The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Lizzy wasn’t sure how she felt about Governor Roosevelt. He had talked about the federal government’s responsibility to help people who needed to find work. But he’d been pretty vague about what he intended to do, except for promising a “new deal,” whatever that was. Some people thought they could guess, based on his plans for an old-age pension and unemployment insurance, which he had tried to push through the New York state legislature. But nobody knew for sure.

  Lizzy was the kind of person who always liked to know as much as she could about what was going on, so she had asked Mr. Moseley for an explanation. But even he didn’t know what a “new deal” was, at least, not specifically.

  “It’s something the Brain Trust cooked up,” he said. When she asked what a “brain trust” was, he’d just laughed. “You might call it a kitchen cabinet,” he replied, which left her even more mystified—until he had handed her the third volume of James Parton’s Life of Andrew Jackson. A scrap of paper marked page 338, where she read about the men who were “supposed to have most of the president’s ear and confidence.” The kitchen cabinet, she imagined, got together over cigars and coffee (or something stronger) to cook up policy.

  Aunt Hetty finished filling the lemonade glasses. “Mr. Moseley is doin’ more than just angling,” she observed wryly. “I read in the Dispatch that he’s organizing a group called Darling for FDR.”

  “Roger is getting some supporters together to campaign for President Hoover,” Mildred said in an offhanded tone. She was wearing a new white tucked and pleated cotton shirtwaist dress—her golfing costume. The outfit looked very snazzy, Lizzy thought with a quick stab of envy. The Kilgores had plenty of money, and Mildred—who was plump and rather plain—went to New York to buy her clothes. She always looked like something out of Vogue, while the rest of them made do with the out-of-date clothes in their closets. Or, in the case of Verna, a gabardine skirt that was a little shiny in the seat.

  “But we’re afraid it’ll be an uphill fight for Mr. Hoover,” Mildred added ruefully. “Here in Darling, anyway.”

  That was probably true, Lizzy thought. Mildred and her husband, Roger Kilgore (the owner of the only automobile dealership in town) had cheered when Hoover and his vice president, Charles Curtis, were renominated at the Republican convention in Chicago in June, on a “balanced budget” platform. Back in 1928, the Republicans had coasted into the White House on a wave of economic prosperity and a booming stock market. But that was before Black Tuesday, when the bottom fell out of the market, the banks began to fail, and people lost their jobs. The Crash wasn’t President Hoover’s fault, of course. But in Darling and around the country, his administration was being blamed for not doing anything to ease the miserable situation. People were ready for a change.

  “You’re right about that uphill fight, Mildred,” Verna said with an ironic lift to her eyebrow. “People might not know Mr. Roosevelt from Adam’s house cat, but lots of folks are ready to cast their vote for good old A.B.H.”

  “A.B.H.?” Aunt Hetty sat down at the table. “Never heard of him. Who’s he?”

  “Anybody but Hoover,” Verna replied. “I predict it’ll be Roosevelt in a landslide.”

  Aunt Hetty chortled, and even Mildred had to laugh.

  But the Dahlias hadn’t given up their evening to discuss politics. Lizzy opened her notebook, picked up her pencil, and cleared her throat.

  “Okay, everybody. We’re here to go over the last-minute planning for next weekend’s festival. There’s plenty to do, so let’s get started.”

  Darling’s clubs and organizations took turns coordinating the annual Watermelon Festival, which would be held over the coming weekend at the Cypress County Fairgrounds, just outside of town. This year, it was the Dahlias’ turn to coordinate the event and make sure that things ran as smoothly as possible—which was usually not very smoothly, since the unexpected had a way of cropping up, well, unexpectedly.

  Take last year, for instance, when the Masonic Lodge was in charge of the festival. A trio of Mr. Burley’s milk goats unexpectedly escaped from their pen in the livestock pavilion and nipped off all the blossoms in the Dahlias’ flower booth. Somebody kicked a tent peg loose and the Ladies Club tent collapsed on the unsuspecting (and newly shampooed and set) head of Voleen Johnson, wife of Mr. George E. Pickett Johnson, the owner of the Darling Savings and Trust Bank. The Eastern Star’s hot dog stand ran out of hot dogs halfway through the event. The Chamber of Commerce popcorn machine caught fire. And Mrs. Peabody fell off the stage in the act of awarding the 1931 Darling Baby award to Mrs. Starks’ little Bluebelle. Bluebelle, whom Mrs. Peabody was holding at the time, was unharmed. Mrs. Peabody broke her nose.

  But the worst happened when the motor on the Ferris wheel burned out, leaving a dozen juvenile Darlingians stranded some thirty feet above the ground. This was not a serious problem for the strandees, of course. They were thrilled by every delicious minute of their extended ride, especially since they could look down and see everybody pointing excitedly up at them and yelling at them to be brave.

  But their mothers were hysterical, and with good reason, for it took two hours for the Darling Volunteer Fire Department to get their youngsters down from their precarious perch. The Ferris wheel motor turned out to be unfixable. The merry-go-round quit shortly thereafter, so that was the end of the carnival rides. The Darling children, who had been saving their hard-earned pennies for months, were inconsolable.

  It was the Odd Fellows who had booked the broken-down carnival, so the Ferris wheel problem was rightly their responsibility. But the Masonic Lodge was in charge of the festival and the fine finger of scorn was mostly pointed at them. It was months before they lived down the disgrace. Lizzy was determined that the Dahlias were going to do a better job. As the Dahlias’ president, she wasn’t about to let the club’s sterling reputation be besmirched by a few unexpected incidents. She was even more determined, because she knew that this would be the most exciting festival ever. This year, the festival was going to feature a special, never-been-done-before event that had the whole town buzzing.

  Well. Now that we’ve come this far in our story, it’s time to pause for a few words about the Darling Dahlias. The club was founded in the mid-1920s by Mrs. Dahlia Blackstone, who died after wearing herself out in decades of community service and left her small white frame cottage at 302 Camellia Street to the town’s garden club. The club promptly renamed itself the Darling Dahlias in honor of this generous lady and committed itself to the beautification of Darling, one blossom at a time.

  With the cottage, the Dahlias inherited almost an acre of once-beautiful flower gardens, as well as a half-acre vegetable garden in the adjoining lot. The yard in front of the cottage was planted with wisteria, azaleas, Mrs. Blackstone’s prize hydrangeas, and the old-fashioned wiegelas that came from her mother—an everyday-pretty Southern front yard that people admired as they drove down Camellia Street.

  But it was the garden behind the house that people liked to talk about. It had once been truly spectacular, sweeping down a sloping, velvety green lawn toward a stately cucumber magnolia, a clump of woods, and a small, clear spring smothered in ferns, bog iris, and pitcher plants. The borders and beds were rich in roses and camellias, iris, stokesia, hibiscus, and dozens of different lilies—along with a rainbow of brightly colored annuals. It was so beautiful that it had been written up in the Selma Times-Journal, the Montgomery Advertiser, and in newspapers as far away as North Carolina.

  In Mrs. Blackstone’s declining years, however, the garden had gotten the best of her. Left to fend for themselves, the plants grew rowdy and rumpled and dreadfully tousled—because gardens don’t just grow, of course; they require looking after. When the gardener isn’t around to pay the right kind of attention, plants have a tendency to wander off in whatever way they prefer, putting out a bud here and a branch there and dropping seeds (or extending roots) into their neighbors’ bed. Withou
t the gardener, a garden quickly becomes a disorderly, unruly place.

  As a result, when the Dahlias inherited Mrs. Blackstone’s garden, it was no longer as tidy as it was when Mrs. Blackstone could put on her garden gloves and get out there every day. The ladies had to arm themselves with rakes and hoes and trowels and clippers and set about restoring the necessary botanical order—which they did, although the job took the entire summer and most of the following autumn. Now, although there was always plenty of weeding, trimming, pruning, and even planting to be done, the Dahlias were pretty much ready to rest on their laurels as far as their “show” garden was concerned.

  But then (as if they hadn’t already worked hard enough) Lizzy and the other club officers decided that it would be smart to use the vacant lot next to the clubhouse to grow vegetables. Times were hard, and people needed beans and okra and corn and tomatoes even more than they needed roses and camellias and gladiolas—although as Aunt Hetty Little liked to point out, a life without a few glads is a very sad life indeed. The Dahlias sold their vegetables, cheaply, at the Saturday farmers’ market on the square. And what they didn’t sell, they gave away to people who were hard up for cash—including some of their very own Dahlias who were having a tough time making ends meet.

  So they hired old Mr. Norris and his bay gelding, Racer, to plow up Mrs. Blackstone’s empty lot, where they planted snap peas, corn, green beans, collards, Swiss chard, okra, Southern peas (purple hull was the hands-down favorite), tomatoes, peppers, eggplants, squash, cantaloupes, cucumbers, and sweet potatoes. This month, the garden was yielding its summer produce in great abundance. They would be selling it at their booth at the Watermelon Festival, with Aunt Hetty Little in charge. They planned to use the money to buy a pressure cooker and a case of Mason jars with new lids and rings. That way, they could can up the vegetables and give them to the Darling Family Food Pantry.

  “How’s the work coming, Aunt Hetty?” Lizzy asked. “Do you need any extra help?”

  “Not if all the Dahlias show up for work on Friday afternoon,” Aunt Hetty said. She might be eighty years old, but she was well-organized and had a reputation for getting things done. “The Kentucky Wonders really took off and there are a lot of green beans to pick. There’ll be several bushels of sweet corn, as well as tomatoes, okra, eggplants, and squash—not to mention the watermelons. Lucy Murphy volunteered to load it all into that old Buick of Ralph’s and cart it off to the fairgrounds. Ralph has been laid up with a bad back, but if he’s able, Lucy volunteered him to set up shelves in the tent for our boxes and baskets and such.”

  Everybody had to chuckle at that, for they all knew that, in spite of being young and pretty, Lucy wore the pants in the Murphy family. Bad back or not, Ralph would be setting up the shelves—and his two teenaged sons (by the first Mrs. Murphy) would be lending him a hand. The second Mrs. Murphy would see to it or know the reason why.

  “I’ll ask Myra May to call the members and remind them of the picking party on Friday afternoon,” Lizzy said, making a note. Myra May and her friend Violet Sims owned the Darling Diner and were half owners of the Darling Telephone Exchange (with Whitey Whitworth, who owned the other half). Myra May was the communications chairwoman for the club, and whenever there was telephoning to do, she took care of it. Since many of the members were on party lines, a few calls went a long way toward bringing everyone up to date.

  “I ran into Bessie Bloodworth at Mann’s Mercantile this morning,” Mildred put in. She sipped her lemonade. “She said she made an extra dozen half-pint jars of strawberry jam just for our booth. She’ll bring them on Saturday morning.”

  “Oh, wonderful!” Aunt Hetty exclaimed. “People are crazy for Bessie’s strawberry jam.” She made a note on her notepad. “Does anybody know whether Obadiah Carlson has got enough watermelons to give us some?” Every year, the Watermelon Festival offered all the free watermelon that festival-goers could eat. It was Aunt Hetty’s job to round up the watermelons.

  “I saw him at the courthouse yesterday and he said he’d bring a couple dozen,” Lizzy replied. “And Alice Ann says her Arnold has a wagonload for us, if somebody’ll come and get them.”

  “Mr. Norris told me he’d bring a wheelbarrow full,” Verna chimed in. “His patch is in the field behind my house. He’s got some good-looking melons.” She grinned. “He was out there last night with his shotgun, threatening to pepper the backsides of a couple young kids he caught raiding.”

  “If they’ll just wait a few days, they’ll get all the watermelon they want for free,” Aunt Hetty said tartly, adding Obadiah Carlson, Arnold Walker, and Mr. Norris to her watermelon list. “Everybody, if you hear about any more contributions, please let me know. One thing’s for sure, we don’t want to run out. That would be almost as bad as running out of hot dogs.” She scowled. “Or the Ferris wheel breaking down again.”

  “Neither of which is going to happen as long as the Dahlias are in charge,” Lizzy said, but with greater conviction than she felt. For some reason—or for no reason at all, she didn’t know which—she was apprehensive about the festival. Something always happened, like Mrs. Peabody’s broken nose. What would it be this year?

  She pushed away the worry. “Now, let’s go down this list of chores. Aunt Hetty, you’re done.” She put a checkmark by the first item. “I’m doing publicity. I guess you’ve all seen the articles in the Dispatch.” Lizzy was the right person for this job, since she wrote a garden column for the Darling newspaper and found it easy to write up the publicity for the festival. “I’ve also sent announcements to the Monroe Journal and the Mobile Register,” she added.

  Mobile was two hours away by car, but city folks might like to make a day of it at a country festival—especially with this year’s big attraction. In addition, Charlie Dickens, the Dispatch editor and proprietor of the town’s printing shop, had printed up fifty fliers announcing the festival and Lizzie paid Old Zeke fifty cents to put them up all over town and out at the Dance Barn on Briarwood Road, and the Watering Hole. Because of the very special event, they were hoping to attract the biggest crowd ever.

  “Verna, what about you?” Lizzy asked, going to the next item. “Have you made the arrangements for the tents?”

  Verna was responsible for making sure that the tents and booths were set up and ready for their occupants. She also had to manage the tickets, and supervise the volunteers who cleaned up the fairgrounds after the weekend was over. Altogether, this was a big job, but Verna was the acting county treasurer, the first woman ever to hold that position in Cypress County. She was good at getting things done because she was the one who knew where the bodies were buried. She didn’t have to say one single word: she just looked at people with those dark, searching eyes of hers and they decided they’d better do whatever they were supposed to do, right now.

  “The tents are supposed to arrive on Wednesday afternoon by train,” Verna said, “from the rental agency in Mobile that supplied them last time. The guys from the Masonic Lodge are setting them up on Friday morning. The Chamber of Commerce will be manning the ticket booth, starting Friday evening. I think we’re all set.”

  Lizzy made another checkmark. “Mildred, you’re next. What’s up with the Odd Fellows? I truly hope they haven’t booked the same carnival they brought in last year.”

  “Amen to that,” Aunt Hetty said fervently.

  “They wouldn’t dare,” Verna said in a dark tone.

  “They didn’t,” Mildred said. “They’ve booked an outfit called Tinker’s Traveling Carnival. The hard times have driven a lot of the smaller carnivals out of business. But they finally located Tinker’s, and they hope it will work out.”

  “Tinker’s Traveling Carnival.” Lizzy made a note. “When are they getting in?”

  “Thursday night, on the railroad,” Mildred replied. “They’ll set up on Friday and open in time for the Family Fun Night Friday evening.” She looked around the tab
le. “And yes, there will be a Ferris wheel, which the Odd Fellows guarantee will not break down.”

  Verna chuckled. “Can the Odd Fellows put that in writing?”

  Mildred ignored her. “There will also be a merry-go-round, a pedal-car ride for the kiddies, and games for everybody—shooting gallery, high-striker, baseball throw, coin toss, and darts. Oh, and the usual cotton candy and hot buttered popcorn machines.”

  Aunt Hetty shook her head. “Lots of ways for young people to spend money they don’t have, just for a little fun.”

  “But people need fun,” Mildred protested. “Especially these days, when everybody is worrying about something.” She sighed heavily.

  Lizzy doubted that Mildred had anything to worry about. She and Roger lived a picture-perfect life. They had a beautiful house, a lovely young daughter, and financial security. But now that she thought about it, Lizzie believed that Mildred had been looking a bit wan and worried for the past couple of weeks, as if something serious was bothering her. This was unusual for Mildred, who was usually a happy-go-lucky, carefree person.

  “People don’t short themselves where fun is concerned,” Verna put in. “Mr. Greer says movie attendance is better than ever.” Don Greer and his wife Charlotte ran the Palace Theater on the courthouse square. Even though it cost a quarter to see a movie, it was one of the most popular places in town. “He says people would rather skip a meal than miss the latest Gable or Garbo,” she added.