part0006

SPRING had drifted into summer, and Bert had been busy writing, keeping up with current news. Dillinger had been shot and killed by police while leaving a movie; “Manhattan Melodrama” ironically. There was a suspect in the Lindbergh’s baby’s kidnapping; which had captured everyone’s attention.

Elsewhere in the world, the events taking place were of an evil and profoundly historical nature. The affects would be long-lasting and widely-reaching; far outlasting the current devastation of the Depression.

German President Paul von Hindenburg had died, leaving Chancellor Adolf Hitler to become the absolute dictator. The German army took an oath of allegiance and began to dismantle the few remnants of the democratic government. Hitler, who had only become the Chancellor by arresting and executing his political opponents, was now in charge of an entire government and a powerful army, all loyal to the National Socialist German Workers Party; shortened to NAZI. Adolph Hitler blamed German communists, Jews and the democratic government for their defeat in World War I. This was his reasoning for promoting his socialist agenda, and for his hatred of the Jewish people.

Many Americans considered the United States a mere spectator of these happenings far across the world. Some wondered if this was the beginning of something much larger and more destructive than they could even imagine. Was this simply a man with a strong political opinion giving charismatic speeches to his people? Many believed Hitler would lead his country and possibly the world into a bloody, vicious war…eventually.

Bert hated that he could see the proverbial “writing on the wall.” He always had a notion about people and things that he couldn’t explain other than intuition, and his decade of working as a journalist had heightened his instincts. Something told him that this relatively small story about the new Fuhrer of Germany was not something to ignore.

Even still, he had more articles to write, deadlines to meet, and a red-in-the-face boss breathing down his neck to get a scoop worthy of a headline. And, on a happier note, he had something to look forward to…another date with Doris. They had been going out a couple times a week for the past few months, and he still looked forward to seeing her as much or more than he did that first night they met at the theater.

Realizing he had a lot of work to get done before he could call it a day, Bert settled in at his desk, inserted paper into his typewriter, and sat there staring at a blank page. A minute passed before he cleared his thoughts enough to focus on the article he was to write. “ German Chancellor Hitler becomes Dictator ,” he began typing. And with those first words on the page, he wrote straight through ‘til quitting time.

At the Crawford farm, everyone was busy. Eggs were being gathered, summer squash was harvested, pigs were given fresh water. Fred was getting the mule from the corral when he heard a strange sound. The noise kept repeating and was then accompanied by a man’s voice, sounding angry. Fred pulled the mule behind him and walked down the hill. As he neared the creek at the bottom, he saw Mr. Chandler standing calf-high in mud next to his pickup truck. He had gotten his truck trapped in the mud, and each time he had tried to keep driving through, it had just got him all the more stuck .

“The creek was overflowin’ last week and now the whole road is mud,” he explained to Mr. Chandler, who turned and looked at him with exasperation.

How had he missed seeing her? She leaned her head out the window and gave him a big smile. Fred’s heart practically skipped a beat, and he frantically tried to think of a plan to prevent her from having to walk in all the muck. He remembered some old boards had been left near the chicken house, and he called out to his brother Sam to fetch them.

Once retrieved, they laid the boards near the door of the truck and he held Margaret’s hand as she carefully balanced herself and walked onto the hillside. She stood back and watched as they placed the boards under the tires and hitched the mule to the truck to help pull. Together, the men managed to get the truck out of the mud and onto the other side of the road.

Mr. Chandler shook Fred’s hand, “Much obliged. You Crawford boys are good people. Your momma and daddy are raisin’ you right. ”

Fred used this moment to his advantage, “Yes, Sir, our parents do right by us. And, I’d like to do right by you and Margaret. I’d like your permission to ask her out on a date.”

He studied Mr. Chandler’s face for an indication of his feelings on this subject, but his expression was emotionless and perfectly still. It felt like minutes were passing, though it was mere seconds, when Mr. Chandler finally spoke.

“Oh, yes, Sir, I know that.” He gazed over at Margaret who quickly began to examine her surroundings, the buttons on her dress, anything but look back at him.

Looking at his feet and ringing his hands, Fred asked, “Would you want to go on a date sometime? Maybe get ice cream or somethin’?”

“That’ll be fine.” She smiled and swiftly walked to her father and joined him in the truck. As they drove away, she leaned out the window and gave a little wave.

Friday afternoon, Fred rushed through his chores like a house on fire. His father even commented that he had never seen the boy move so fast in all his life. Normally, baths were reserved for Saturdays (they washed with a rag each night), but Fred went ahead with his bath and put on his Sunday clothes his momma had prepared for him. He dressed in a pair of black dress pants that were about half an inch too short, a button up white shirt with a grey tie, and hand-me-down dress shoes from an older half-brother that he spit-polished as best he could.

Fred walked the two miles to Margaret’s house in record time. Her father met him at the door and reminded him of curfew. When Margaret stepped out onto the porch, Fred caught his breath. She was a vision in a baby blue floral dress with a lace collar. They walked side by side, without touching or being too close.

It was about two miles to Pop’s Soda Shoppe which sold Kay’s ice cream, a local favorite. They stepped inside, and Fred nervously checked his pocket for the money he had earned during the week doing odd jobs for neighbors and kin.

“You ain’t plain. You’re the prettiest girl I ever laid eyes on.” His voice cracked as he spoke, but he kept his composure and gave her a wink while ordering his own scoop of vanilla.

The two of them sat at the counter on wobbly wooden stools, ate their ice cream and talked about everything under the sun. The chores they hated the most. The song they liked best. They even discussed which lady of the church made the best pies for dinner on the grounds.

At one point in their conversation, Margaret’s ice cream dripped on her chin, and Fred picked up a napkin and gently cleaned her face. She blushed, but this time she didn’t look away. She gazed right into his eyes. He thought he might faint. The rest of their evening was filled with laughter and those eye-to-eye moments that make one’s heart race and palms sweat.

Dogwood Alley found itself in a traditional autumn. Mid-October and leaves had turned, and the temperatures had dropped. Some of the needy families in the area were struggling to keep their homes and their children warm.

One such family, the Fair’s, had newborn twins that were born earlier than their expected arrival date. A boy and a girl, they each weighed around four pounds, and the cool night air was hazardous. Their mother, Carolyn, would swaddle them tight and place them each in a shoe box. Then, having let the fire in the coal-burning stove die-out; she would open the stove, and place the shoe boxes with the babies on the oven door. The heat from the stove would help to keep the babies warm for at least a little while. Unfortunately, their supply of coal was running critically low.

In fact, several families living around the Crawford farm were in need of coal for their stoves. Fred and his brother Henry got an idea to help their neighbors; so one Saturday morning, extra early, they packed up biscuits and a small piece of cured ham, and headed into the woods. They hiked several miles through white pines, dogwoods and birch and chestnut trees; waded through Beaver Creek, and finally came to a clearing atop a small hill. That’s when they heard the familiar whistle and chugging of a nearby train.

The boys ran down the hill and reached the train tracks just as the train began to slow for its passage through town. Running towards the caboose, they waved at the engineer as they passed, and then waited ‘til the train slowed to nearly walking speed. Having eaten their snack while hiking, they each now held two empty feed sacks in their hands.

One at a time, they climbed onto the train and held on to the ladder of the coal car. Fred started up the ladder, but the train car suddenly shook and he lost his footing. He held on tight as his feet dangled in the air. Once the train steadied, he got his feet back onto the ladder and made his way to the top with Henry right behind him.

By this time, some neighbor children had gathered near the tracks as it was custom to pick up coal that fell from the train as it passed by. This time, the coal had a little help. Fred and Henry not only filled their sacks with coal, but threw coal down off the train for the children to gather and take back to their families.

Little boys stuffed their pockets with chunks of coal, and little girls took off their shoes and filled them to carry home; tying the shoe strings together and wearing the coal-laden shoes around their necks. With their feed sacks now full, the brothers climbed down and jumped from the coal car, rolling down the hillside before planting their heavy boots into the soil to stop themselves. A few scrapes and bruises, but no major injuries; they carried the coal back to Dogwood Alley to distribute it to those in need.

Thanksgiving was fast approaching, and Bert was looking forward to dinner with Doris and her parents. He was driving her to Chattanooga next week to be with her family for the holiday. He had just left the newspaper office, and was walking to Kimball’s Jewelers on Gay Street.

Kimball’s began, originally, in the 1870’s as Hope Brothers Jewelers, and just recently re-opened with the Kimball name. Bert had picked out a small opal ring set with two very small diamonds in yellow gold. Doris’ birthstone was opal, as she was born in October, and he noticed her fondness for her opal earrings her grandmother had given her. He paused at the store’s door, took a deep breath, and walked inside.

Mr. Kimball had been assisting Bert the past few weeks, showing him various stones and settings to ensure he got just the right one for Doris.

Mr. Kimball clapped his hands and smiled so big his round cheeks puffed out red and his eyes practically disappeared. He met Bert at the display counter, and pulled out a white celluloid box with a soft satin interior. Then, he placed the opal ring into the box and offered it to Bert for inspection. He looked a little concerned.

“Then she’ll love the ring! This ring tells her you love her, too, and you want to be together forever. What girl wouldn’t love a ring that says that?”

Bert and Doris started their long journey to Chattanooga promptly at nine a.m., with a picnic basket full of fruit, cheese and Fritos Potato Chips. Bert had first tried the chips just the day before, and found them to be addictive. Doris had made tea and lemonade to fill her and Bert’s Thermos bottles for the trip. They ate, chatted, and Doris even napped a bit.

At the Gulf station, the attendants set to filling the car with gas and checking the tires while Bert and Doris walked around. The couple held hands and observed the fastidious work of the attendants; then surveyed the wonders of the new oval lights atop the gas pumps with the orange and blue Gulf logo. The entire station was pristine, and seemed to have recently opened for business.

The wind was picking up, and it was cold enough that Doris fastened her double-breasted, brown wool coat, and lifted up the collar to shield her neck. Bert had to grab his Fedora to keep it from blowing away. Thankfully, the car was ready, and they could get back on the road.

The weather stayed cool and windy without rain or snow. For this, the couple was sincerely grateful. Bert’s Buick was loaded with luggage, his typewriter, cakes Doris had baked for her aunt and uncle, and two blankets for keeping warm in the car if the temperature continued to drop. They arrived at her parent’s house just after noon. It was sunny, and a little warmer than Knoxville had been when they left that morning. Doris’ mother ran out to greet them.

“So nice to meet you, Bert. Doris has told me all about you. You two come on inside. Your father will be back in just a minute. He went to check on Mr. Lauderdale. He’s nearing eighty, you know.”

Bert and Doris loaded their arms with bags and followed her mother who was talked about poor Mr. Lauderdale and his latest ailments all while leading them up the walkway, through the door and down the hall. They reached two neighboring bedrooms when Mrs. Weston paused mid-sentence of a tale about Mr. Lauderdale’s arthritis just long enough to point Bert towards one room and Doris towards the other.

Once they had each unpacked and changed clothes, everyone met in the living room. Mr. Weston had arrived and was carefully stoking the fire in the fireplace. He was a man of average height with graying hair and glasses; rather academic looking which could be expected of a college mathematics instructor. He was also an avid reader, which happened to make Bert a little nervous. Readers of classic literature did not often appreciate the skills of a newspaper journalist.

Mr. Weston turned from the fireplace, and noticing Bert standing in the doorway, began to walk towards him. Bert watched as he picked up a book from the coffee table on his way over.

“Excellent writer,” Mr. Weston continued, “This novel is Light in August , published a couple of years ago. I bring him up for a reason, Bert. First of all, he was born in New Albany, Mississippi; which, if Doris told me correctly, is where you were born.”

“Sorry to hear it.” He said then he paused for a moment. “The other reason I mention Faulkner is because he’s selling quite a lot of books, and is becoming a popular writer. Some think he will have a very successful career.”

“My point is, son, that William Faulkner was just as talented a writer when he published in a college newspaper as he was when he wrote this novel. But, only now is he finding success. Why? Because when a man discovers his talents, hones his skills, and works hard to make a career of it; well, that is true success. Don’t you think?”

Bert sighed in relief, “Yes, Sir. My father, a mechanic, always encouraged my writing; and for that, I’m very thankful. I feel I am providing a service to my city by writing for the newspaper. I share with our readers, information about events both local and worldwide that they might not hear about otherwise. And, I’m able to give people a voice by sharing their stories and insights. I’m very proud to be a journalist.”

Bert was afraid he had spoken too defensively, but Mr. Weston seemed quite pleased with Bert (and his career choice). The men spent a few moments sharing stories, telling jokes, and enjoying cigars before the women appeared ready to discuss plans for the following day.

“Father and I want to take you two to Rock City tomorrow. It’s this place that opened just a few years ago, not too far from here. They have the loveliest gardens, interesting statuary, and a waterfall!” Mrs. Weston was so animated when she spoke that Bert almost felt motion sick.

Doris looked at Bert questioningly, but he just gave her an innocent smile. Only he and her father knew all the plans made for Rock City.

The next morning, the four of them headed out to Rock City. Though it was just eight miles from where they lived in Chattanooga, the park was actually located in Stone Mountain, Georgia. On the short drive there, they passed a farm with a large red barn. On it the words, “See Rock City” had been painted in giant white letters. According to Mr. Weston, a Mr. Clark Byers had been hired to travel around the region and offer to paint barns in return for permission to paint the Rock City advertisement on them. It was apparently an ingenious marketing tool as travelers reported seeing more and more barns along major roadways inviting them to the park.

Once they arrived, Bert took a pamphlet from a young woman who was greeting guests at the gates. It told of how the park came to be, about the trails with the fairy statues, the point at which you could see “seven states” (though Bert didn’t believe that), and the waterfall at Lover’s Leap. Bert’s heart skipped a beat.

Mr. Weston bought the tickets, and the group embarked on their journey through the trails. They meandered through wooded pathways with little quaint buildings and gnomes, and past statues of fairies frolicking in the forest. Visitors had to squeeze through narrow trails between high rock walls, and cross a suspended bridge over a deep gorge. It was scenic and felt almost adventurous.

It was cold and windy, but no one seemed to notice. Everyone was enjoying themselves, and Bert was relishing watching Doris as she admired the vistas and laughed with her family. He had completely relaxed until he saw the sign: Lover’s Leap. Mr. Weston noticed the sign, too.

“Uh...you know what? I think I dropped my handkerchief back at the dwarfs with the mushroom house or something like that. Honey, come with me, and we’ll let Bert and Doris go on ahead.”

Bert took Doris by the hand, and they walked to the edge of the viewing area. Just below them was a gorgeous hundred-foot high waterfall. Doris was taking in the view, leaning against the railing. Bert stepped up behind her, wrapped her in his arms and leaned in to kiss her cheek. She blushed and grinned, and turned to meet his gaze. As she did, Bert reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the small white box and placed it in her hand. Doris opened it and gasped.

In his average, and remarkably steady voice, Bert began to quietly sing, “Days may not be fair always, that's when I’ll be there always. Not for just an hour.
Not for just a day. Not for just a year, but always .

“We watched the whole thing from over there! Beautiful! I just can’t believe it!” Mrs. Weston gushed then took a deep breath before rattling off all that needed to be done to prepare for the wedding. Her hands were flying every which way, and once again she nearly made Bert motion sick. Luckily, Mr. Weston handed him a cigar and the two of them walked slowly behind their ladies all the way back to the car.