[Critique Group 1] Marcia's February submission

[Marcia Wick]

"Ruff, ruff!!!"

 

Harvest Festival

2107 words

 

 

I stopped into the Lake Holland Museum to learn more about my adopted
community. The local historical society maintained an impressive collection
of memorabilia in a renovated Victorian. Each wall at the museum was crammed
with historical photos. Hilda, my elderly guide, chatted while I clomped
from room to room and viewed the displays.  

 

"The town was established 200 years ago, mostly by German and Polish
immigrants," Hilda said. "Early settlers were attracted to Michigan by
promises of land and religious freedom. The industrial revolution later
brought factory jobs to the area," she added. 

 

"Farming still supports our economy, but most of our young people now work
at the furniture factory. These days, farmers use coloreds and Mexicans from
down south to pick the fall harvest.  

 

I was startled by Hilda's use of the word "colored." I had noticed
dark-skinned laborers in fields surrounding Lake Holland, but hadn't thought
much about it. Racial riots during the 1960s had resulted in equal rights
for blacks, especially in northern and western states, I thought. I'd only
read about migrant farm workers in textbooks or Steinbeck's "The Grapes of
Wrath." Stuck in the 50s, the civil rights movement apparently hadn't
reached Lake Holland.

 

Despite the lack of diversity and Hilda's dated vocabulary, I found myself
envious of small town traditions and history. Unlike Lake Holland residents
who were rooted in one place for generations, my ancestors, mostly European,
could be traced back to six different countries. The Krumps weren't really
"from" anywhere in particular. Making matters worse, my father served in the
Air Force moving us five times in 15 years. Branches of my family were split
between Colorado, Indiana, Florida, and California. 

 

In contrast, the Lake Holland Museum documented decades of heritage. Holiday
parades, festivals, and celebrations connected the community. I thought I
recognized a younger Officer Braun in a photograph of a hunter posing with
the carcass of that year's biggest buck.

 

"The town's annual Harvest Festival is always held the first weekend after
Halloween, Friday night through Sunday afternoon." Hilda pointed to an album
of photos. That year, I'd be the reporter taking photos of the popular
family event including a barn dance, tractor rides, a pie cooking contest,
and food fest.

 

In for a penny, I thought, in for a dollar. In order to fit in, I wanted to
dress for the event. Where does one "find" a barn dance costume, anyhow?
Well, if you grew up with a mother who sewed all your childhood clothes,
including the gown you wore to the prom, you pull out her old
straight-stitch Singer that was handed down to you and get to work. 

 

The only image I could conjure for an outfit was denim overalls with a plaid
wool shirt. I visited Ferguson's Notions one block off Main Street and
selected a pattern and fabric. I splurged on a cheap pair of cowgirl boots
at the second-hand store. A'la my Sadie Hawkins high school dance, I'd tie
my hair in braids and a bandana around my neck. 

 

Dressed in my jaunty outfit, camera in hand, I joined the frolic that
Saturday around noon. Volunteer fire fighters and their wives had
transformed the covered pavilion at Lake Holland Park into a super charming
barn setting. A friendly scarecrow waved a welcome flag in the fall breeze.
Picnic tables covered in red-checked cloth circled the dance floor. A live
band pumped out country music. People of all shapes and sizes hooked arms
and twirled to"Turkey In The Straw." Yellow squash and corn husks roasted on
gargantuan grills. baskets filled with apples and small pumpkins anchored a
long row of serving tables. For five dollars, it was "all you could eat."
For another five, I was handed two tickets for spiced cider. Children joked
and jostled in line for hot chocolate and homemade caramel apples.

 

Making the rounds, I sampled ham, potato Salad, Apple Cake, pumpkin bread,
and donuts.  I passed on the chili when I learned it was made with Bambi, I
mean venison. Thankfully, overalls don't have a waist band. My stomach was
stretched to its limit. . The weight of all those carbs plastered me to the
bench, but two mugs of cider warmed with whiskey had loosened my limbs . . .
and inhibitions. 

 

Robbie Braun grabbed my hand and I bounced up like I knew how to square
dance. Round and round we stomped, bumping into my boss, his brother the
mayor, the Garden Club lady, and the gas station manager. Maybe I fit in? 

 

Too soon, the lively tune ended. Without so much as a nod, Robbie deposited
me at my empty plate and turned to search for his next dance partner. His
rear end looked as manly in Levi's as it did in his tailored cop uniform.
The look of a clean cut country man showed me a new kind of sexy. I'd been
around long-haired college men wearing rock band T-shirts for too long, I
thought. 

 

The band launched into a waltz as I dreamily watched Robbie retreat.
Interrupting my fantasy, a curvaceous red-haired woman dressed as a country
sprite blocked my view. Who was she? The wench sashayed across the dance
floor in delicate slippers and plucked Robbie from the arms of his current
partner. He veered her way without missing a step. 

 

Bright flashes of red and blue gingham filled my vision. The curvaceous
woman and Robbie pranced and danced, twirled and twisted around tables,
hooting and hollering as if they'd been partners for years. The elastic
neckline of the cowgirl's dress fell off her shoulders. The fitted bodice
pushed her deep cleavage to maximum advantage. Even after the band stopped
playing, Robbie stood fixed like a deer in the headlights.

 

"Don't take my man," a female vocalist appropriately belted out Dolly
Parton's latest hit, "Jolene."

 

I was outclassed. If I looked green, I'd blame it on the cider. Revelers
began lighting lanterns and candles. Darkness advanced earlier following the
previous week time change. Dancing and drinking would carry on well into the
night, but I needed to drive home before dark to avoid turning into a
pumpkin. Anyway, experience had taught me that most men aren't worth a cat
fight.

 

I bolted from the pavilion and tripped. Uneven pavement caught the heel of
my boot. I rummaged among brittle leaves for my lost footwear, but unlike
Cinderella, Prince Robbie didn't pursue me.

 

Who was I kidding? I didn't belong in Lake Holland any more than back home
in Colorado. Unmoored and adrift, I was stranded in a make-believe town like
Mayberry R.F.D., where everyone but me had been born, where everyone but me
had a family history, where everyone belonged, but me. 

 

Tears of disappointment welled in my eyes. Should I reconsider my move and
look for another job? I struggled with the question as I drove.  

 

At my apartment, an unexpected envelope lay like an omen on the first step
inside my screen door. The name of a photographer I'd dated in Colorado
appeared in the top left corner. He wrote, "Come back to Colorado. There's
an upcoming opening at the Fort Collins daily where I'm working now. The
paper has a modern newsroom with digital typesetting. You'd be impressed.
Stay tuned." 

 

I hesitated. If I gave up and returned to Colorado, it would be for the job,
not the photographer. He was a nice enough guy, but I had no interest in
pursuing the relationship long-term. Although eager to learn more about the
job, I postponed my reply.

 

Over the next month, I focused on my job at The Breeze. As consolation, I
discovered that I enjoyed working for Mr. K more than I'd expected. As his
only reporter, I had free reign to poke my nose into everyone's business. My
"press credentials" granted me entry into almost any meeting to observe the
goings on. With few exceptions, I assigned myself to write whatever stories
I wanted. Virtually every word I wrote was published. I covered politics,
community events, schools, police, business, and feature news. Talk about
variety!

 

Bent over my typewriter, crunching a carrot stick, I was distracted by a
commotion. 

 

"Let me talk to the reporter." 

 

Most days, Sue efficiently ran interference in the front office. She
patiently explained the difference between paid display advertising and
news. Often, business owners angled for free publicity to avoid buying
advertising space, as if the introduction of a new line of work boots at
their store was big news. 

 

A conspicuous "News" basket was placed on the front counter to catch such
announcements. This strategy usually prevented visitors from crashing into
the more sober news room in the back. Each day, the editor or I would cull
through the stack of hand-scribbled notices and invitations, and separate
fluff from fact. 

 

"The editor must see this right away. He may have questions." The demanding
woman in the front office wasn't about to be dissuaded. My swivel chair
squeaked when I stood to rescue Sue.

 

"May I help you?" 

 

"You're the reporter?" Without waiting for a reply, the brash woman rushed
ahead with her news. 

 

I blinked and cleared my vision. An exotic figure with flaming hair,
sculpted cheekbones, burgundy lips, and deep cleavage that belonged on the
cover of Cosmopolitan greeted me with a professional handshake. This
creature looked out of place in the small town. She was close to my age or
perhaps slightly older, but that's where our resemblance ended.

 

"I'm on deadline. Could you leave your news in the basket and we'll be happy
to take a look at it later?"

 

Burgundy lips fanned a piece of paper in front of my face. Four inches
taller in fashionable heels. Her ample chest heaved inches away from my
eyes. Oh, was she the bosomy bitch from the Harvest Fest?

 

I plucked the page from her precisely painted fingertips. Scanning the news
release gave me a reason to avert my eyes from her graphic image. She pursed
her lips and waited for my reply. 

 

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

December 1, 1976

FOR FURTHER INFORMATION CONTACT:  Veronica Derringer, Corporate
Communications Manager

 

Lake Holland Furniture is hosting an open house for the community in honor
of its 75th year in business Saturday and Sunday, Feb. 27 and 28, 1977.
Tours of the 700,000 sq. ft. manufacturing facility will be offered each day
between 10:00 a.m. and 2:00 p.m. free refreshments, family games, and child
care thanks to Girl Scout Troop 451, will be provided."

 

I was impressed.  The press release, timely and concise, was properly
formatted for publication. The subject matter was also newsworthy, I had to
admit. 

 

"Perhaps you could place an advertisement about your event?" 

 

"Oh no, this is news." Miss Veronica Berringer boldly contradicted me.
Perhaps I should fill you in on our history? More than half of our employees
come from Lake Holland. We're one of only a few local companies that offers
a living wage and medical insurance. If it weren't for Lake Holland
Furniture, this town would be a ghost town by now." The Lake Holland
Furniture Company open house rivaled the moon landing, according to
Veronica.

 

Sue gave me a warning look. Her husband, son, and daughter-in-law all worked
at the furniture factory. The Breeze probably did owe the furniture factory
a free plug. 

 

"How about I find a place for it in next week's edition?" I compromised.

 

"That will do." Burgundy lips and flouncing tits swirled and turned her back
to me. I was dismissed. Now my nose was two inches from her shoulder blades.
I stepped back and bumped squarely into the counter. I elbowed the tray of
prospective press releases and it crashed to the floor. Burgundy lips
swished her skirt and hopped aside. I squatted to gather the splay of paper.

 

"Let me help." 

 

"I've got it." My response was louder than intended. I tugged at the corner
of a paper. "Rip." The paper was pinned under the high heel of Miss
Hoity-Toity.

 

"I'm sorry. I hope that wasn't important."

 

I read the top half of an announcement. "Mr. and Mrs. John Smythe celebrate
their 75th wedding anniversary . . . "

 

"Not any more important than 75 years of furniture, I suppose."

 

I returned to my desk with the tray of announcements in disarray. What had I
gotten myself into? Three months on the job, and the biggest news story so
far was about furniture. Should I stick it out or go? So far, I'd exposed
the town's award-winning apple pie recipe, the need for new school band
uniforms, and local flooding issues. The approaching Midwest winter loomed
lonely and dark.

 

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