I wondered if Fernsville was real, it didn’t seem to fit in today’s world. It seemed more like something you’d find on an old television show like Andy Griffith’s or Leave it to Beaver. Still I paid particular attention to the menus posted on the windows as I strolled along, aware that I was going to be here for at least four days without a car so I was already concerned about getting a decent meal come dinner time. That’s how I noticed the parade announcement. Every window had one, sometimes two flyers announcing the annual parade and festival to be held on Saturday. Tomorrow. How lucky was I?
I arrived at the end of the business section and turned left, past the Methodist Church, which was across from the Baptist church, past a few houses where I found Aunt Betty’s B & B on the corner.
It was a big rambling house, painted white with green shutters and a big porch across the front. The generous front lawn held a sprawling oak with a swing attached. Clustered invitingly in the oak’s shade was a group of lawn furniture and a bird bath.
Aunt Betty turned out to be a mythical person, kind of like Betty Crocker. Apparently the original Aunt Betty established the property as a boarding house in the 1880’s so it had been called Aunt Betty’s ever since. The current B & B owners were Stan and Ellen Turnbaugh, who retired early and moved from Dallas to start a second career in Fernsville.
Ellen, a friendly chatty person told me, “We love it here. I do the cooking, cleaning and inn keeping. My husband manages a herd of cattle as well as handling the maintenance work around the B & B. With a place as old as this and with such a large yard, it keeps him plenty busy. It’s working very well for us. And it’s so much more relaxing than our life in Dallas with that daily commute.”
I nodded, daydreaming about having my own little B & B. That thought entertained me until I got to the part of being tied down to cooking, cleaning and waiting on people every day, all week, month in and month out. Sanity returned while I followed Ellen upstairs to select which of the three remaining rooms I wanted. One had a bath en-suite and two shared the bath down the hall with a third room. Ordinarily I would have selected the one with the private bath, but both the price and the charm of the little room at the back gave me pause. It looked like an imagined room in somebody’s grandma’s farmhouse, airy and simple. White curtains with ruffles stirred in the slight breeze of the open window. The scent of the fields behind the house was earthy and pleasant. The room itself was done in white with touches of light yellow and the old fashioned iron bed, painted white, covered with a well-used quilt and piled with frilly pillows, looked cozy. But the best part—the rocking chair sitting in front of the window where you could sit and dream.
My grandma never had a farmhouse, but I chose that room so I could pretend while I was here.
Ellen explained they had twelve guest rooms including the two over the old carriage house, which was now the garage. All but three rooms had their own bath. They served breakfast between seven and nine, ten on Saturday and Sundays, and every day they served tea and wine in the study at four.
“You’re lucky you got here while we have rooms still available. Usually on the weekends we’re full and this weekend with the festival we’ve had lots of reservations. But Mondays and Tuesdays are quite slow unless we have someone staying the entire week. Wednesdays we start to pick up again.
You’ll notice we elected not to put televisions in each room, but we have a large one connected to a satellite dish in the living room, which you’re welcome to use any time. There are also books, games, puzzles and magazines available. Feel free to make use of the main rooms downstairs and the garden as if they were your home. You’ll find a list of restaurants and menus in the living room, although since you’re stranded without a car you’ll have to stick to those in town unless one of the other guests takes pity on you.”
I told her not to worry, I was prepared to explore the town and relax until my car was fixed and I could be on my way again. After all, I appreciated being stranded in a town with some facilities and not just camping in a motel out in the middle of nowhere—with only vending machines for sustenance.
She patted my shoulder, told me how brave I was and then was off to do the hundreds of chores I imagined she had waiting for her. I opened my bag, removed my book and sat in the rocker by the window to read and contemplate the world of Fernsville.
I didn’t think of myself as being brave. Yesterday, when I left Houston and my life as I knew it, I felt nothing but great relief. It didn’t bother me that I was homeless by choice. Every time I thought about one of the projects my former business was managing I reminded myself it was no longer my business or my worry. Life and problems escalated for me until finally, being a witness to a brutal murder had been the proverbial straw that broke this camel’s back. After the long trial ended I was ready to make major changes in my life. I sold my business to my associates, sold my house and furnishings, put my personal items in storage and started planning a new life. I was going to take my time driving to my first stop, the house on the sand in California, so I could explore places along the way. I hadn’t intended to stay more than two nights in Texas because I wanted to see Santa Fe, the Grand Canyon and Sedona, places I had never been, but always intended to visit. But it didn’t matter. My time was my own; no longer was I at the mercy of other people’s schedules. For once, I could just take things as they came.
Perhaps I dozed; I wasn’t conscious of either falling asleep or waking up, but somehow the clock now pointed out it was four fifteen. I decided to go downstairs and see if any of the other guests were in the study having tea or wine.
There were three couples already there. Two drank tea, another, wine. I helped myself to a glass of wine and looked around a bit, chatting with the other guests about what brought them to Fernsville. Two women joined us. They looked like, and admitted to being, sisters. They came for the parade and festival tomorrow, having ‘antiqued’ their way up through the Hill Country during the past few days. Sunday they would return to their home in Fort Worth, their car crammed with treasures they had found.
And just as the old grandfather clock chimed five another guest arrived. A youngish man flushed of face, with hair that looked like he had been running his fingers through it. His cowboy shirt was rumpled, and somewhat untidy. Despite his attire he didn’t look at all like a cowboy and he admitted he wasn’t. It turned out he was an auditor for a bank with part ownership in some agriculture loans in the local bank. He was here to do a routine audit.
Later when only he and I were left sitting on the porch finishing our wine, he spoke with pride of his position in the agriculture department of a bank headquartered in Oklahoma City. He had arrived in Fernsville last week on a surprise audit. Previously his bank had only reviewed the monthly computer reports of the loan activity, although they had the right to do an on-site examination whenever they wished. He traveled to these remote places on the whim of the powers-to-be in his company and always found the jobs and the people interesting. He had expected to be finished by today, but confessed that things weren’t progressing quite as he expected. He frowned, obviously bothered by whatever had delayed him, but assured me, and perhaps himself, he would be working tomorrow to try to finish up.
His name was Boyd Taylor and he explained he always tried to stay at B & B’s rather than motels in the small towns he visited. He found them more comfortable while he was on the road. It made it seem like he belonged in the town and allowed him to meet people and learn about the surrounding area.
When he heard I was stuck without a car for several days he gave me a brief review of his experience with the restaurants in town. Then, as an after thought, he invited me to accompany him to dinner. He planned to try a roadhouse back on the highway that Ellen had recommended.
I only thought a moment before accepting.
* * * *
The restaurant was very good and crowded with more people than I could have imagined lived in the region. We talked mostly about his work, because having
spent several of my early years in the banking industry, I understood what he was talking about. He explained he would only have to be on the road for another year or so and then could look forward to a plumb assignment at the main office. He was enthusiastic, so I enjoyed listening to him and he seemed to appreciate my interest. I spoke very little of my own career and former business; he didn’t seem to be interested and frankly, neither was I.
When we returned to Aunt Betty’s I sat in the living room for a while watching television with a young couple, here on a cycling weekend. I was interested to hear how they booked in a local B & B one weekend a month and spent all day Saturday and part of Sunday bicycling on the local roads. They said they were exploring Texas, one region at a time.
The sisters played cribbage at a table in the corner.
By ten o’clock it was obvious I wouldn’t be able to keep my eyes open much longer so I headed for my room. The quiet and peacefulness of the country lulled me into a deep sleep and I woke up with the sun, feeling refreshed, ready for a new day.
* * * *
The number of people around the long oval table having breakfast surprised me. It was apparent that Aunt Betty’s was full. Guests were encouraged to help themselves to coffee, tea, juices, fruit and cold cereal from a buffet set up on the sideboard. I no more than sat down at one of the empty places at the table when Ellen bustled in from the kitchen, her arms full of plates she set down in front of some of the guests.
“Good morning. I hope you slept well?”
I nodded, smiling.
“What do you feel like having for breakfast? I recommend the French toast, or perhaps you’d like an omelet? Or maybe both?”
I looked at the heaping plates in front of the other guests and decided on the French toast and sausage.
“Oh, good choice. The sausage is local. They make it down the highway a piece and it’s excellent. And I’ll be bringing in a fresh basket of warm muffins in just a moment.”
The cycling couple left right after I sat down, followed by two more couples getting an early start.
The sisters were talking about the festival and parade, reminding everyone the parade started down Main Street at one o’clock, telling us to be sure to find a good place to watch.
“This is just an old fashioned parade. Don’t expect the Rose Parade, but it’s fun and everyone gets involved. This is what parades were like when we were kids. We used to go to all of them in our hometown. Heck, we were in a lot of them.”
Her sister nodded enthusiastically. “Fran caught this one by accident three years ago and has been talking about it ever since.
Finally, I have a chance to see it.”
Boyd looked up from his breakfast, a wistful look on his face, “Sounds fun. Maybe I’ll be finished in time for a look-see. One o’clock you said? Well the Bank closes at noon on Saturday so maybe I’ll be done when everyone else is and can watch the parade. And one of the tellers at the bank told me about the super barbeque they have. All the churches in town get together to raise money for the food bank. Seems every year it’s depleted by this time and they hold this festival to replenish the funds to support the needy.”
He grinned, “I do love a good barbeque.”
Then he frowned, “I’ve got to get going or I won’t have a chance at being done in time.” His face now serious, apparently he was already thinking about his work.
I waved, “I’ll save you a place at the barbeque. Hope to see you there.”
He nodded, and was gone.
Fran said, “Fern and I are going to wander around the festival after breakfast if you’d like to join us, we’d be happy to have you.”
Ellen reminded us as we were going out the door that the house would be locked today while she and her husband were working at the festival, “Just use your key to get in and lock the door after you leave. And even if I’m not here, tea and wine will be available in the study at four, like always.”
It was a beautiful day, bright and sunny. The slight breeze promised to keep the day from getting too hot to enjoy later. Texas only has days like this in April and October, the rest of the time the weather is too hot, too cold or just too wet. During the twenty-five years I’ve been here I’ve never reconciled myself to the weather, but I was ready to enjoy this day and pretend this is what Texas weather was all about.
Fran said she loved the heat and didn’t even mind the humidity they had in Fort Worth. Fern shook her head at that notion. She had moved down from Michigan about five years ago to live with her newly widowed sister and admitted she still hadn’t adapted.
The sisters were pleasant company as we wandered down to the park, a block behind Main Street, across from the city hall and police station, where the festival was set up. We wandered from booth to booth, examining items on sale, talking to the artisans, chatting with the town people who manned the booths. We saw Ellen working at the White Elephant booth and she introduced us to her pleasant-faced husband, Stan, who unloaded more boxes of donations for the booth from his truck.
I confess to spending more money than necessary, but I kept telling myself it was for a good cause. And I said I could use the jams, the doilies and the knickknacks I bought for house gifts when I stayed with all the people I promised to visit on my travels. But finally, I carried more than was comfortable so I walked back to Aunt Betty’s to lighten my load.
When I returned people were already finding a space along the parade route. I didn’t see the sisters, but I found a place to stand on the curb near the bank, not far from the corner where I had a good view of the parade as it turned on to Main Street. The people next to me explained the parade assembled on the playground of the grammar school around the corner. A ripple of excitement ran through the spectators. A couple of kids squatting down in front ran to the corner then back shouting, “They’re coming! They’re coming, we saw them.”
Sure enough, now we could hear the high school band start their first marching song and then they turned the corner followed by a red convertible holding the mayor. Everyone clapped and waved, calling to people in the parade. Next, a farmer drove a tractor pulling a wagon-like affair full of Brownie Scouts in their uniforms. Behind them marched the American Legion Post, their banner held proudly by two veterans and followed by a group in a variety of old uniforms. One old guy wearing a World War II army cap was in a wheelchair being pushed by another veteran, who looked as if he could have used a chair himself. They were all smiling and waving. And then the Boy Scouts marched carrying the flags. There were several cars filled with local dignitaries. I didn’t know any of them although others around me seemed to.
Then three more tractors, old ones, even a novice like me could tell. And behind the tractors came a silly clown riding on a zippy new lawnmower. I was startled to recognize the clown was Stan Turnbaugh, co-owner of Aunt Betty’s. I called out to him and waved when he saw me.
He was followed by four more tractors of varying ages, then the flatbed tow truck that rescued me yesterday. I waved to the driver, but didn’t bother to call out as he was carrying a rock band consisting of five teen-age boys enthusiastically belting out one unrecognizable song after another. The crowd went crazy over their performance. Three trucks passed, each loaded with Four-H kids and their animals, calves, goats, rabbits and chickens. A half-dozen young people riding horses followed. Finally a SUV pulling a ski boat passed, the ski boat stuffed with kids waving to the crowd and throwing handfuls of hard candies into the spectators.
There was a slight pause after the boat and I thought the parade was over. I started to move away, but one of my neighbors shook her head, so I waited. Then here came the band around the corner once more. I had to admit what they lacked in tone and rhythm they more than made up for by their enthusiasm. The mayor was right behind them once more.
The man next to me said, “It’s never long enough so they’ll just go around a few more times. It makes everyone happy.”
So I stayed and clapped and waved and hollered w
ith everyone else. By the time they went around the third time I felt I knew many of them. When the parade passed the fourth time I could see some changes had been made. The mayor’s smile now looked a little forced; a different person was pushing the wheel chair with the World War II veteran and the Boy Scouts carrying the flags were now struggling to keep them erect. One of the old tractors was now in the midst of the trucks carting the Four-H kids and the calves in one of the trucks were becoming a little rambunctious, butting at one another playfully. This time when the boat passed everyone along the parade route fell in behind it, following it down the street where the parade turned left this time, went around the block and ended up by the park where the barbeque was to be served.
I got in line for the lunch while many of the others were still milling around trying to find family members, as well as take care of animals, instruments and vehicles. Soon, my plate loaded with barbeque chicken, beef and sausage in one hand, a bottle of beer in the other hand, I headed for the picnic tables. The sisters waved, calling to me. They squeezed over to make room for me at the table. A few of the other guests from Aunt Betty’s were there and we all thoroughly enjoyed the meal.
We talked about the parade, comparing this one to other memorable ones we had seen. The sisters said they had found a place to watch at the opposite end of the street from where I stood.
“If you were near the bank did you notice if Boyd got a chance to watch?” Fern asked.
Dead and Breakfast Page 6
