[Critique Group 1] Leonard's comments on Martia's piece

Thu Feb 25 16:04:38 EST 2021

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I liked the introduction of Ms. Hoity toity. 

She made an impression. 

She showed up twice, 

so I’m expecting that she plays a mager role in the  overall story.  

She is the most likely person to create any fireworks in that sleepy little town. The big question now is, “Will the young reporter stay or leave?” 

Right now, that question and the bomb shell are the two sources of conflict. 

You have a good start  and opportunity to exploit those two issues. 

I love the descriptions of Veronica in both meeting episodes.

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Martia sub for Feb 21

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“Ruff, ruff!!!”

Harvest Festival

2107 words

I stopped into the Lake Holland Museum to learnmore about my adopted community. The local historical society maintained animpressive collection of memorabilia in a renovated Victorian. Each wall at themuseum was crammed with historical photos. Hilda, my elderly guide, chattedwhile I clomped from room to room and viewed the displays. 

“The town was established 200 years ago, mostlyby German and Polish immigrants,” Hilda said. “Early settlers were attracted toMichigan by promises of land and religious freedom. The industrial revolutionlater brought factory jobs to the area,” she added.

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

 Colored was a word we used without prejudiceback in those days. 

But recently I was questioned  when I used it in my own piece. 

A younger person says it was not his experience.

Was it yours.

I was startled by Hilda’s use of the word“colored.” I had noticed dark-skinned laborers in fields surrounding LakeHolland, but hadn’t thought much about it. Racial riots during the 1960s hadresulted 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 apparentlyhadn’t reached Lake Holland.

Despite the lack of diversity and Hilda’s datedvocabulary, I found myself envious of small town traditions and history. UnlikeLake Holland residents who were rooted in one place for generations, myancestors, 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 ofmy family were split between Colorado, Indiana, Florida, and California.

In contrast, the Lake Holland Museum documenteddecades of heritage. Holiday parades, festivals, and celebrations connected thecommunity. I thought I recognized a younger Officer Braun in a photograph of ahunter posing with the carcass of that year’s biggest buck.

“The town’s annual Harvest Festival is alwaysheld the first weekend after Halloween, Friday night through Sunday afternoon.”Hilda pointed to an album of photos. That year, I’d be the reporter takingphotos of the popular family event including a barn dance, tractor rides, a piecooking contest, and food fest.

In for a penny, I thought, in for a dollar. 

That’s in for a penny, in for a pound.

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 amother who sewed all your childhood clothes, including the gown you wore to theprom, you pull out her old straight-stitch Singer that was handed down to youand get to work.

The only image I could conjure for an outfit wasdenim overalls with a plaid wool shirt. I visited Ferguson’s Notions one blockoff Main Street and selected a pattern and fabric. I splurged on a cheap pairof cowgirl boots at the second-hand store. A’la my Sadie Hawkins high schooldance, I’d tie my hair in braids and a bandana around my neck.

Dressed in my jaunty outfit, camera in hand, Ijoined the frolic that Saturday around noon. Volunteer firefighters and their wives had transformed the covered pavilion at Lake HollandPark into a super charming barn setting. A friendly scarecrow waved a welcomeflag in the fall breeze. Picnic tables covered in red-checked cloth circled thedance floor. A live band pumped out country music. People of all shapes and sizeshooked arms and twirled to”Turkey In The Straw.” Yellow squash and corn husksroasted on gargantuan grills. baskets filled with apples and small pumpkinsanchored a long row of serving tables. For five dollars, it was “all you couldeat.” For another five, Iwas handed two tickets for spiced cider. Children joked and jostled in line for hot chocolate andhomemade caramel apples.

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

Robbie Braun grabbed my hand and I bounced uplike I knew how to square dance. Round and round we stomped, bumping into myboss, 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 muchas a nod, Robbie deposited me at my empty plate and turned to search for hisnext dance partner. His rear end looked as manly in Levi’s as it did in histailored cop uniform. The look of a clean cut country man showed me a new kindof sexy. I’d been around long-haired college men wearing rock band T-shirts fortoo long, I thought.

The band launched into a waltz as I dreamilywatched Robbie retreat. Interruptingmy fantasy, a curvaceous red-haired woman dressed as a country sprite blockedmy view. Who was she? The wench sashayed across the dance floor in delicateslippers 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 myvision. The curvaceous woman andRobbie pranced and danced, twirled and twisted around tables, hooting andhollering as if they’d been partners for years. The elastic neckline of thecowgirl’s dress fell off her shoulders. The fitted bodice pushed her deep cleavageto maximum advantage. Even after the band stopped playing, Robbie stood fixedlike a deer in the headlights.

“Don’t take myman,” a female vocalist appropriately belted out Dolly Parton’s latest hit,“Jolene.”

I wasoutclassed. If I looked green, I’dblame it on the cider. Revelers began lighting lanterns and candles. Darknessadvanced earlier following the previous week time change. Dancing and drinkingwould carry on well into the night, but I needed to drive home before dark toavoid turning into a pumpkin. Anyway, experience had taught me that most menaren’t worth a cat fight.

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

Who was I kidding? I didn’t belong in LakeHolland any more than back home in Colorado. Unmoored and adrift, I wasstranded in a make-believe town like Mayberry R.F.D., where everyone but me hadbeen 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 thequestion as I drove. 

At my apartment, an unexpected envelope lay likean omen on the first step inside my screen door. The name of a photographer I’ddated in Colorado appeared in the top left corner. He wrote, “Come back toColorado. There’s an upcoming opening at the Fort Collins daily where I’mworking now. The paper has a modern newsroom with digital typesetting. You’d beimpressed. Stay tuned.”

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

Over the next month, I focused on my job at TheBreeze. As consolation, I discovered that I enjoyed working for Mr. K more thanI’d expected. As his only reporter, I had free reign to poke my nose intoeveryone’s business. My “press credentials” granted me entry into almost anymeeting to observe the goings on. With few exceptions, I assigned myself towrite whatever stories I wanted. Virtually every word I wrote was published. Icovered politics, community events, schools, police, business, and featurenews. Talk about variety!

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

“Let me talk to the reporter.”

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

A conspicuous “News” basket was placed on thefront counter to catch such announcements. This strategy usually preventedvisitors from crashing into the more sober news room in the back. Each day, theeditor or I would cull through the stack of hand-scribbled notices andinvitations, and separate fluff from fact.

“The editor must see this right away. He mayhave questions.” The demanding woman in the front office wasn’t about to bedissuaded. My swivel chair squeaked when I stood to rescue Sue.

“May I help you?”

“You’re the reporter?” Without waiting for areply, the brash woman rushed ahead with her news.

I blinked and cleared my vision. An exoticfigure with flaming hair, sculpted cheekbones, burgundy lips, and deep cleavagethat belonged on the cover of Cosmopolitan greeted me with a professionalhandshake. This creature looked out of place in the small town. She was closeto my age or perhaps slightly older, but that’s where our resemblance ended.

“I’m on deadline. Could you leave your news inthe basket and we’ll be happy to take a look at it later?”

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

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

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

December 1, 1976

FOR FURTHER INFORMATION CONTACT:  VeronicaDerringer, Corporate Communications Manager

Lake Holland Furniture is hosting an open housefor the community in honor of its 75th year in businessSaturday 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 2:00p.m. free refreshments, family games, and child care thanks to Girl Scout Troop451, will be provided.”

I was impressed.  The press release, timelyand concise, was properly formatted for publication. The subject matter wasalso newsworthy, I had to admit.

“Perhaps you could place an advertisement aboutyour event?”

“Oh no, this is news.” Miss Veronica Berringerboldly contradicted me. Perhaps I should fill you in on our history? More thanhalf of our employees come from Lake Holland. We’re one of only a few localcompanies that offers a living wage and medical insurance. If it weren’t forLake Holland Furniture, this town would be a ghost town by now.” The LakeHolland Furniture Company open house rivaled the moon landing, according toVeronica.

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

“How about I find a place for it in next week’sedition?” I compromised.

“That will do.” Burgundy lips and flouncing titsswirled and turned her back to me. I was dismissed. Now my nose was two inchesfrom 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 thesplay of paper.

“Let me help.”

“I’ve got it.” My response was louder thanintended. I tugged at the corner of a paper. “Rip.” The paper was pinned underthe high heel of Miss Hoity-Toity.

“I’m sorry. I hope that wasn’t important.”

I read the top half of an announcement. “Mr. andMrs. John Smythe celebrate their 75th wedding anniversary . . .“

“Not any more important than 75 years offurniture, I suppose.”

I returned to my desk with the tray ofannouncements in disarray. What had I gotten myself into? Three months on thejob, and the biggest news story so far was about furniture. Should I stick itout or go? So far, I’d exposed the town’s award-winning apple pie recipe, theneed for new school band uniforms, and local flooding issues. The approachingMidwest winter loomed lonely and dark.

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