The day of the village picnic began peaceful enough.
Mary O’Shaughnessy dug deep into her closet. “Will, I can’t find that flowered dress your mother gave me for my birthday. We wouldn’t have left it behind, would we have?”
“That house was bare as a newborn’s hinder,” Will said. He looked through her closet. “It must be here someplace.” But he couldn’t find it either.
Mary sat on their bed. “It’d be perfect for so bright a summer day. Whatever could I have done with it?”
Will pulled his old suit out and fished along the back wall for a vest he hadn’t worn since they moved into the house. When he saw a flash of yellow and pink, he pulled his clothes aside. “Mary, guess what I found back here. It looks like a dress fit for the prettiest lass in Iowa County.”
“How’d it get in there, Will? You weren’t planning on wearing it to one of your lodge gatherings, now were you? I always wondered what you men did at those meetings.”
“I s’pose you might as well take it back.” Will handed her the dress. “I’m too busy to join the Willow Lodge.”
“It probably got there in our hurry to unpack. I’ll let you off the hook this time, my dear.”
Fully dressed, they stood before each other. Attired for the day’s outing, Mary looked exceptionally beautiful. She must have spent an hour on her hair. Not a strand was out of place. Will was sure that his wife kept the local hairpin business flourishing. And he’d noticed that even when she came home after a late evening church meeting, her hair always looked combed and pinned, as beautiful as it had been on their wedding day. “I’ll never know how a beautiful lass like you could have fallen for an old hayseed like me. Miracles never cease, now do they?”
Mary approached Will and put her arms around him, and with her head on his shoulder, she whispered in his ear, “You don’t know how sexy you looked in that suit when you were young and perky. Why, my heart did flip flops.”
Will pulled her tight against him, savored her every curve. “Wanta see how much perk I’ve got left?”
“Later, my dear.” Mary stepped away. “I’ve got a dress to show off.”
The sky was bright and cloudless, and a slight breeze cooled Will’s face. Wisconsin didn’t have many clear days, so Will took noticed when it happened. He hoped it signified a good day ahead.
Will didn’t push Fanny Too as he drove the eight miles to Willow. He didn’t want her lathered, because he’d not have the time, and the stable may not have the curry tools to properly rub her down. When, forty-five minutes later, they moseyed down Main Street, Will noticed the Midtown Waterin’ Hole. He quickly looked away and directed his attention to the boxes of food that rested alongside them in the buggy. “I wonder how many of our neighbors will have eaten Cornish food? Not many Cousin Jacks in Willow.” He stepped off the buggy, reached back for a box, and handed it to Mary. “You take the plums, scald cream, and saffron bread.” He lifted another box off the buggy floor. “I’ll carry the pasties. They’ll eat Cornish fare today, and they’ll love it, now won’t they?”
The grassy mall’s perimeter was lined with russet, dark brown, and gray colored tents. Women and a few men scurried about arranging utensils and laying out food on the tables inside each enclosure. Mary and Will approached a lady who seemed to be directing the traffic.
“Where would you like us to set up?” Mary asked.
The woman paused for a moment, scanned the tables, and, with a swooping motion that pointed nowhere, said, “Take any open spot.” Then she was on her way.
Will headed for a gray tent whose peak almost touched the branches of the oak tree above. “This looks as good as any.”
He took the pasties, which were wrapped in wax paper, from the box and placed them on a platter. Then he helped Mary set out a platter of saffron bread, the bowl of plums, and a pitcher of scald cream.
Mary busied herself talking to a lady who’d just placed her food at the far end of their table. With nothing more to do, Will told Mary that he’d be back for lunch and headed up the street. He nodded to a few people. He’d been so busy getting the farm started that the only neighbors he knew were the farmers he saw when he took his milk to the factory. If he wanted to meet his neighbors, he’d have to visit their trough. And by the sound of voices, he could tell that it was the Waterin’ Hole. Will stepped inside and sidled up to the bar. “A small beer, please.”
“A Mineral Springs do?”
“Unless you’ll sell your Jameson for a nickel.”
The bartender smiled. “You’re new in town, that’s for sure. Name’s Reilly, Colin Reilly.” He handed Will the beer.
Will dropped a nickel on the bar and offered his hand. “Will O’Shaughnessy.”
He stood with his back to the bar and inspected the room while he sipped at his brew. Four men argued at a table, their words heated at times. Will looked down the bar and saw a man slumped over his drink. He must have begun early.
One of the four men from the table ambled toward Will. “O’Shaughnessy, isn’t it? I’ve seen you at the cheese factory.” The man reached his hand forward. “I’m James Henning.”
Will had to crane his head upward to see a deeply tanned man with fetching blue eyes and straw-colored hair that sprouted from under an old gray cap. He took Henning’s hand. “Will O’Shaughnessy. Glad to meet you, Mr. Henning.”
Henning pointed to the table where the three men continued their heated discussion. “Will you join me and my friends?”
“Looks a bit violent. Is it safe?”
“They’re civilized men.” Henning waved his hand through the air. “They just get excited when government issues come up.”
Will sat down, his glass in hand. “Hello, gentlemen. I’m Will O’Shaughnessy. Up the river, on the Barnes farm.”
Henning motioned toward each in turn. “Saul McPherson, George Snell, Arnie Johnson. We all farm in Willow Township. Saul’s our town chairman.”
Saul was a plump, little man with a border of snow white hair and wire rimmed glasses that hooked his ears just in time to hang on his nose. He reminded Will of pictures he’d seen of one of his favorite patriots, John Adams. George Snell was tall and muscled, with a long brow and squared jaw. He looked rather dour to Will. Johnson looked as if he could use a few good meals, but his broad smile was so compelling that it drew Will’s attention away from a top so bald that it reflected light off his hatless head.
Will sipped his beer. “Mr. Henning tells me you’ve got government issues.”
“I heard about a new government program that I might try,” Arnie Johnson said. “Low interest. They don’t call the mortgage until crop’s in. And they’ll loan as much as I need.”
“If you meet their conditions,” Will said.
“What do you mean?” Snell said.
“Government money never comes cheap, not if you value your independence.”
“I need the money,” Johnson said. “It’s tough these days.”
“There may be a better way,” Will said.
“What’s that?” McPherson said.
“Cooperatives. They’re a way we can buy for less, sell for more, and get the money we need as well.”
“What do you know about cooperatives, O’Shaughnessy?” McPherson said.
“I’ve studied them a quite a bit. By working together we can avoid problems. There’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, fellas. You save lots of grief when you learn to plow ’round the stumps.”
“You got that right,” Henning said. “Here, I’ll buy another drink.”
Henning grabbed Will’s glass. “Whatta you drinkin’?”
“Take it easy, friend. I’m here with my wife.”
“Just one more, neighbor. Bartender, over here. Fill ’em up again.”
* * *
Two hours later, Will and his friends stumbled into the food tent. He knew that Mary wouldn’t be happy. There was no way around it, so he approached her directly. “Mary, meet our nagbors—Shak Hennig, Shawl Mcferoon, Yorge Schnell, and… Johnson. What’s yir frist name, Johnson?”
“Will, I’m ashamed of you. And gentlemen, although I have my doubts, I’d like to meet you but some other time.”
Mary turned and hurried back to the food table.
“I said she’d not be happsy.”
“That’s why I leave my wife at home,” McPherson said.
“Thatch why I don’t have a vife,” Henning said.
“Letch go back to the bar. More friendsly there,” Johnson said.
Will decided that black coffee should be his drink now, so he bid his new friends goodbye. He stopped at Jordy’s Ice Cream Parlor to buy a large cup of brew, and then he sat alone on a park bench, sipped at his coffee, and watched the people walk by. He continued to be surprised by how a small community could overflow when the farmers came to town. Will watched boys play kitten ball on the village green, and when he saw them erupt into a heated argument, he headed in their direction. “Boys, boys, what’s the problem here?”
A boy pointed at a bigger kid. “He hit my ball so hard that the stuffin’s coming out. “We can’t play with it anymore, not until my dad tapes it.”
“He’s just a spoil sport,” the bigger boy said. “That ol’ ball’ll take a lot more beatin’.”
“Hold on, boys,” Will said. “I think I can help.”
He pulled a roll of electrical tape from his inside pocket. “I keep this for emergencies, yes I do. I’ll fix the ball, but on one condition.”
A tall, older boy stared Will in the eye and then spat toward his feet. “Yeah?”
“If I fix your ball, you’ll let me play? I used to be a pretty good hitter. And I can pitch, too.”
“You play?” the tall boy said. “Didn’t I see you stagger out of Midtown awhile back? You’re just an old souse.”
Will offered his hand. “What’s your name, son?”
The boy refused to take it.
“Jack Hornking,” another said. “He’s our umpire.”
“Well, Jack, I’m Will O’Shaughnessy.”
“O’Shaughnessy? Ruby’s dad?”
“That’s right. Sharon, Ruby, and Catherine are my daughters.”
“She said you might have a job.”
“I’ll be needing help, but I can’t afford it now. Come see me next spring. I can use some help with my crops.”
“I s’pose you can play.”
Will wound the last strip of electrical tape around the ball. “There, that oughta hold it.”
He tossed the ball to Jack who rolled it between his fingers. “Kinda sticky, but guess it’ll do.” He threw the black laced orb to the mound. “Play ball.”
Will was assigned to the scrub team, the younger kids who didn’t play so well.
“Mr. O’Shaughnessy, I’m Billy O’Dell.” Billy reached out his hand. “I’m captain of this team. Will you pitch for us? Junior can’t get them out.”
“Why sure, Billy. I’ve pitched a bit over the years.”
“Scrubs, you’re at bat,” Hornking shouted. “Top of the order.”
Will gathered his team. “The third baseman’s playing too far back. Bunt the ball toward him until he moves in.”
Will’s strategy worked. The scrubs’ first three batters got on base, and Billy had designated Will as their clean-up hitter. He hoped that he could still hit a baseball like he could when he was younger.
“Strike one,” Jack called out.
The pitcher then threw two balls, just missed with the second pitch.
“That was a strike,” the pitcher shouted. “You just want a job.”
“Shut up and pitch,” Jack called back.
The pitcher wound up and threw a hard, fast one right down the middle of the plate. Will made solid contact, and by the time the ball bounced off a post and rolled away from the outfielder, Will was around second base. His third base coach shouted, “Go home. Go home.”
Will, now running low on fuel, should have known better, but his memory of better years outvoted his weary legs. So he rounded third toward home. With each step, his pace slowed, and when he looked up, the catcher stood tall, a grin on his face, the ball in his mitt. That’s when Will’s remembrance coaxed him into his second mistake. He’d slid under tags when he was young, so he hit the dirt, but before he stopped short of the plate, he heard an ominous ripping sound.
Billy O’Dell screamed, “He tore his trousers!”
Jack Hornking shouted, “You’re out.”
Will’s pitching kept his scrubs close. He threw fast balls that the older kids had difficulty hitting, and when they began to center on his pitch, he delivered a ball that was so slow, they almost hit it with their backswing.
“Wow,” Billy said, “it sure does fool them. Where’d you learn that?”
“Oh, that’s a pitch that Satchel Paige showed me.”
“Satchel Paige. Who’s he?” a short, fat boy said.
Another said, “Does he play for the Yankees?”
“No,” Will said. “He plays in the Negro leagues. He may be the best pitcher ever. He has so many pitches that he gives them all names—bat dodger, hurry-up ball, nothin’ ball, four day creeper. Other names, too.”
“Just an old nigger,” a thin, muscular boy said. “Can’t be as good as Lefty Grove.”
“Now just a minute, boy,” Will said as he sat down at the mound. “Negro players don’t get the chance to show it, but some may be as good, maybe better than, our major leaguers. Someday they’ll get that chance. Then we’ll see.”
“Just dumb niggers,” the thin boy persisted.
“Boys, I’ve studied farming all my life. I went to the University of Wisconsin and studied under Professor Babcock. You’ve heard of him.” Will pushed himself off the ground. “But I learned the most from Dr. Carver. When I was young, he was at Iowa State College of Agriculture, and later, I went south to meet him and learn about crops. A brilliant man.” Will tossed the ball to Jack. “And he’s a Negro. George Washington Carver. A scientist down in Alabama now. A place called Tuskegee Institute. You don’t want to be judging him by his color. It’s a small mind that’s weighed down by prejudices.”
“A black man scientist!” Billy exclaimed.
Before he left, Will called Jack Hornking over. “Jack, stop around. Maybe I can find some work for you.”
“Will you, Mr. O’Shaughnessy? I sure do need the money.”
When Will got back to the food tent, he couldn’t find Mary. He asked the few ladies who were still around, but at first no one could help him. He worried that something might have happened to her and was about to panic when someone grabbed his arm from behind. He whipped around and was greeted by a dour-faced old lady. “Are you Will O’Shaughnessy?”
“Well, yes, that’s me.”
“Your wife said to tell you that she went home.”
He looked down the street towards the livery where he had tethered Fanny Too earlier that day, but he didn’t see his buggy or any sign of Mary.
“And I must tell you, sir, she was none too happy.”
“She doesn’t drive the rig.” Will felt a bit sheepish. “Left without me?”
“Sure did. Didn’t have much trouble either. She got the stableman to hitch her horse, climbed in the buggy, and that old horse took off might smartly. I don’t think that horse wanted to rile her either.”
“But… it’s eight miles home. I’ll have to walk.”
“Kinda looks that way, doesn’t it? You better get started if you want to get there before dark.”
Will stumbled along, his knees and back sorer by the minute. This was not like Mary. She must be awfully riled up. He kicked dust with every step, and it didn’t flow away like the ribbon of powder behind his buggy. It billowed around him and before long he felt the grit in his shoes and the filth creep upward under his pant legs. He felt as if he’d spent the day plowing ground in a dry field. Will pulled his hanky and mopped filth and sweat from his face. His mouth was dry as the Sahara and his body felt drained long before he turned into his driveway.
When he stumbled into the yard, nearly three hours later, Fanny Too stood in front of the house, still hitched to the buggy.
Will dropped the rigging, grabbed the lead, and walked Fanny Too toward the barn. He opened the gate and guided her into her stall. “I suppose Mary thinks this day was a complete disaster.” He guided her to the feed bin and poured a scoop of oats. “It wasn’t good, that’s for sure, but it wasn’t a complete disaster, was it, old girl? I think those boys learned something today.” He looked down at his dusty shoes and torn trousers. “I don’t suppose I look very sexy right now, so I don’t guess I’ll be showing any perk tonight.”