Slightly frazzled, Iris Jo explained in her kind way that she did not have time for the jaunt. "I would love to go with you, but I just don't see how I can. I'm still trying to close out the books for the year and am a little behind, what with all the changes. May I see your keys, please?"
Digging around in my envelopes, she fished out a key. "Do you think you might take a look by yourself? Or, I could ask Tammy to take you. She might be able to get away."
Riding with Tammy would thwart my escape, so I took the key. "No problem," I said. "I can check it out on my own. It'll help me get the lay of the land."
"Here's how to get there," Iris said. She jotted down directions that included a gravel road, a house trailer with three dogs in the front yard, and a small church. I immediately surmised I was not being offered one of the famed McCuller condos on the lake.
During the past seventy-two hours I had beaten myself up pretty good for my lack of preparation for this move, including nailing down a place to live. I had to keep reminding myself I had done the best I could-saying goodbye, covering holiday shifts, studying my new paper.
"Thanks, Iris Jo, for all your help. I'll be fine." My words were more confident than my spirit at that moment.
As I walked through the building, Alex, the reporter in a pair of torn jeans and a faded T-shirt, stopped me and asked for my bio and a quote or two for the news announcement the next day. "I'd like to take a mug shot of you before you get away too."
I was embarrassed that I had not even thought of the story for the paper. My journalism skills were already slipping.
I sat down for a quick interview and typed out some quotes, not trusting him to get it right. "Don't we have a photographer on staff?" I asked, knowing I had seen a name on the payroll sheets, in addition to a parking spot labeled "Photographer."
"Oh, yeah," Alex said. "He works part-time and takes photos for advertising and news. I think he's out shooting some houses for the real estate pages today. I usually shoot my own art. Unless it's a really big story, you know."
It took only a split second for him to realize that didn't sound right. "I mean breaking news, you know, spot news, that kind of stuff. We can handle mugs, portraits, whatever you want to call them."
So I stood in the front of the building and let Alex shoot me. He chattered as he snapped away, with the blunt speech of most young reporters. "I've been at the paper about six months and appreciate being part of your farm club. This will serve me well when I get ready to move to a bigger paper. I can learn a lot from a woman owner from out of state. A new perspective, you know."
He snapped another photo and glanced at his watch. "Well, got to go. Time for the police jury meeting." Before I could collect my thoughts, he sprinted to his car, with his tennis shoes slapping the pavement.
I walked slowly into the building and stopped to ask Tammy my own quick questions. "Tammy, what is a police jury meeting? And why do we have a list of names painted on the window?" The list had grown by two since I came in that morning.
"The police jury, they're like the governing body of the parish, you know, Bouef Parish. Green's the parish seat for Bouef Parish. We don't have counties down here in Louisiana." She sort of drawled out the word "Louisiana" in a nice way, in between hemming and hawing. "You probably know it's spelled B-o-u-e-f, but it's pronounced Beff, kind of like the name Jeff." I remembered Ed telling me the same thing and felt my throat tighten.
"Anyway, the police jury runs lots of legal announcements-good money for us and sometimes some juicy stuff in there. You just wouldn't believe who don't pay their taxes." She took a breath. "Lately, they've been discussing a new subdivision or something that Major Wilson and his group want to develop on the lake. Not quite sure about all that."
Tammy paused to pick up the phone, hitting one of two lines and sounding quite pleasant to the person who wanted to place a wedding announcement in the paper.
"How much do we charge for those?" I asked when she got off. She looked surprised.
"Charge? For weddings? What do you mean? They're free." I could tell my question had set off a mild panic, as though we were about to end a centuries long tradition and cheat people out of their right to be in the paper for free. I was considering just that.
I asked again about the names painted on the window. I had never seen anything like it, and I could not figure it out, which bugged me.
"Oh, those are people who have died since the paper came out," she said, matter-of-factly. "Funeral homes fax them in from all over the area. I put them up there every day so people will know who they need to visit at the funeral home, get their food ready, that sort of thing. I mean, I do it every weekday ... not weekends. Tom in the newsroom usually comes in on weekends to post them. You'd be surprised how many folks come by to take a look every day."
Then, as if remembering my question about paid weddings, she said, "It's a real community service ... and we run their obits in the paper on Tuesdays or Fridays. That's free too. Birth announcements too. You know, Miss Lois, everyone ought to get their name in the paper for free when they are born, get married, and die. And we do wedding anniversaries for free, too, from twenty-five years on up."
I now owned and had to make a profit from a paper that offered free everything and painted a list of death notices on the front window. Perhaps I should revisit my prayer for wisdom.
5
Green police made a traffic stop on Main Street after several 911 calls that a Mercedes Benz was driving erratically and there appeared to be no one at the wheel. Upon stopping the car, police discovered the driver was a seven-year old who had taken his father's car for a spin in retaliation for his dad not buying him a new skateboard. No arrests were made.
-The Green News-Item
In my mind, my new home was a nice little rental cottage within a couple of miles of the paper. I was surprised, therefore, when Iris Jo's directions led me out to one of the main highways, away from the lake, and away from civilization as best I could tell. There were lots of woods everywhere-piney woods they were called in the regional advertising materials -a deserted cotton gin, and what looked to be agricultural acreage and ponds with pumps in them.
I found Grace Community Chapel and turned onto the gravel road and past the "house where the new lady preacher lives" and the "coach's trailer with three dogs in the front yard." I passed another pond or two and then a tidy house on the right, with green shingle siding. A small fake windmill sat in the front yard, and a fishing boat was parked to the side. Iris Jo had told me she lived there.
Slowly, I drove "exactly two miles" down the road, hoping not to ding my windshield and looking for a mailbox labeled Route 2, Box 32. "My" house would be sitting back a piece on the left, according to Iris Jo, and would have a screened porch, a garage, and a big cottonwood tree in the side yard. The house belonged to Aunt Helen McCuller-"Ain't" Helen as the local people pronounced it, a woman who had gone to the nursing home a year or so ago. One of the McCuller kids had lived there for a while before moving to Dallas to take a CPA job. It had been vacant since.
Turning in, my heart rose and sank. "Quaint" might be the word to describe the place. In the midst of winter, brown grass covered the yard, and dead plants lined the flowerbeds. Beautiful bushes loaded with small pink flowers offered the only bright spot. The garage listed to the right, close to falling down, but the house itself looked decent.
Opening the front door with the same fortitude with which I had entered the Lakeside Motel the evening before, I was amazed at how chilled a vacant house in winter could be. A musty smell hit me. This was not the awful been-empty-foryears smell but one of fairly recent paint and what was probably Louisiana dampness. As I wandered through, I noted with delight the wood floors and with dismay the space heaters and ancient avocado appliances.
In the war of emotions I had waged for weeks now, I won a minor victory here, although I had to quickly analyze it. The house offered free rent for a year but was located too far from town. The sur
roundings were peaceful but sort of desolate. My antiques would look great scattered about, even if the house was a little worn around the edges.
The free rent for a year made up my mind. I could live here for my year in Green, honor Ed's original commitment, and not leave the paper in the lurch. I also needed to consider my own future in this house. The beautiful lakeside properties I'd seen in the real estate guide enticed me, but money factored into my choice to stay here.
Then a large rat ran across the kitchen.
I hate rats. I can abide spiders-even snakes-but I hate rats. I looked around for something to jump up on. My theory on rats is if you see one, there are probably a couple dozen more waiting to jump out. Nearly running to my car, I considered other housing options, such as living for a year at the Lakeside or rooming with Iris Jo or Tammy. But I could not live out here in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by fields, forests, and rodents. I started the motor, and if there'd been asphalt, I would have burned rubber out of the driveway.
Totally caught up in my housing dilemma, it took a few seconds to register that my car sounded as though a helicopter had landed on it. It limped to the side of the narrow road, and I got out, hoping I was far enough away from the trailer that the dogs wouldn't chase me. I'm one of the few people in the world who will admit to not being a dog person. I also confess to a deathly fear of dogs, from terriers to pit bulls and all models in between.
My quick inspection confirmed a flat tire. Shivering in the cold wind and dressed only in my favorite business suit and boots, I looked around. I was stranded in the boondocks within sight of a yard with three big dogs. I punched in the office number on my cell phone, hoping that News-Item truck No. 1 might take me back to town. But this was the outskirts of Green, Louisiana, and my cell phone had no receptionnot one bar.
I assessed my options yet again. I could drive on the bad tire until I reached town, probably ruining the rim; drag out the jack and spare tire and try to change my first tire ever; or I could walk toward town in hopes of finding help.
I chose the latter. Maybe someone would be at the little church.
Luck was on my side. An older-model green Taurus was parked behind the church. I know all makes of cars. It's a weird, somewhat useless base of knowledge. I suppose it might come in handy someday if I'm in a car chase or witness a bank robbery getaway. I walked around the churchyard, calling "hello," hoping the preacher's family didn't own a dog and wishing I had not left my jacket in the car.
No one answered at the house, but the side door of the church was unlocked. As I entered the dimly lit sanctuary, a distinct cozy smell greeted me. I was standing up near the choir loft, and beautiful winter light streamed through the stained glass windows. The sight shook me. How long ago that day in the college chapel seemed, even though it had only been a handful of weeks. Life could change fast.
I called out "hello" a bit louder and wandered behind the sanctuary, where there was a room with a little table and tiny chairs for children; a fellowship hall with a large coffee maker; and a small paneled office. A woman wearing a souvenir sweatshirt for a walk-a-thon sat at the desk, looking over notes. An open Bible lay nearby.
The woman jumped when I tapped on the door. "Sorry, I do that every time. I'm still not used to being in this building by myself." She looked like she was going to hug me but then held out her hand. "Jean, Jean Hours, Pastor Jean Hours." I could not say why, but it felt good to shake hands as I introduced myself and explained my predicament.
"May I use your phone, Pastor? I don't seem to have cell service out here."
"No problem," she said, moving the phone on her desk my way. "You might as well toss that cell phone. Green is notorious for weak service. But I can take care of that flat for you. I've had lots of experience lately changing tires. I've had two flats in the past six months, and one of my church members had one last week when she dropped off a cake at my house."
I tried to turn down her offer, but was glad when she would not take no for an answer. She grabbed a denim jacket hanging nearby and headed outside through a back door.
"I think God's trying to teach me something with all these tires," she said with a laugh. "I don't know-humility, patience, remembering not to be too full of myself."
She dug around in my trunk and pulled out the tiny spare and jack. "Let's see if we can find the key to unlock the lug nuts."
"I should know where that is." I leaned over beside her without a clue what she was talking about.
"Here we go." She held up a small piece of metal and knelt by my car.
I stepped back, unsure what to do. "I'm so sorry for bothering you. I know you have better things to do than roll around in the dirt for a stranger."
"I welcome the interruption," she said, breathing heavily as she hoisted the tire onto the car. "It's so quiet out here, and I was trying to pull together a sermon. It just wasn't workinga passage from James, maybe you know it, on depending on God for wisdom, on holding your tongue. I'm struggling with it-you know, new preacher jitters."
"Well, I'm not much of a Bible scholar," I said, trying to make a joke. "But I learned about it in Sunday school, I think, when I was a kid." I didn't mention I'd read the same verses that very morning in my hotel room Bible.
I handed the preacher the lug nuts, and she chatted as she tightened them. "What brings you out to Route 2 on this cold day anyway?"
"Just looking around. I'm new to the area and heard about a vacant house out here."
"You probably mean Helen McCuller's place down the road. Nice old house. This is a great community," she said. "Seems like it's out in the middle of nowhere, but it's a tight little neighborhood." Jean dusted off her hands and wiped a little grease onto her jeans. "Probably want to get your tire fixed right away," she said. "That little bitty doughnut spare is like a temporary crown on your tooth-not good for many miles."
"Thank you so much," I said. "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been here. You're the first person who ever volunteered to change a tire for me."
"Happy to help. Come on in, and I'll make us a cup of hot chocolate."
I followed her into the house behind the church, unable to figure out a way to politely decline. My heels sank into the gravel driveway.
"Welcome to my humble parsonage," she said. "Isn't that funny? I live in a parsonage. There's something just a little odd about getting a free house next door to your office."
This house reminded me of Helen's down the road, except without any sign of rats. The place was comfortable but needed work. Jean was sheepish about several pieces of furniture, including a monstrosity of a fake-wood wall unit in the living room and a large fancy dining room suite.
"Nice, eh?" she said, giving me a quick tour. "The church won't let me move those out. They bought them for their former preacher as a gift of love to be left in the parsonage when he moved, of course. He retired up to Hot Springs and couldn't care less about this furniture anyway." She looked around, as though someone might overhear. "I hate it, but I figure that battle will have to wait."
She fixed our cocoa in old Fiesta Ware cups that I loved. "Tell me about what brings you to Green," she said.
I told her about inheriting The Green News-Item. She was clearly fascinated about my ownership of the paper and my "bold new adventure," as she referred to it.
Visiting with this pastor made me happy because I could avoid going back downtown for a while. She was enthusiastic about my move, as though she had known me for years and was celebrating my great success at something I had worked hard for.
"You're going to do great," she said. "You'll be a breath of fresh air for the Green community."
A little uncomfortable with her goodwill, I began asking her questions, an interview disguised as conversation. In the next thirty minutes or so, I learned more about jean than I had known about most of my neighbors in the past few years.
"I spent more than twenty years as a schoolteacher in Baton Rouge-high school English," she said, smi
ling, "wrestling hormonal teenagers to learn about literature. Loved it."
"Why'd you leave?" I was as curious about her as she seemed about me.
"A call from the Lord. He wanted me to be a preacher, and I have to tell you, I resisted for quite some time. It was hard. I knew how to be a teacher, but this ... this really uprooted me.
She was rewarded in her new calling by being assigned to this small, dying church in rural North Louisiana about eight months ago. Oddly, she didn't seem to hold a grudge for the location or the size of the congregation, although it was clear she was trying to find her way. She sprinkled her conversation with remarks about how God was blessing her on this journey, despite what she called some "dry bones" moments.
"The hardest part has been being away from my husband," she said. "Believe it or not, I'm forty-eight years old, and this is the first time I've ever lived alone. Married the week after I graduated from college. He's still in Baton Rouge, has a good job at a bank there, and ... " Her voice trailed off, and her eyes narrowed, as though she were looking at something in the distance.
"Will your husband move here too?" The reporter in me couldn't help but ask the obvious question.
"He hasn't been able to make it yet. Comes here when he can and keeps an eye on things there-the house, the kids. Our daughter's in college in Lafayette. Our son works in Baton Rouge and has an apartment."
For the first time, Pastor Hours seemed unsure. "That's been the straw that broke the camel's back for my new church. It was bad enough to get a woman preacher, and then she turns up without her husband." She clasped her hands in front of her. "But I believe God has called me here. Some days I don't quite understand it, but this is the next step on my journey. I try hard to be faithful to that call."
Clearly embarrassed at having said so much, she switched back to me. "Green is a nice place to live, Lois. You'll settle in just fine. Just remember that people aren't all that used to newcomers here, and they don't much like change. But God sometimes wants people to change, you know. I see that all the time."
Gone to Green Page 4
