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The morning showers all but forgotten, Kate walked the distance from her office to Connarde Realty, a narrow storefront office on Commercial Street across and down the street from the paper. Marge Connarde, an active member of the Branson Chamber of Commerce, had been chairman of the annual crafts festival for the past fifteen years. A table in her storeroom served as headquarters for the organizers.
Marge struggled with a display easel on the sidewalk in front of the door. Brochures, posters and other paraphernalia were stacked nearby under the awning. Her tailored business suit flattered her petite figure while lending an air of authority uncommon for such a small woman. Amazingly, the red ensemble complimented, rather than clashed with, her strawberry blond Farrah Fawcett styled hair. Somewhere in her mid-fifties, Marge’s attitude, dress, and actions were those of a woman fifteen years younger.
“Well, Katie Starling. How are you? How’s your dad? Still as feisty as ever?”
“We’re fine,” Kate said when the woman took a breath. “Can I help with that?” Kate held the back legs steady as Marge adjusted the front, snapping two narrow shelves into place.
“Thanks. You know, I missed Roger at church Sunday. Nothing wrong, I hope.”
“Touch of a cold, probably.”
“I’ll take him some of my chicken soup.”
“That would be nice,” Kate said.
The woman, twelve-thirteen years his junior, had been infatuated with Roger for as long as Kate could remember, maybe even before Kate’s mother died. Definitely before Marge’s husband ran off with his secretary almost twelve years ago. The realtor squared two posters and several bundles of brochures on the display, then stepped back to inspect her work.
“Perfect. What do you think?”
In the larger poster, three-man kiosks of canvas, wood, and colorful fabric lined Commercial Street from Main Street to the post office. People—presumably paying tourists—crowded the streets and browsed at each crafts display.
“I don’t remember as many booths last year. Nor as many visitors.”
“This is an artist’s concept, dear. You know what that means. Nothing ever quite turns out the way one conceives, does it?” She collected the extra brochures and savored one final review of the display.
Kate followed Marge into the office and greeted the three women working around the table in the back room. None of them was old enough to be the lady who began the Branson Crafts Fair forty years ago.
“I’m Kate Starling with Tri-Lakes News. Will Henrietta Stupholds be in today?”
“Etta,” one of the volunteers corrected.
Another lady quickly added, “She prefers to be called Etta.”
After a brief pause, the third member of the group said, “Etta’s ride had something to do in Springfield. Doesn’t own a car herself anymore. Gave it up two years ago. Remember Marge? It was right after that little accident the day of her eighty-fourth birthday party.”
The four women laughed as if sharing a delectable secret.
“Guess I’ll try her at home,” Kate said, turning to leave.
“Tell your father I’ll be over later,” Marge yelled from the other side of the office.
“I’ll tell him.” Kate said, imagining Marge and her father slurping soup together.
Henrietta Stupholds lived about two miles north and west of downtown Branson. According to Kate’s father, who had worked for Stupholds as a boy, the octogenarian had resided in the house most of her life.
The steel shell for Branson’s newest shopping strip loomed several hundred feet back on the left, far from State Highway 248’s edge and about halfway to the turn off. Behind and above it, on the ridge, construction was almost complete for the new elementary school. From that point, however, properties were vacant or modestly occupied. Now that Branson city limits encompassed some of the area, empty spaces along the soon-to-be-widened road would be consumed quickly, Kate mused.
Giant oaks and cedars surrounded a robin-egg blue ranch-style house centered neatly on several acres of land. Upon closer inspection, the various additions to the structure were obvious. The roof on the central, possibly original, portion was slightly higher than either side roof. A veranda tied it all together, spanning the full length of the building.
A garage, too narrow for modern cars, stood—albeit barely—at the end of the long gravel drive. Kate parked between it and the house in the shade of an ancient sugar maple.
The white banister hit the older woman slightly above the waist as she stopped the rocker and came to her feet. She seemed small and fragile, even more so engulfed by the broad porch. Her silver hair was pulled away from her face and gathered in the back. She wore dark slacks and a Kelly-green sweatshirt, across which was written, “My soul is six feet tall.”
“Welcome! I didn’t expect you so soon.”
“Called from the phone in my car.”
Her blue eyes twinkled. “Isn’t that something? Never cease to marvel at today’s technology.” She extended a hand toward Kate. “Good to meet you. I’ve read your articles. You’ve got moxie.”
“Thanks,” Kate said, embarrassed she knew so little about the subject of her interview.
“Let’s go in. Seems a trifle cool this morning.” A silver braid trailed to the center of her back, above the words, “Great things come in small packages.”
An archway separated the entry hall and the living room where the sunlight filtered through a single double-hung window. The faint musty odor reminded Kate of her grandmother’s house. She settled onto a sofa across from a well-worn and faded blue recliner. An old console television snuggled in the corner. Built-in shelves ran the length of one wall, and a narrow fireplace and hearth were centered on another. A walnut end table next to the sofa and a small round lamp table next to the recliner were the remaining pieces of furniture in the crowded room.
“I appreciate your letting me come to your home, Mrs. Stupholds,” Kate said.
“Please, call me Etta. Haven’t answered to anything else for as long as I can remember. Would you like some coffee? Or something else to drink?”
“No, thanks,” Kate said, eager to get back to the mystery on the lot.
Etta eased onto the recliner, swinging her braid forward so it rested on her chest.
Photographs cluttered the walls, shelves, and mantel above the fireplace. Most were black and whites and very old. A vast collection of decorated boxes and miniature cedar chests were scattered among the pictures.
“Your house is so ...”
“Snug?” Etta said when Kate hesitated.
“Cozy,” the reporter countered with a smile.
“This is the part my husband Clay built in 1932. We’d been married eight years. We started with this room, the kitchen, and our bedroom, which is smaller than this, if you can imagine. Use it for a walk-in closet now.”
Kate chuckled. “Did he add the other rooms right away?”
“Some, but I finished the last of it in 1957.”
Kate studied a handcrafted cedar box on the table next to the sofa. A brass clasp, shaped like a key, secured the lid in place.
“I bet each one has a story.”
Etta shrugged. “Maybe, but I don’t remember any of them. Some I’ve had since I was a little girl. Sarah refuses to dust any of them.”
“Sarah?”
“She’s the fine soul who takes care of this old woman.”
Kate bet the old woman could take care of herself. Even in the few minutes she’d known her, Etta seemed quite capable and physically able despite her age.
“I took care of Sarah when she was young. She’s married with grown children now. She helps around the house, buys my groceries, and hauls me around town. I don’t drive anymore, you know. Safer for everyone on the road.”
“You’re fortunate to have someone close you can trust.”
“Yes. I guess so. Tend to take it for granted, don’t we?”
The reporter held up a small tape recorder. “Do you mind if I use this, Etta? I’ll make notes, but I like to have direct quotes too.”
“Won’t bother me a bit. But I’m not sure I’ve done anything worth writing about.”
Kate tended to agree. Still, a good feature article, especially one of a personal nature, appealed to readers. And this woman had no doubt lived an interesting and active life.
“People in this area and even visitors to Branson are interested in how things started and evolved to today’s world. The paper is doing a special insert for the fortieth anniversary of the crafts fair. My editor wants to include something about the person who started it.”
“I had an idea, that’s all. My friends and I had fun exchanging our homemade items. I wanted to expand our little gathering to include the tourists who came to fish each fall. I hoped we could make a little money to last through the winter.”
“That may be how it started. But what was once the Branson Crafts Fair and has become the Annual Ozark Mountain Crafts Festival is far from a little gathering. With all the theaters and outlet stores on the Strip, the festival is a way to bring people back to old downtown.”
“You’ve been talking to Margie, I see.”
“I agree with her,” Kate said, picturing the realtor’s poster.
“You’re very kind. But I can’t take credit for all that. The theaters out on West 76 weren’t yet imagined when I suggested the crafts fair. Later, once Silver Dollar City opened, we grew quite a bit and relished in the competition.”
Etta’s modesty seemed genuine. And why not? After all the woman didn’t bring peace to Northern Ireland, she merely suggested holding a little get-together. But the festival lures thousands of visitors into downtown stores each fall and that was important to Branson.
“Have you lived in the area all your life?”
“I ventured all the way to St. Louis once. Went to school here through the eighth grade. Got married here in 1924. Buried my husband here. And grew old here. That’s the whole story.”
Her eyes sparkled with her grin.
“Was your husband involved in the festival?”
“No, Clay died in forty-two.”
“I’m sorry,” Kate said. “You were so young. You didn’t remarry?”
She bristled and straightened her back. “Never got around to it.”
This is going nowhere. Kate glanced at her watch. She didn’t want to miss a call from Tom. Her time on that lot and with Helen—and now this interview—had kept her from preparing properly for a planning commission briefing to be held later today or tomorrow morning. She wanted to ask the right questions and be able to discern the wrong answers.
“Told you my life wasn’t worth writing about,” Etta said, clearly uncomfortable with Kate’s silence. “You’d probably prefer to be investigating corruption in city politics.”
“Should I be looking into something?” Kate asked with renewed interest.
Etta chuckled. “Well, not that I know of. I’ve been away from all that for a while. But it’s the natural thing for an intelligent, ambitious, young reporter to want to do.”
“I enjoy learning about Branson’s history,” Kate said, unsure why she felt the need to defend herself.
“But today you’d rather be somewhere else.”
Kate scooted to the edge of the sofa and moved the recorder from one side of the narrow end table to the other. “Tell me about the first crafts fair.”
The octogenarian closed her eyes and rested her head against the chair back. Her eyes fluttered open and she said, “I haven’t thought about it in so long.”
“Where did you set up?”
“In front of the mercantile, on Commercial Street. We had two or three tables.”
“And you displayed handmade items? Quilts? Woodwork?”
“Yes. Bird houses. Bird feeders. Many of the things you see today. When we’d sell something, we’d get another and fill the space on the table.”
“So, you sold several items?”
“The first year it was more like a few. Still we could see the wives, abandoned by fishermen spouses, were interested.”
“Of the women who helped you, are any—?”
“—still alive?” She shook her head.
“I could list them in the article.”
“Wait a minute,” she said. She blasted from her chair and examined the collection of photos on one shelf. Mumbling to herself she checked a table and the mantel. “Hold on,” she said, standing in the middle of the room, fists on hips, glancing from shelf to shelf. Finally, she picked out a faded black photo album, thick with pages, and handed it to Kate. “I know I have at least one of that first year. A customer had a camera. His wife insisted he take a picture. They sent me a blow up, I’m sure.”
Etta sat on the arm of the sofa and leaned over Kate’s shoulder. The first sheets contained shots of Etta and Clay when they had just married. She explained each one, her words softening to a whisper. Her voice reflected a gentleness, without melancholy, as she told what the young couple was doing, when the photo was taken, and by whom.
“Listen to me go on. You’re not interested in my life story, frame-by-frame,” she said as she nudged Kate over and took the album. She glanced at Kate and winked. “Let’s fast-forward.”
She ran her finger down the photos, shaking her head and turning pages. Occasionally the old woman paused as if lost in a memory.
Kate tapped the crystal of her watch. She’d be late for deadline on the article if she didn’t leave soon. Why can’t things happen in an orderly, convenient fashion?
Etta stopped turning. The book was open to an 8x10 inch posed portrait. Three men stood behind three seated ladies, each beaming with the hint of a shared secret.
Kate said, “You’re in the middle, right? The man behind you must be Clay.”
Etta stared at the photo, touching each image as if reaching back in time to caress her husband and friends.
The reporter waited a moment—instinctively respecting the woman’s reverie—then said, “This would be great to go with the article.”
Etta tilted her head back slightly and closed her eyes momentarily. “This was way before the crafts fair. We were on a lark in St. Louis. Left Branson without telling a soul. Clay and I were celebrating our fourth anniversary. Our friends hadn’t been married even that long.”
“I assume the six of you were good friends,” Kate said.
“Jack, Lex, and I had known each other since we were toddlers. Clay was a couple years older. He came to my graduation dance with his younger sister. I was thirteen, pretty naïve, and he swept me right off my feet.”
“What happened? Obviously, you had the portrait made.”
“I don’t remember how we paid for everything. When we passed by the photo studio, I begged everyone to go in not even considering how much it would cost. No one was at the desk by the window. The walls were covered with newspaper clippings about the owners, two sisters. Portraits they had done, some from the 1904 World’s Fair, were everywhere in the studio. At first we were fascinated, going from photo to photo. Then someone said we better get out.” Etta smiled, the memory clearly running in her mind.
“But you didn’t leave,” Kate said.
“What is it the kids say nowadays? We were busted. One of the sisters came from a room in the back. She asked us if we wanted a portrait. Jack spoke up. He told her we’d changed our minds. The rest of us nodded agreement and turned to go. But the nice lady said they had a special rate for one day only. She suggested we do a group portrait.”
Kate asked, “What did she charge you?”
“Twenty-five cents,” Etta said. She slid her hand slowly across the portrait once more, then turned the page.
Kate glanced again at her watch. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how late it was. I need to get this first article submitted for the next edition, but I’d like to do more. Can I come back?”
Etta wasn’t listening as she continued her search through the album.
“This is it. The lady on the end holding the afghan. Her husband took the picture.”
More than a dozen women stood behind a crafts display. Kate pointed to the shortest woman of the three and said, “This is you.”
Etta laughed. “You’d make quite a detective.”
“Could I borrow this to run with the article?”
“You bet. Let me write the names down for you. At least the ones I remember. And you can come back any time. Don’t know what else we’ll talk about, but you’re welcome.”