The Lumby Lines
Moose Milk to Nourish Town
BY SCOTT STEVENS June 21
In an effort to strengthen the sluggish produce economy in Lumby, the Lumby Active Farmers Association, LAFA, has voted to invest the club’s savings to buy one female moose from Red Rock Ranch, Anchorage, Alaska, and begin processing moose milk into moose cheese.
“It’s pretty good if you eat it right out of the ice box,” David Hopwood, LAFA president, said in an in-depth interview this afternoon. When asked if there was a market for moose cheese, David responded, “We’re not sure about that, but if it’s an acquired taste thing, it might take a while to catch on.”
Moose milk contains 12–14% fat and 10–12% protein. A moose takes up to two hours a day to milk, and produces about two cups on a good morning.
The moose will be kept at Hopwood’s Dairy Farm out on Fulton Avenue. Anyone is welcome to come by and visit.
Visitors who drive through Lumby with no reason to stop never notice one of the town’s prime oddities: many of the town’s businesses reside on second floors. The locations of the stores as well as their respective entrances are learned rather than found on any map, even those printed by the Chatham Press. For that reason, the residents of the town are healthier than most, having to climb numerous staircases to complete simple tasks. But the quirkiness of it all clearly outweighs the inconvenience of it all.
The post office occupies the second floor of the police station, with its own entrance on Farm to Market Road. Prior to taking permanent residence there, the Lumby P.O., which had to fight to be assigned its own zip code, was originally located down the road in The Feed Store, as were most services in town during the first part of the century. From there, it moved to the back corner of Brad’s Hardware, where it stayed for twenty-two untroubled years until space ran short as the store’s inventory grew. Having no other place to go, the post office returned to The Feed Store for a brief revisit, and then finally settled into its current location overlooking the main intersection in town, well protected by those who occupy the first floor.
Its original home, The Feed Store, is arguably the oldest building in town: a crooked wood structure that has weathered a hundred years and two fires and sells most everything a farmer wants or needs: horse and goat feed, hay, shavings, wood-burning stoves, muck shovels, Wellington boots, fly strips, an assortment of young poultry and fowl, as well as, every so often, small livestock. The walls of The Feed Store are covered by yellowed public notices and bulletins from the early twenties onward: a small “Vote Harding” billboard is partially covered by a larger “Vote Coolidge” poster, someone advertising a new Model T Ford for $465, and Rob Johnson selling chickens—a dozen for a nickel. The walls not only encompass Lumby’s history, but span much of our country’s past as well, and one could spend hours just looking at all of the notes with the ink well faded, article clippings on browned newsprint and posters with curled, crusty edges.
Above the store’s main barn, which holds all the feed, hay and livestock, is the town’s only movie theater. Originally used as a makeshift vaudeville stage, and then converted into a loosely run casino, the space was finally reconstructed fifteen years ago to accommodate a forty-seven-seat theater with enough room in back for three rows of benches for those who could only afford to pay half price for a ticket.
The theater’s location works well as long as the animals directly below remain quiet, but most residents would reluctantly admit that some movies have been ruined by an ill-timed bellowing moo or squawk, or the persistent clucking of chickens. Because of that, one always goes to the movies with a sense of apprehension, which might explain the theater’s policy allowing its patrons to bring in both food and alcohol.
Back toward the center of town is one of Lumby’s newer buildings: the small town hall. On its second floor is the local library, which at one time served, statistically, more canine than human visitors. The reason for this, although it’s more a who than a what, was Charlotte Ross, the library’s primary silent benefactor and possibly the town’s most voracious reader.
Charlotte would visit the library daily, and on occasion, twice daily. Each morning shortly after the doors opened, Charlotte would slowly climb the stairs with a cup of Dickenson’s coffee in one hand and three dog leashes attached to three small dogs in the other. Once in the library, she would take her usual seat at the large oak reading table well positioned against the north wall, where there are plenty of windows overlooking Main Street. For the following hour she would read several newspapers, always beginning with the New York Times and always ending with The Washington Post. On Mondays her routine would vary slightly as she added several weeklies, such as Barron’s and The Lumby Lines, to her reading list.
If one asked Charlotte why she came to this place each morning, she would answer: the smell. She loved the smell of the library, the smell of old ink on old paper, of leather-bound books, of the shelves that have been varnished and polished with different oils over the years. It made her feel less old.
Equally important, at the time the library allowed dogs. So when Charlotte visited, the librarian recorded, morning after morning, one person–three dogs, or on occasion, one person–four dogs when a small stray followed her inside. Likewise, most other visitors brought their pets, so it was easy to see how the final tally showed the unlikely dog to human visitor ratio, which clearly didn’t rest well with the state administrators responsible for allocating funds for public libraries.
The Monday morning of the “Chile meeting,” as it was called thereafter, started no differently. Charlotte sat in the library and turned the back pages of the Post.
“Good morning, Charlotte,” Gabrielle said warmly as she walked up to her table and put her hand on the woman’s thin shoulder.
“Oh, Gabrielle, how nice to see you. What brings you to the library today?”
“Chipotle.”
“Excuse me?”
“I was asked to write a column for The Lumby Lines and needed to do some research on the chile pepper.”
“Oh, very good for business,” Charlotte said, nodding her head. “Free advertising—nothing to sneeze at.”
“No, but chipotle certainly is,” Gabrielle joked. “I’m just about done here. How would you like to join me for a cup of coffee at the restaurant?”
Charlotte grinned broadly at that offer and lifted herself out of her chair, pulled together her dogs and belongings, and both women set off arm in arm. Walking down Main Street, they stopped in front of Wools and assessed the sale items in the window.
Wools was first built in 1936 as the smallest Woolworth’s Five and Dime in the country, and it kept that status even after its major expansion in the early forties. Had it not been for the fact that one of F. W. Woolworth’s senior executives owned a vacation home by Woodrow Lake and did his shopping in town, Lumby would never have been considered as a potential store location. But rules are broken, and although the store never showed a profit in its forty years, it served the town well. The residents of Lumby would always have fond memories of the Formica lunch counter, the spinning stools, and best of all, the ice cream soda floats. When Woolworth finally closed six weeks to the day after the vacationing executive retired, the store was bought by a local resident, Orland Whistler, who shortened its name to Wools and began to sell only clothes.
It was easy to know the store’s specials: one need only look at the people of Lumby, who one season wore red parkas and lined duck boots, and another, pink sweaters and yellow flip-flops. Excess inventory served the town well, and Wools, over the years, had become a profitable business.
As Charlotte and Gabrielle crossed the street, they saw William Beezer, hunched over, walking into the Chatham Press.
“So, has any of the ice melted between William and your husband?” Charlotte asked.
Gabrielle shook her head. “No, they never talk. It amazes me that they are so similar in some ways but extreme opposites in others. The few times I’ve suggested a reconciliation, Dennis just ignores it the way he does his father.” She glanced back at the building. “The children and I see his mother and brother on occasion—visits that I’m sure William knows nothing about. She so loves playing with her youngest grandson.”
They entered the restaurant and took their regular seats at the table in back. Charlotte asked, “And how is your oldest doing?”
“At odds with the world, especially us, right now. Brian is such a handful,” she confessed, partially throwing up her arms.
“He’ll eventually mature,” Charlotte said encouragingly.
“You sound like Dennis. But he and his buddy, Terry McGuire, have a recklessness that just scares me.”
At that moment, little Timmy came running through the door with his babysitter right behind. Once she saw that her young charge was in safe hands, sitting on his mom’s lap, she waved and then left.
As Charlotte continued to sip her coffee, Gabrielle began cutting up fresh vegetables for the lunch meals, and the room began to smell of sweet onions and green peppers.
Gabrielle looked at Charlotte fondly. “I owe you a lot.”
“For what?” Charlotte asked, looking up at her.
“You not only financed this restaurant, but you were one of the very few who truly welcomed me when we first arrived. Back then I stood out like a sore thumb, and it was painfully obvious that the townspeople didn’t like outsiders.”
“They still don’t, but they’re getting better.” Charlotte put down her cup. “But it’s really I who should thank you. The Green Chile has always shown a good profit.”
“It’s been fun.”
“That’s why you’ve been so successful,” Charlotte said. “In fact, Gabrielle, I think it’s time you become the sole owner.”
“Oh, don’t say that! I need your guidance. What would I ever do without you as my partner? I don’t trust anyone else to test my crazy recipes. Further, I could never afford it.”
“Money would not be an issue, I guarantee you that. And you’ll always have my opinion. But I am old, and we need to be realistic—we need to prepare,” Charlotte said, spreading her thin hands out on the tablecloth.
“No, I don’t want to talk about it,” Gabrielle said firmly. She knew where the conversation was going, and the thought of someday not having Charlotte around was too much for her to bear. “The Green Chile is ours, and that’s that.” To further emphasize her point, Gabrielle slammed a large butcher knife down onto the chopping block, making a cracking sound that reverberated throughout the restaurant.
“We’ll discuss it some more later,” was all Charlotte said.
Two workers entered through the rear entrance and began helping Gabrielle in the kitchen. Rich hot aromas filled the air. The restaurant opened, and customers came in and took the front tables by the window.
“Speaking of your role as tester extraordinaire, would you let me know what you think of this?” Gabrielle placed a large dish in front of Charlotte. It smelled exquisite.
“Ummm. What is it?” Charlotte asked, eyeing the delicious-looking food.
“Buffalo and green chile chimichanga covered with a spiced mango sauce,” she said proudly.
Looking over her shoulder, she saw Jimmy D walk in with Brad, who immediately noticed a loose hinge on the front door. “Gab, do you want me to fix that?”
“If you would, when it’s convenient. Do you gentlemen want Coronas with limes today?”
“Perfect,” Jimmy said, taking one of the front tables as well.
By twelve-thirty, the only Mexican eatery in town was filled once again with talking and laughter. More patrons came in, some paid their checks and left—a regular day all in all. Until a dump truck that had turned the corner from Farm to Market onto Old 41 backfired three times and came to an abrupt, smoky stop directly in front of The Green Chile. The noise startled everyone, and soon the smell began to seep into the restaurant. From the bottom of the truck, black ooze trickled onto the asphalt.
“This is exactly what I was talking about,” Brad said loudly, to be heard by all. “That dump truck is from Montis Abbey, and now it’s going to screw up traffic all day and mess up our roads for weeks.”
“It’s not the abbey’s fault,” a man, who obviously knew Brad, voiced from the other side of the room. “Blame it on the hauler. He should’ve taken Mineral around town.”
“The Montis folks should have told him that. It’s their trash, and their responsibility for how it gets to the landfill,” another man barked out, supporting Brad.
“They probably assumed that the driver wouldn’t go through the center of town,” Cantor said, having just walked in. He was followed by Mackenzie McGuire, who joined Charlotte at her table.
“Do you want some? A new recipe.” Charlotte winked.
“And I heard they bought a bunch of lumber from Rocky Mount. They don’t even bother going to Lumby Lumber,” Brad told the crowd.
“Actually,” Mackenzie interrupted, “I was the one who bought that lumber for them. Our own mill was out of six-by-sixes.”
Outside, the crowd was still growing. Scott Stevens, who had been in the Chatham Press building when he heard the truck implode, walked around the truck asking the driver a series of questions and interviewing onlookers. By the time Simon Dixon arrived and put up flares, the spectators had grown to nearly fifty, many of whom had flowed into The Green Chile after the initial excitement abated.
Soon, a dozen more had joined the Montis debate. Gabrielle realized that an impromptu town meeting was taking place in her small restaurant.
The heated differences of opinion continued.
“And William Beezer’s going to force them to stop work. They never even applied for a town business license,” yet another man stated.
A few worried “ohs” were heard through the crowd.
“And I hear they don’t have the building permits they need,” Brad said accusingly.
“Mac, you’re there every day. Is that true?” Jimmy asked.
“No, that’s not true. They have all of their permits. In fact, they’re consistently over building,” she answered.
“What’s that?” someone asked.
“Going beyond what the code requires,” Mackenzie clarified.
“Well, that’s a good thing!” someone else spoke out.
“So why is Beezer suing ’em?”
Scott Stevens, who had taken a seat in the corner when the crowd moved indoors, stood up. “Actually, he may not.”
“How come?” Brad asked.
“It appears that the Walkers, the owners of the abbey, have done what’s necessary as far as their restoration project. However, they’ll have plenty to deal with from Mr. Beezer and the town council if they try to open an unlicensed business within the township of Lumby. Mr. Beezer said that bridge will be crossed soon enough.”
More “ahs” from the crowd.
Charlotte stood up as if to go, but then turned and faced the group. “May I say one thing?” she said in her weak but determined voice. “I don’t know the Walkers. Don’t know if they were the right people to have bought Montis. But it wasn’t ours to sell, so there you have it. What they do with their own property is their business. What matters to me is if they are good, honest folks who will care for our town and its residents as much as we do. And that’s still to be seen. They’ve done me no harm…no good, but no harm either. So I think I’ll wait a bit before passing judgment.”
With that said, Charlotte sat down and continued eating the delicious chimichanga.