for gasoline and oil to run the scooter.
I quickly learned the night shift was most profitable.
I learned I would sell next to nothing driving up and down streets, so I drove to the softball diamonds and parked within view of the crowd, but far enough away to avoid being a nuisance. I don’t think anyone was selling refreshments at those games, but they should.
I would clear $20-$30 on a good night.
That was OK, but cold weather would soon come and there would go my snow cone profits.
I coasted through the winter.
Then, a new friend of mine, Allen Campbell, whom I had met through a campus ministry, told me about an opportunity in Indiana. A small church in a town called Victory had lost its minister when he passed away and the church was mourning their loss and looking for a preacher at the same time.
Allen was a seminary student in the town where I attended a liberal arts college. He said he would apply at the church himself, but he already had a preaching appointment in southern Illinois and asked if I would be interested.
I considered myself a fairly spiritual person. I was in services each Sunday and had even taught Sunday school for a while. I was also involved in the campus ministry the two campuses shared.
“So, you would be interested?” he asked as we talked outside the local Wal-Mart one afternoon.
“Maybe,” I said. “Look, how small is this town? And the church. Can they pay me to drive over there every Sunday and not just end up with a worn out auto for my efforts?”
“Hey, have faith, man,” he said. “They should pay for your gas and have some left over to replace your car after you graduate and start working for the Chicago Tribune.”
“Make that the Chicago Sun Times, and you’ve got a deal,” I said. “Who do I call?”
Allen gave me the information and when I called, a man answered. There was a buzzing, like electrical interference on the line.
“Must be Sam Drucker’s store in Hooterville,” I scoffed.
I was not getting a good first impression of Victory. What a name for a town without a decent telephone system!
I made arrangements to try out for the pulpit at the church and be interviewed.
Soon, I was speeding down the Interstate, across the Illinois prairie and into the Hoosier heartland.
I didn’t ask enough questions. The drive took me three hours, not counting the time spent while I was lost.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Living in Victory, Chapter 5
Copyright 2006 by Terry F. Phillips Sr.
All rights reserved
Chapter 5
A couple months later, the first Saturday for construction of the new Sunday school addition came around.
As everyone knew, the church treasury barely paid expenses from week to week. But when word spread around the little town of the new addition, the money came pouring in without further comment.
People wouldn’t tithe or give sacrificially just give for the sake of giving to the church, but they didn’t mind digging deep into their pockets and bank accounts when there was a real need.
One of the deacons drove his Ford tractor into Victory. Attached to the back was an auger to dig the footings. Someone had brought an end loader to dig the basement.
It had been decided the design would include a basement under both the church and the new wing. The basement would be used for children’s Sunday school classes and for fellowship dinners. It would also be used for dinners to raise money for the church, but few people had that in mind and fewer were speaking about it, for fear their more conservative brethren would oppose selling in the church. The reasoning expressed by a few revival preachers would spoke in the pre-Easter meetings was that Jesus cleansed the Temple by driving out the moneychangers; so, money shouldn’t be exchanged in the church either.
The logic escaped many of the brethren, but they chose their responses carefully, out of respect for the traveling ministers.
It was the first Saturday of construction and Luther Willis was helping dig out the basement, doing detail work the inexperienced equipment operator couldn’t perform, when he went into a swoon and began jerking from head to foot.
“Luther!” screamed his wife, who had been watching the men with the other women of the church.
She ran to him, understanding what was happening.
“Quick, someone get him a Coke,” she yelled.
One of the boys ran to the fire station, which was one vacant lot south of the church. He found Zellers in the general store and said between gulps of air, “Luther needs a Coke – quick!”
Frank understood. For years, Luther had worked hard in the community, ignoring the diabetes that threatened to take his life or limbs.
When he passed out, someone would get him a bottle of Coca-Cola" and pour it down his throat, if he was unable to swallow it himself.
Pretty soon, he would come around and go back to whatever was at hand.
Once again, Luther quickly revived and was soon back on the heavy equipment.
At noon, one of the women yelled, “Time to eat!”
It didn’t taker more than one call to get the men’s attention.
“Hey, Luther, come on!” one of the deacons yelled and swung his arm in an ark, beckoning Luther.
Everyone kept an eye on Luther as they passed fried chicken, deviled eggs, home made noodles and cooked deer meat as well as a wide variety of vegetables and macaroni and cheese (prepared according to different recipes). Pies and cakes loaded the dessert table and the meal was washed down with gallons of iced tea.
When it was obvious Luther was all right, Kent Rogers made a joke.
“I’ve got dibs on the Coke bottle,” he said.
Someone laughed and the tension caused by concern over Luther’s health lifted.
As predicted, the new addition didn’t take long to build at all. Some of the Methodists and Lutherans who had lost their churches helped out. They all felt that the community came first – even above denominational differences.
On the day the floor was laid over the basement, Rev. Pinckus took his Kodak Brownie camera to the church.
“Let’s have you all gather for a photo,” he said.
“But they’re not clean!” said one of the women, drawing laughs from the women and the men who weren’t too tired.
“That’s all right,” the reverend said. “You’ll be glad to have this photo for years to come.”
He was right, for 50 years later the photo still hung next to the bulletin board in the church sanctuary, until the storm of 2005.
The years went quickly by. The Indiana summer turned into autumn and harvest turned into winter and spring. Planting seasons came and went and the little town of Victory seemed to grow poorer instead of richer.
The schools in Victory, Waynetown, New Market, New Ross and Waveland were consolidated and the Victory community lost its elementary and high schools.
As drugs became part of America’s culture, drugs poisoned Victory. Poverty increased but the Masonic Lodge, the volunteer fire department and the church continued.
All rights reserved
Chapter 5
A couple months later, the first Saturday for construction of the new Sunday school addition came around.
As everyone knew, the church treasury barely paid expenses from week to week. But when word spread around the little town of the new addition, the money came pouring in without further comment.
People wouldn’t tithe or give sacrificially just give for the sake of giving to the church, but they didn’t mind digging deep into their pockets and bank accounts when there was a real need.
One of the deacons drove his Ford tractor into Victory. Attached to the back was an auger to dig the footings. Someone had brought an end loader to dig the basement.
It had been decided the design would include a basement under both the church and the new wing. The basement would be used for children’s Sunday school classes and for fellowship dinners. It would also be used for dinners to raise money for the church, but few people had that in mind and fewer were speaking about it, for fear their more conservative brethren would oppose selling in the church. The reasoning expressed by a few revival preachers would spoke in the pre-Easter meetings was that Jesus cleansed the Temple by driving out the moneychangers; so, money shouldn’t be exchanged in the church either.
The logic escaped many of the brethren, but they chose their responses carefully, out of respect for the traveling ministers.
It was the first Saturday of construction and Luther Willis was helping dig out the basement, doing detail work the inexperienced equipment operator couldn’t perform, when he went into a swoon and began jerking from head to foot.
“Luther!” screamed his wife, who had been watching the men with the other women of the church.
She ran to him, understanding what was happening.
“Quick, someone get him a Coke,” she yelled.
One of the boys ran to the fire station, which was one vacant lot south of the church. He found Zellers in the general store and said between gulps of air, “Luther needs a Coke – quick!”
Frank understood. For years, Luther had worked hard in the community, ignoring the diabetes that threatened to take his life or limbs.
When he passed out, someone would get him a bottle of Coca-Cola" and pour it down his throat, if he was unable to swallow it himself.
Pretty soon, he would come around and go back to whatever was at hand.
Once again, Luther quickly revived and was soon back on the heavy equipment.
At noon, one of the women yelled, “Time to eat!”
It didn’t taker more than one call to get the men’s attention.
“Hey, Luther, come on!” one of the deacons yelled and swung his arm in an ark, beckoning Luther.
Everyone kept an eye on Luther as they passed fried chicken, deviled eggs, home made noodles and cooked deer meat as well as a wide variety of vegetables and macaroni and cheese (prepared according to different recipes). Pies and cakes loaded the dessert table and the meal was washed down with gallons of iced tea.
When it was obvious Luther was all right, Kent Rogers made a joke.
“I’ve got dibs on the Coke bottle,” he said.
Someone laughed and the tension caused by concern over Luther’s health lifted.
As predicted, the new addition didn’t take long to build at all. Some of the Methodists and Lutherans who had lost their churches helped out. They all felt that the community came first – even above denominational differences.
On the day the floor was laid over the basement, Rev. Pinckus took his Kodak Brownie camera to the church.
“Let’s have you all gather for a photo,” he said.
“But they’re not clean!” said one of the women, drawing laughs from the women and the men who weren’t too tired.
“That’s all right,” the reverend said. “You’ll be glad to have this photo for years to come.”
He was right, for 50 years later the photo still hung next to the bulletin board in the church sanctuary, until the storm of 2005.
The years went quickly by. The Indiana summer turned into autumn and harvest turned into winter and spring. Planting seasons came and went and the little town of Victory seemed to grow poorer instead of richer.
The schools in Victory, Waynetown, New Market, New Ross and Waveland were consolidated and the Victory community lost its elementary and high schools.
As drugs became part of America’s culture, drugs poisoned Victory. Poverty increased but the Masonic Lodge, the volunteer fire department and the church continued.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Living In Victory, Chapter 4
Living In Victory, Chapter 4
Copyright 2006 Terry Franklin Phillips Sr.
All rights reserved
Chapter 4
Lucy Rogers lived with her husband, Kent, east of Victory on a small, 40-acre gentleman’s farm. He worked in Crawfordsville at one of the factories.
As soon as Frank called, Lucy was on her way to the general store for the big event.
• • •
The doctor was right.
Though the woman remained unconscious, she gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. He last breath came as the baby took her first.
Victory was a small community and news of the child’s birth spread quickly.
Mrs. Trowbridge was quite vocal in her opinion the welfare department should care for the child until a suitable home could be found.
But Kent and Lucy Rogers had other plans. The adopted the child and named her Grace, to honor the memory of the woman who came to town looking for a little victory. They were determined the child would find the victory in their home the child’s mother so earnestly sought.
“This town has no need for a newspaper,” Zellers said, after listening to Mrs. Trowbridge spout off in his store one day.
While Frank and another man played checkers or some of the men played cards, Mrs. Trowbridge would hold court regularly. She lectured and two or three of her followers would nod and agree.
“Looks like Mrs. Trowbridge is at it again,” said Frank’s checkers partner on the occasion Mrs. Trowbridge was telling the other women the child needed to be placed in a foster home in Crawfordsville so she would have all the proper advantages. They nodded in agreement.
“Yeah, I wonder if her husband ever prays for her to get laryngitis,” Frank said in a low tone, not wanting to talk with her any more than necessary – the confrontation with her on the day Grace was born would stay with him for years.
Grace became a lively little girl with long, curly red locks and wide blue eyes that Kent said madder her look like she was surprised all the time.
Grace was a welcome addition to not only the Rogers home, but to the community as well.
Lucy was generous with her adopted baby, realizing the circumstances surrounding the infant’s birth meant most of the people in Ripley Township felt she was a part of their families, too.
Not only did they welcome her, they each protected her as if her name was somehow more than that. She was grace extended to their town; at least that is what the church people believed.
Kent was a deacon in the white frame church Frank Zellers could see from his bedroom window and Lucy taught Sunday school when Grace came into their lives. Together, they led the children’s church.
They were also responsible for transporting many of the town’s children to Sunday school, if their own parents didn’t take them.
It wasn’t long before another event captured the church’s attention, too.
Kent was in the church board meeting late one fall when the decision was made.
The church met in a white, clapboard-sided building on the corner of Elm and the road everyone knew as simply, “the highway”. It would have been State Road 25, if Indiana 25 had extended south of State Road 32. Unfortunately, for the town, the highway ended at 32 and didn’t pick up again until Indiana 234 crossed the road, south of Deer’s Mill at the state park.
It looked as if the road either just got tired and couldn’t go on any farther south or if it just didn’t want to associate with the little town.
At any rate, state highway maps notwithstanding, the road did continue south of 32 and Victory was not setting out in the middle of nothing. Many travelers had puzzled over its location – “How can anyone get there?” people asked, scratching their heads.
Locals knew there were two county roads that ended in Victory, plus the highway that ran on its west side.
The church board chairman called the meeting to order and began with the words everyone expected.
“It’s time to build the Sunday school addition,” he said.
“I think that’s a good idea,” Frank Zellers said. “With the school children needing a place to go, we really should add on to the church.”
There were nods of agreement from other members of the church board, though some were amused Frank was so excited, he look ready to start digging the foundation that very day.
The board represented every family in the church, so its meetings were nearly as well represented as the annual congregational meeting, the Family Night, held on a Wednesday night in September each fall.
“What I want to know is how we’re going to pay for it?” Gerald Graham asked. “I mean, are we going to borrow the money? Will we hire a contractor? These are all things we need to consider.”
“Those are questions we need to consider,” Chairman Paul Flanders said. “Any ideas?”
“We’re all pretty busy,” Zellers said. “I don’t think I can close the store to swing a hammer very many hours.”
“But, many of us are farmers or work in town,” Flanders said. “Why couldn’t we buy the materials and work on the building weekends?”
“You’re not going to stop having church while you’re building the addition, will you?” Graham said.
Several of the men laughed at the thought.
“No,” Flanders replied. “Ron Jones and I have been doing some talking. I think we can get enough people together and if we plan it right, two or three Saturdays should do the job. At least get it enclosed so we can begin using it.”
“There’s another thing to think about,” Jones said. “Some of the women would like us to put in bathroom facilities. I guess they’re tired of walking out back if they have to go during church.”
“Tell them to go before they come to church,” a voice from the back said, drawing laughs from the all-male board.
“Now, listen,” Jones said. “We learned a lot about construction when we remodeled the school. We just about have to put in indoor plumbing, if the church is going to grow. People have it in other churches and our people expect it here, too.”
“And, we have the older people to think about,” Zellers said. “I think including restrooms is a good idea.”
The Rev. John Pinckus sat silent through the meeting. He had been informed about the proposal by the board chairman before the meeting and thought he knew how things were going to go. And he was right. He always found it delightful the church board seemed to get along with one another as well as they did.
Other than special meetings, like this one, and an annual board meeting, the men of the church held an informal meeting between Sunday school and church each Sunday. They had met for decades in the vestibule of the church, dodging people coming and going between services. Never being concerned someone might overhear what was said.
After the meeting, he approached Frank Zellers.
“Frank, nobody mentioned it, but we also need to think about our Sunday school,” the preacher said. “With the closing of the Methodist Church, the Sunday school attendance will likely double or even triple.”
Frank stood next to the preacher, looking at the floor and nodding, the pair looking much like two cows chewing their cuds together.
“Yep,” it’s going to be nice, hearing all those children singing together on Sunday morning,” Frank replied. “See you, John.”
“And it’s going to make the church service seem pretty small by comparison,” John thought as he put his hat on his head and left the building. “Maybe we can convert some of those people.”
The preacher smiled, happy to be part of the good congregation.
Copyright 2006 Terry Franklin Phillips Sr.
All rights reserved
Chapter 4
Lucy Rogers lived with her husband, Kent, east of Victory on a small, 40-acre gentleman’s farm. He worked in Crawfordsville at one of the factories.
As soon as Frank called, Lucy was on her way to the general store for the big event.
• • •
The doctor was right.
Though the woman remained unconscious, she gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. He last breath came as the baby took her first.
Victory was a small community and news of the child’s birth spread quickly.
Mrs. Trowbridge was quite vocal in her opinion the welfare department should care for the child until a suitable home could be found.
But Kent and Lucy Rogers had other plans. The adopted the child and named her Grace, to honor the memory of the woman who came to town looking for a little victory. They were determined the child would find the victory in their home the child’s mother so earnestly sought.
“This town has no need for a newspaper,” Zellers said, after listening to Mrs. Trowbridge spout off in his store one day.
While Frank and another man played checkers or some of the men played cards, Mrs. Trowbridge would hold court regularly. She lectured and two or three of her followers would nod and agree.
“Looks like Mrs. Trowbridge is at it again,” said Frank’s checkers partner on the occasion Mrs. Trowbridge was telling the other women the child needed to be placed in a foster home in Crawfordsville so she would have all the proper advantages. They nodded in agreement.
“Yeah, I wonder if her husband ever prays for her to get laryngitis,” Frank said in a low tone, not wanting to talk with her any more than necessary – the confrontation with her on the day Grace was born would stay with him for years.
Grace became a lively little girl with long, curly red locks and wide blue eyes that Kent said madder her look like she was surprised all the time.
Grace was a welcome addition to not only the Rogers home, but to the community as well.
Lucy was generous with her adopted baby, realizing the circumstances surrounding the infant’s birth meant most of the people in Ripley Township felt she was a part of their families, too.
Not only did they welcome her, they each protected her as if her name was somehow more than that. She was grace extended to their town; at least that is what the church people believed.
Kent was a deacon in the white frame church Frank Zellers could see from his bedroom window and Lucy taught Sunday school when Grace came into their lives. Together, they led the children’s church.
They were also responsible for transporting many of the town’s children to Sunday school, if their own parents didn’t take them.
It wasn’t long before another event captured the church’s attention, too.
Kent was in the church board meeting late one fall when the decision was made.
The church met in a white, clapboard-sided building on the corner of Elm and the road everyone knew as simply, “the highway”. It would have been State Road 25, if Indiana 25 had extended south of State Road 32. Unfortunately, for the town, the highway ended at 32 and didn’t pick up again until Indiana 234 crossed the road, south of Deer’s Mill at the state park.
It looked as if the road either just got tired and couldn’t go on any farther south or if it just didn’t want to associate with the little town.
At any rate, state highway maps notwithstanding, the road did continue south of 32 and Victory was not setting out in the middle of nothing. Many travelers had puzzled over its location – “How can anyone get there?” people asked, scratching their heads.
Locals knew there were two county roads that ended in Victory, plus the highway that ran on its west side.
The church board chairman called the meeting to order and began with the words everyone expected.
“It’s time to build the Sunday school addition,” he said.
“I think that’s a good idea,” Frank Zellers said. “With the school children needing a place to go, we really should add on to the church.”
There were nods of agreement from other members of the church board, though some were amused Frank was so excited, he look ready to start digging the foundation that very day.
The board represented every family in the church, so its meetings were nearly as well represented as the annual congregational meeting, the Family Night, held on a Wednesday night in September each fall.
“What I want to know is how we’re going to pay for it?” Gerald Graham asked. “I mean, are we going to borrow the money? Will we hire a contractor? These are all things we need to consider.”
“Those are questions we need to consider,” Chairman Paul Flanders said. “Any ideas?”
“We’re all pretty busy,” Zellers said. “I don’t think I can close the store to swing a hammer very many hours.”
“But, many of us are farmers or work in town,” Flanders said. “Why couldn’t we buy the materials and work on the building weekends?”
“You’re not going to stop having church while you’re building the addition, will you?” Graham said.
Several of the men laughed at the thought.
“No,” Flanders replied. “Ron Jones and I have been doing some talking. I think we can get enough people together and if we plan it right, two or three Saturdays should do the job. At least get it enclosed so we can begin using it.”
“There’s another thing to think about,” Jones said. “Some of the women would like us to put in bathroom facilities. I guess they’re tired of walking out back if they have to go during church.”
“Tell them to go before they come to church,” a voice from the back said, drawing laughs from the all-male board.
“Now, listen,” Jones said. “We learned a lot about construction when we remodeled the school. We just about have to put in indoor plumbing, if the church is going to grow. People have it in other churches and our people expect it here, too.”
“And, we have the older people to think about,” Zellers said. “I think including restrooms is a good idea.”
The Rev. John Pinckus sat silent through the meeting. He had been informed about the proposal by the board chairman before the meeting and thought he knew how things were going to go. And he was right. He always found it delightful the church board seemed to get along with one another as well as they did.
Other than special meetings, like this one, and an annual board meeting, the men of the church held an informal meeting between Sunday school and church each Sunday. They had met for decades in the vestibule of the church, dodging people coming and going between services. Never being concerned someone might overhear what was said.
After the meeting, he approached Frank Zellers.
“Frank, nobody mentioned it, but we also need to think about our Sunday school,” the preacher said. “With the closing of the Methodist Church, the Sunday school attendance will likely double or even triple.”
Frank stood next to the preacher, looking at the floor and nodding, the pair looking much like two cows chewing their cuds together.
“Yep,” it’s going to be nice, hearing all those children singing together on Sunday morning,” Frank replied. “See you, John.”
“And it’s going to make the church service seem pretty small by comparison,” John thought as he put his hat on his head and left the building. “Maybe we can convert some of those people.”
The preacher smiled, happy to be part of the good congregation.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Living In Victory, Chapter 3
Copyright 2006 by Terry Franklin Phillips, Sr.
Chapter 3
As Zellers leaned on his broom, he noticed a black ’47 Chrysler pull up in front of his store. A woman soon emerged from the front seat on the passenger’s side. Zellers saw her stop to thank the driver, who waved and quickly drove on.
The woman was wearing a cloth coat, even though the Coca-Cola thermometer on the side of Zellers’s store read 78 degrees. She took a white hankie from her purse and dabbed the back of her neck
It soon became apparent she wasn’t from Victory or the surrounding area; and it was not her husband who drove her, if she had one. By all appearances, the woman had been stranded.
“Can I help you?” Zellers asked?
“I need some Victory,” she smiled and pointed to the store sign – “Victory General Store”.
The general store’s proprietor smiled in spite of himself.
“Well, this town is called Victory, but I don’t know how much Victory you will find here.”
There wasn’t enough Victory to help this stranger for at that moment she collapsed.
Frank ran down the stairs, holding onto his broom, only dropping it when he grabbed the woman. Even though he was middle-aged, he managed to catch her before she hit the ground.
Doc Stewart, Victory’s only resident physician, was gassing up his 1947 Cadillac when he saw the woman collapse.
He ran across the street, his little black bag in hand, and ran to the woman’s side where Frank kneeled, trying to figure out how to help her.
“Let’s get her inside,” the doctor said, helping Frank pull her to her feet.
Together, the two men managed to maneuver her into the store and to a little storeroom at the back of the store.
“Wouldn’t the bed upstairs be better than in here?” Frank asked.
“Out of the question,” the doctor answered. “Couldn’t get her up those narrow stairs.
“Get some blankets and a pillow. We’ll make a pallet for her here on the floor.”
Once again, Frank took steps as quickly as a much younger man. He grabbed his own bed coverings, not considering if they were fresh, and returned to the doctor’s side.
“What took you so long?” the doctor deadpanned.
He rolled the woman to one side and held her while Zellers made an untidy pallet next to her back. Then the two rolled her over onto the pallet and placed the pillow under her head.
Right then, a bell above the store’s front door rang and Frank knew he had a customer.
“The timing is terrible,” Frank said, getting to his feet.
“Go, on. Answer it,” the doctor said, continuing his examination.
A woman had entered the store. Not just any woman. Her name was Trowbridge and Frank recognized her as the Town Board president’s wife.
“Mr. Zellers,” she said, with an air meant to be aristocratic, but instead irritated Frank like fingernails on a chalkboard.
“I have come to do my weekly grocery shopping,” she enunciated clearly and evenly.
“Do you have a long list, Mrs. Trowbridge?”
She looked past him through the opening in the curtain that separated the storeroom from the rest of the store. He glanced, noticing the soles of Doc Stewart’s shoes.
“I appreciate your business, Mrs. Trowbridge. I really do, but I have some other business to attend to. So, could you pick out your own groceries today? Please?”
“Mr. Zellers, you know I always try to patronize Victory’s business community,” she said. “I could just as well drive to Crawfordsville to shop.”
“I know that and I --,” he interrupted himself, deciding not to argue. “Please give me your list.”
He turned away to take some cans from a shelf not six feet from where she was standing.
“Why can’t the old bat just drive the 15 miles to Crawfordsville and be done with it,” he muttered, forgetting she might overhear him.
“Excuse me, Mr. Zellers, I didn’t quite hear you.”
“Here are your canned goods,” he said, turning back to face her.
Then he went to the cooler, hoping she wouldn’t argue over which chops were fresher. He shooed away two flies that threatened to land on the meat while he weighed it and then wrapped it in white butcher paper.
She waited until he was ready to tape the package shut when she said, “Never mind, Mr. Zellers. I will call Wabash College and leave a message for my son. He can pick up a few things in the city!”
With that, she whirled on her heel and left the store.
Frank quickly unwrapped the meat, tossed it back into the cooler and threw the now greasy butcher paper into a waste can.
He hurried back to Dr. Stewart and their patient.
The Trowbridges’ son, Walter, was a freshman at Wabash College. To save money, he lived at home and usually drove each day to town with his father, who worked at one of the local factories.
Lately, Walter had been driving himself to school.
“Was that Barbara Trowbridge?’ Stewart asked.
“Yep.”
Stewart didn’t reply for a few minutes. Then he said, “Wonder if the stores in town will extend them credit.”
“They will have a tough go of it since he was laid off,” Zellers said.
“They probably won’t be as lenient as you’ve been,” Stewart said, not looking at Frank.
“Well, everyone knows about his drinking problem,” Frank said. “You might as well say it, too.”
“Everybody but Mrs. Trowbridge.”
“Now, doc, I thought you were sworn to confidentiality.”
“Frank, I’ve lived here a long time, longer than you. The Trowbridge’s problems aren’t a secret. Just be careful. The last people who owned this store had trouble paying their own bills because they couldn’t collect money due them.
“I just don’t want to see another of Victory’s leading citizens get himself in trouble.”
“Thanks, Doc,” frank said grinning. “I like you, too. You’re a good friend.”
Doc was bent over the young woman’s face, shining a small flashlight into her eyes.
To ease the tension, Frank asked, “Doc, are you going to help her or kiss her?”
“Well, that question is more inappropriate than you might think.”
“How’s that?”
“Frank, at the risk of breaking the patient-doctor confidentiality you mentioned, I’ll tell you something and you must promise not to repeat it.”
“Do I want to hear this?”
“Frank, this woman is pregnant. That is one reason she passed out in front of your store today. And the baby is due and we – you and I – are going to deliver it.”
“What? No, no. Huh, uh,” Frank said, moving away from the two.
“Yes, we are,” the doctor said. “And what is more, she is not going to be able to help us. She is too weak. I am going to have to do a Caesarean Section.
“She probably has eaten properly for a long time.”
“Can’t we call an ambulance? This doesn’t seem like something to do on the floor of a general store!”
“No, “ the doctor said. “That won’t do. She needs attention right here and now. We don’t have time to call an ambulance or put her in the back of my Cadillac or even Mrs. Trowbridge’s pickup truck, for that matter.
“It’s you and me. You and I will be her doctor, her nurse, and everything else she and the baby needs. Right here, right now.”
“Wait,” Frank said, standing. “We need someone else and I know who.”
As he ran out of the storeroom, he heard the doctor say, “Zellers, get back here!”
The doctor didn’t leave his patient’s side.
“He’s probably calling Lucy,” Doc muttered.
Chapter 3
As Zellers leaned on his broom, he noticed a black ’47 Chrysler pull up in front of his store. A woman soon emerged from the front seat on the passenger’s side. Zellers saw her stop to thank the driver, who waved and quickly drove on.
The woman was wearing a cloth coat, even though the Coca-Cola thermometer on the side of Zellers’s store read 78 degrees. She took a white hankie from her purse and dabbed the back of her neck
It soon became apparent she wasn’t from Victory or the surrounding area; and it was not her husband who drove her, if she had one. By all appearances, the woman had been stranded.
“Can I help you?” Zellers asked?
“I need some Victory,” she smiled and pointed to the store sign – “Victory General Store”.
The general store’s proprietor smiled in spite of himself.
“Well, this town is called Victory, but I don’t know how much Victory you will find here.”
There wasn’t enough Victory to help this stranger for at that moment she collapsed.
Frank ran down the stairs, holding onto his broom, only dropping it when he grabbed the woman. Even though he was middle-aged, he managed to catch her before she hit the ground.
Doc Stewart, Victory’s only resident physician, was gassing up his 1947 Cadillac when he saw the woman collapse.
He ran across the street, his little black bag in hand, and ran to the woman’s side where Frank kneeled, trying to figure out how to help her.
“Let’s get her inside,” the doctor said, helping Frank pull her to her feet.
Together, the two men managed to maneuver her into the store and to a little storeroom at the back of the store.
“Wouldn’t the bed upstairs be better than in here?” Frank asked.
“Out of the question,” the doctor answered. “Couldn’t get her up those narrow stairs.
“Get some blankets and a pillow. We’ll make a pallet for her here on the floor.”
Once again, Frank took steps as quickly as a much younger man. He grabbed his own bed coverings, not considering if they were fresh, and returned to the doctor’s side.
“What took you so long?” the doctor deadpanned.
He rolled the woman to one side and held her while Zellers made an untidy pallet next to her back. Then the two rolled her over onto the pallet and placed the pillow under her head.
Right then, a bell above the store’s front door rang and Frank knew he had a customer.
“The timing is terrible,” Frank said, getting to his feet.
“Go, on. Answer it,” the doctor said, continuing his examination.
A woman had entered the store. Not just any woman. Her name was Trowbridge and Frank recognized her as the Town Board president’s wife.
“Mr. Zellers,” she said, with an air meant to be aristocratic, but instead irritated Frank like fingernails on a chalkboard.
“I have come to do my weekly grocery shopping,” she enunciated clearly and evenly.
“Do you have a long list, Mrs. Trowbridge?”
She looked past him through the opening in the curtain that separated the storeroom from the rest of the store. He glanced, noticing the soles of Doc Stewart’s shoes.
“I appreciate your business, Mrs. Trowbridge. I really do, but I have some other business to attend to. So, could you pick out your own groceries today? Please?”
“Mr. Zellers, you know I always try to patronize Victory’s business community,” she said. “I could just as well drive to Crawfordsville to shop.”
“I know that and I --,” he interrupted himself, deciding not to argue. “Please give me your list.”
He turned away to take some cans from a shelf not six feet from where she was standing.
“Why can’t the old bat just drive the 15 miles to Crawfordsville and be done with it,” he muttered, forgetting she might overhear him.
“Excuse me, Mr. Zellers, I didn’t quite hear you.”
“Here are your canned goods,” he said, turning back to face her.
Then he went to the cooler, hoping she wouldn’t argue over which chops were fresher. He shooed away two flies that threatened to land on the meat while he weighed it and then wrapped it in white butcher paper.
She waited until he was ready to tape the package shut when she said, “Never mind, Mr. Zellers. I will call Wabash College and leave a message for my son. He can pick up a few things in the city!”
With that, she whirled on her heel and left the store.
Frank quickly unwrapped the meat, tossed it back into the cooler and threw the now greasy butcher paper into a waste can.
He hurried back to Dr. Stewart and their patient.
The Trowbridges’ son, Walter, was a freshman at Wabash College. To save money, he lived at home and usually drove each day to town with his father, who worked at one of the local factories.
Lately, Walter had been driving himself to school.
“Was that Barbara Trowbridge?’ Stewart asked.
“Yep.”
Stewart didn’t reply for a few minutes. Then he said, “Wonder if the stores in town will extend them credit.”
“They will have a tough go of it since he was laid off,” Zellers said.
“They probably won’t be as lenient as you’ve been,” Stewart said, not looking at Frank.
“Well, everyone knows about his drinking problem,” Frank said. “You might as well say it, too.”
“Everybody but Mrs. Trowbridge.”
“Now, doc, I thought you were sworn to confidentiality.”
“Frank, I’ve lived here a long time, longer than you. The Trowbridge’s problems aren’t a secret. Just be careful. The last people who owned this store had trouble paying their own bills because they couldn’t collect money due them.
“I just don’t want to see another of Victory’s leading citizens get himself in trouble.”
“Thanks, Doc,” frank said grinning. “I like you, too. You’re a good friend.”
Doc was bent over the young woman’s face, shining a small flashlight into her eyes.
To ease the tension, Frank asked, “Doc, are you going to help her or kiss her?”
“Well, that question is more inappropriate than you might think.”
“How’s that?”
“Frank, at the risk of breaking the patient-doctor confidentiality you mentioned, I’ll tell you something and you must promise not to repeat it.”
“Do I want to hear this?”
“Frank, this woman is pregnant. That is one reason she passed out in front of your store today. And the baby is due and we – you and I – are going to deliver it.”
“What? No, no. Huh, uh,” Frank said, moving away from the two.
“Yes, we are,” the doctor said. “And what is more, she is not going to be able to help us. She is too weak. I am going to have to do a Caesarean Section.
“She probably has eaten properly for a long time.”
“Can’t we call an ambulance? This doesn’t seem like something to do on the floor of a general store!”
“No, “ the doctor said. “That won’t do. She needs attention right here and now. We don’t have time to call an ambulance or put her in the back of my Cadillac or even Mrs. Trowbridge’s pickup truck, for that matter.
“It’s you and me. You and I will be her doctor, her nurse, and everything else she and the baby needs. Right here, right now.”
“Wait,” Frank said, standing. “We need someone else and I know who.”
As he ran out of the storeroom, he heard the doctor say, “Zellers, get back here!”
The doctor didn’t leave his patient’s side.
“He’s probably calling Lucy,” Doc muttered.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Alan Alda got the better role on "The West Wing"
OK, as upset as I was that Alan Alda's character, Arnie Vinnick, didn't win the presidential election, now I see the method behind the creative madness.
Alda got the better role.
I didn't realize just how many new episodes of "The West Wing" were left. By putting Alda in the loser's position, he has the much meatier role.
He was brilliant tonight, playing the senator who is trying to swallow a bitter pill and decides to run again.
The role was much meatier than than if he had won the election. Somehow, I don't think Jimmy Smits could have pulled off the loser's role with nearly as much panache.
Bravo, "West Wing" producers. Well done. (Even if you did fool me on the VP offer.)
We can only hope that somehow, on some network there is an encore to "The West Wing."
Alda got the better role.
I didn't realize just how many new episodes of "The West Wing" were left. By putting Alda in the loser's position, he has the much meatier role.
He was brilliant tonight, playing the senator who is trying to swallow a bitter pill and decides to run again.
The role was much meatier than than if he had won the election. Somehow, I don't think Jimmy Smits could have pulled off the loser's role with nearly as much panache.
Bravo, "West Wing" producers. Well done. (Even if you did fool me on the VP offer.)
We can only hope that somehow, on some network there is an encore to "The West Wing."
Living in Victory, Chapter 2
Copyright 2006 Terry F. Phillips Sr.
(812) 201-3456
frank.phillips@gmail.com
Living in Victory
By
Terry Franklin Phillips Sr.
Chapter 2 – Summer 1955
Frank Zellers straightened his back, easing the tension that caused his back to ache and spasm.
Frank was familiar with manual labor. He had farmed, he had run a business for other people and then he moved his family to the little town of Victory.
“I like that name,” he told his wife. “’Victory.’ It has a nice ring to it.”
Ever the optimist and dreamer they bought and moved into the town’s general store.
Six months later, his family was dead and buried in the cemetery that lay on the town’s east side.
The sickness had taken the community by storm. Many had become ill and died quickly.
As he watched the sickness hit his friends and neighbors, Frank had entertained the idea his family was the lucky ones who would be passed over, like the death angel had passed over the firstborn of the children of Israel in Egypt. But the “luck” was not to continue. The illness hit his family and he was left alone. Lucky, but alone. He did not get sick.
But life finds a way to go on. Many people had lost their spouses, as attested to by the large expansion of the town’s cemetery. He was not alone in his trouble.
Frank went to bed every night, said his prayers and read the Bible his wife kept in the night stand on her side of the bed.
Now, Frank slept on either her side of the bed or in the middle. He could not bear to think of her side of the bed being empty and cold, reminding him of her absence.
She had been the Bible student in this house. She had insisted her family get involved in the little white frame church on the corner. She could see the church from the couple’s bedroom window on the store’s second floor.
Seth, the youngest of their three children, liked to look at the church on Sunday mornings. He would get excited and jump up and down on the bed even before he could speak clearly.
Frank thought about Seth and the rest of the family. Instead of making him sad, his memories made him smile, even as he missed them.
He had been sweeping dried mud off the wooden porch of the general store. It seemed like he had been sweeping all morning, though it was probably only and hour or two at most. He pulled a pocket watch from his pocket and checked the time.
Victory wasn’t on a main thoroughfare. It wasn’t even on a state highway – Indiana 25 ended at the intersection with Indiana 32, some two miles north of the village. Indiana 234 was some miles south.
The Shades State Park drew visitors from several surrounding states, from Chicago and Indianapolis, but those campers and canoeists wouldn’t think twice about Victory. They would drive into Waveland, located on a real state highway, Indiana 47 that ran southwest from Crawfordsville to U.S. 41.
Those customers would shop in Waveland for their beer and gas and groceries. But there would be no reason to stop at Frank’s store. They might, if he advertised on the county road that connected th end of Indiana 25 to Indiana 234, but he didn’t do that.
Years later, Interstate 74 would be built north of Waynetown and connect Indianapolis with points east and west – making it the Circle City – to truckers on CB radios, which in 1955 was just a band of frequencies that were a nuisance to Ham radio operators. The 11-meter band which would one day be used by Cbers was known in 1955 for its ability to pick up all sorts of electrical interference, making long-range communication practically impossible.
Frank served the local clientele. He didn’t carry booze and his predecessor hadn’t the foresight to put in gas pumps, so a service station across the street sold gas and worked on cars and trucks and the occasional tractor.
Many of the people who lived in Victory either worked for the Victory elementary and high school or drove to nearly Crawfordsville or even Lafayette or Indianapolis for employment.
It would have been easier to live elsewhere. The people of Victory lived there because they chose to, for the most part. They felt there was something special about the town of Victory, its size notwithstanding. Living elsewhere just wouldn’t be the same.
The people were tight-knit and, more often than not, were related through family ties to neighbors.
“Be careful who you talk about,” people often said. “You’re probably talking to one of their relatives.”
There was a sense of community in Victory that just wasn’t true in larger Indiana cities, though Victory folks wore the name, “Hoosier,” proudly.
Hoosier. That was a name with an unknown origin.
Some said it was derived from the early practice of Hoosiers who would greet visitors with the question, “Who’s yere?” That was likely more fancy than truth, most people thought.
Citizens of Ohio could call themselves Buckeyes and Illinois residents could call themselves Illini, but Hoosiers would likewise be proud of their nickname. What was a buckeye, anyway? A chestnut with a big eye on it.
It was time for Frank to get back to work.
“I need to clean the apartment,” he said aloud, though no one was nearby to hear.
But he knew it wouldn’t get done. The dust would have to fly until it choked him before he would start cleaning the place where he lived.
Now the store was another matter. He took great pride in keeping the merchandise and the shelves on which it set neat and tidy.
He remembered how his own dear Emmy was and thought the other women in the town and on nearby farms might not return to shop in his store if they disapproved of his shop keeping.
But, Frank doubted he would lose business as long as his tore was open. Deep down inside he realized people shopped his store to support a local enterprise.
It wasn’t because his prices were lower than the stores in Crawfordsville – his prices were higher. It wasn’t because his meat was fresher, either. Many times the local cats and dogs had received a special treat because his meat cooler needed a fresh supply.
People in Victory took care of their own and they often made sure there was enough left over to send to others in need outside their community.
Frank pulled a cheap pocket watch from his tan slacks held in place by a pair of suspenders.
The watch had no cover and it was tethered to a belt loop by a shoelace.
It said “Big Ben” on the face and cost $3 new in his store. He got the watches for about half that price. Good thing, for the watches broke about once a year when wound too tightly or when the crystal that covered the face bounced a little too sharply against a hard surface.
(812) 201-3456
frank.phillips@gmail.com
Living in Victory
By
Terry Franklin Phillips Sr.
Chapter 2 – Summer 1955
Frank Zellers straightened his back, easing the tension that caused his back to ache and spasm.
Frank was familiar with manual labor. He had farmed, he had run a business for other people and then he moved his family to the little town of Victory.
“I like that name,” he told his wife. “’Victory.’ It has a nice ring to it.”
Ever the optimist and dreamer they bought and moved into the town’s general store.
Six months later, his family was dead and buried in the cemetery that lay on the town’s east side.
The sickness had taken the community by storm. Many had become ill and died quickly.
As he watched the sickness hit his friends and neighbors, Frank had entertained the idea his family was the lucky ones who would be passed over, like the death angel had passed over the firstborn of the children of Israel in Egypt. But the “luck” was not to continue. The illness hit his family and he was left alone. Lucky, but alone. He did not get sick.
But life finds a way to go on. Many people had lost their spouses, as attested to by the large expansion of the town’s cemetery. He was not alone in his trouble.
Frank went to bed every night, said his prayers and read the Bible his wife kept in the night stand on her side of the bed.
Now, Frank slept on either her side of the bed or in the middle. He could not bear to think of her side of the bed being empty and cold, reminding him of her absence.
She had been the Bible student in this house. She had insisted her family get involved in the little white frame church on the corner. She could see the church from the couple’s bedroom window on the store’s second floor.
Seth, the youngest of their three children, liked to look at the church on Sunday mornings. He would get excited and jump up and down on the bed even before he could speak clearly.
Frank thought about Seth and the rest of the family. Instead of making him sad, his memories made him smile, even as he missed them.
He had been sweeping dried mud off the wooden porch of the general store. It seemed like he had been sweeping all morning, though it was probably only and hour or two at most. He pulled a pocket watch from his pocket and checked the time.
Victory wasn’t on a main thoroughfare. It wasn’t even on a state highway – Indiana 25 ended at the intersection with Indiana 32, some two miles north of the village. Indiana 234 was some miles south.
The Shades State Park drew visitors from several surrounding states, from Chicago and Indianapolis, but those campers and canoeists wouldn’t think twice about Victory. They would drive into Waveland, located on a real state highway, Indiana 47 that ran southwest from Crawfordsville to U.S. 41.
Those customers would shop in Waveland for their beer and gas and groceries. But there would be no reason to stop at Frank’s store. They might, if he advertised on the county road that connected th end of Indiana 25 to Indiana 234, but he didn’t do that.
Years later, Interstate 74 would be built north of Waynetown and connect Indianapolis with points east and west – making it the Circle City – to truckers on CB radios, which in 1955 was just a band of frequencies that were a nuisance to Ham radio operators. The 11-meter band which would one day be used by Cbers was known in 1955 for its ability to pick up all sorts of electrical interference, making long-range communication practically impossible.
Frank served the local clientele. He didn’t carry booze and his predecessor hadn’t the foresight to put in gas pumps, so a service station across the street sold gas and worked on cars and trucks and the occasional tractor.
Many of the people who lived in Victory either worked for the Victory elementary and high school or drove to nearly Crawfordsville or even Lafayette or Indianapolis for employment.
It would have been easier to live elsewhere. The people of Victory lived there because they chose to, for the most part. They felt there was something special about the town of Victory, its size notwithstanding. Living elsewhere just wouldn’t be the same.
The people were tight-knit and, more often than not, were related through family ties to neighbors.
“Be careful who you talk about,” people often said. “You’re probably talking to one of their relatives.”
There was a sense of community in Victory that just wasn’t true in larger Indiana cities, though Victory folks wore the name, “Hoosier,” proudly.
Hoosier. That was a name with an unknown origin.
Some said it was derived from the early practice of Hoosiers who would greet visitors with the question, “Who’s yere?” That was likely more fancy than truth, most people thought.
Citizens of Ohio could call themselves Buckeyes and Illinois residents could call themselves Illini, but Hoosiers would likewise be proud of their nickname. What was a buckeye, anyway? A chestnut with a big eye on it.
It was time for Frank to get back to work.
“I need to clean the apartment,” he said aloud, though no one was nearby to hear.
But he knew it wouldn’t get done. The dust would have to fly until it choked him before he would start cleaning the place where he lived.
Now the store was another matter. He took great pride in keeping the merchandise and the shelves on which it set neat and tidy.
He remembered how his own dear Emmy was and thought the other women in the town and on nearby farms might not return to shop in his store if they disapproved of his shop keeping.
But, Frank doubted he would lose business as long as his tore was open. Deep down inside he realized people shopped his store to support a local enterprise.
It wasn’t because his prices were lower than the stores in Crawfordsville – his prices were higher. It wasn’t because his meat was fresher, either. Many times the local cats and dogs had received a special treat because his meat cooler needed a fresh supply.
People in Victory took care of their own and they often made sure there was enough left over to send to others in need outside their community.
Frank pulled a cheap pocket watch from his tan slacks held in place by a pair of suspenders.
The watch had no cover and it was tethered to a belt loop by a shoelace.
It said “Big Ben” on the face and cost $3 new in his store. He got the watches for about half that price. Good thing, for the watches broke about once a year when wound too tightly or when the crystal that covered the face bounced a little too sharply against a hard surface.
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