“You sure she won’t talk to us?” I insisted. “I’d really like to apologize to her. What I mean is that Sarah would like to apologize. Isn’t that right, dear?”
Mr. Beedle pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Tell you what. Why don’t we sit for a spell on the porch? When she sees you ain’t leaving anytime soon, maybe she’ll come out and say somethin’. But I wouldn’t bet on it.”
It sounded good to me. I didn’t have any pressing engagements and, besides, it would give me a chance to get to know Paul. We pulled our coats a little tighter and took chairs on the porch. He had a small outdoor stove going, so we leaned in to warm our hands and he started to brew some coffee in a dented blue coffeepot on the cooktop. He broke open the brownies and offered one to Sarah, who was more than happy to eat it. Then he carefully loaded his pipe, lit it, leaned back in his rocker, took a deep draw, and blew a tight little smoke ring into the cool, autumn afternoon.
“Do it again!” Sarah exclaimed.
He sat quiet for a while, puffing on his pipe and blowing smoke rings. Then he turned an eye to me and said, “Preacher, you’re new to small-town life, sure as I’m sitting here. Has anyone told you about Boomtown’s history?”
“No, I don’t know much about it. My wife and I wanted to move the kids out of California, so we applied to several small churches here in Washington. When Boomtown Church called, it was just what we were looking for—a small town, rural area, down-to-earth people—a way for us to stay in the ministry but get away from the big city. So here we are. I probably should have done more homework; then maybe I wouldn’t have been so surprised.”
“Oh? Surprised by what?”
“Everything! Like the name Boomtown. I thought it was like one of those towns that spring up all of a sudden; you know, a town that grows really fast. I never took it literally—a town that’s always blowing stuff up. BOOMtown? Who’d have guessed it?”
Mr. Beedle smiled as he leaned over to pour two mugs of coffee from the freshly brewed pot and handed one of them to me. “Well, son, you really shoulda done your research, ’cause how Boomtown got its name is an interestin’ tale if there ever was one. If you’ve got some time on yer hands, I’ll tell it to you. Maybe by then Corine will poke her head out and say boo.”
I sat back to nurse my coffee and listen to Paul’s account of Boomtown history. What follows is my recollection of his story, as best I can remember:
“Boomtown wasn’t always called by that name. It used to be a spot situated between nowhere and someplace else. It was a hodgepodge of tents and shacks thrown up way back in the days of the railroad. There was the main stretch of railroad that reached from coast to coast, but with more folks coming out West, they started adding branch lines north and south. This was back when the northwestern United States was still mostly Indians, buffalo, and a few brave pioneers.
“One day, a Chinese man named Chang showed up in the area. Like his countrymen, he worked his way across the United States as an explosives expert for the railroad. He had learned how to work gunpowder from his father, Bang, and his grandfather, Zang. His talent was in great demand by the railroad companies. He could take the smallest pinch of his homemade gun-powder and blow the spots off a ladybug without killing it, that’s what they say. He was the best in the business.
“The building of the transcontinental railroad was sparked by the California Gold Rush in 1848. By 1850, the gold started to peter out, but there were still plenty of prospectors infected with gold fever, and they weren’t ready to give up so easily. So they abandoned California and disappeared into the wilderness, seeking their fortune in the hills and mountains of Nevada, Oregon, Montana, Washington, and the Yukon. Once Chang reached the West Coast, he quit the railroad and followed the fortune hunters north and supplied them with gunpowder.
“’Round here, there was a certain prospector who struck a mighty vein of gold—right up yonder over there on Rocket Ridge—you can see it from here. Word spread quickly until every hillside was covered with mining operations. Chang was right in the thick of it. He was the main supplier of high-grade black powder for opening mines and blasting tunnels. The Washington gold rush turned Chang into a very popular and wealthy man.
“A small town sprung up—shops, grocers, a black-smith, a school, a church. People came and stayed. Soon there was the prettiest little town you ever saw, nestled on the top of a hill with Chang as one of its richest citizens. To celebrate his good fortune, Chang threw a huge party every Fourth of July and invited everyone from miles around. They would come to see his magnificent fireworks and rockets and firecrackers. The future was looking bright for everybody.
“But Chang wasn’t satisfied. He was always itching for new ways to use his gunpowder. He was the one who invented the exploding welcome mat—maybe you’ve heard of it—Chang’s Ding-Dong-So-Long, available from Martin’s Mercantile in the main square. Only $4.95 plus tax. An elegant way to scare off those pesky traveling salesmen.
“Chang was also the one who came up with the handy, easy-to-use Chang’s Drain Gun. No more clogged drains. Just put the rubber flange against the sink opening and pull the trigger.
“Then he came up with the Tree Magician, a combination drill and plug kit. ‘Removes Trees Like Magic,’ or so the package claims. Drill a few holes, stuff four to five bomb packets into the root mass, light the fuse, and stand back. Guaranteed to relocate the tree or your money back.
“Next came Chang’s TNT Tea Bags, in convenient two-ounce packets. Steep one teabag in a gallon of rubbing alcohol for one hour, pour, and light. Useful for starting campfires (or burning down barns if you aren’t careful).
“Chang also experimented with mixing gunpowder with fertilizer to put in his garden. From the beginning, he met with mixed results: zucchinis that exploded on impact, pumpkins that popped, apples that blew holes in the ground when they fell off the tree. But through trial and error, Chang managed to work out a stable formula that eventually produced remarkable results.
“Soon he was selling Chang’s Popcorn (every kernel guaranteed to pop), Chang’s Firecrackers (gunpowder-laced wheat crackers that’ll cure the most stubborn case of constipation), and Chang’s Hotcakes (pancakes that explode when stepped on). It’s a great way for getting gophers to relocate—and they taste pretty good with maple syrup (the pancakes, I mean, not the gophers).
“But probably his most famous invention happened entirely by accident. Some of his POPcorn got mixed in with the regular feed he gave to his chickens. One afternoon, one of the chickens tripped in the hen house and boom! Scrambled eggs and fried chicken.
“Chang was absolutely mortified. He loved that chicken. But it gave him a crazy idea. Nobody knows how he did it—it’s still a carefully guarded Fireworks Factory secret—but somehow he came up with a way to turn regular chicken eggs into exploding chicken eggs.
“It took some trial and error. At one point, he must have used too much gunpowder because he blew the roof off his lab and knocked over his neighbor’s fence. Scared the fur off his dog too. But after some more tinkering, Chang got the mixture just right. The eggs were golden yellow with gray speckles and had an extra thick shell. If you were careful and handled them correctly, they were more or less safe. He decided to call them Hen Grenades.
“He contacted the U.S. Army and was soon doing a brisk business supplying the military with the little egg bombs. Very few people know this, but them eggs were an important secret weapon during the first World War. The Allies in France were able to sneak ammunition through enemy lines disguised as break-fast, a dozen Hen Grenades at a time.
“’Course, not all of Chang’s ideas were successful. There was Chang’s Dandruff Destroyer. It was supposed to get rid of dandruff—that it did. It also removed a person’s hair. Very bad.
“There was the Chang BOOMerang. Throw it at crows to scare ’em out of your fields, and then it comes back to you. Unfortunately, there was a slight problem with the timing mechanism. Very, very bad.
“Then there was Chang’s Bee Blaster Kit. It included a ten-foot pole and a long fuse so you could insert a blast pack into a bee’s nest to scare ’em off. Chang had to give out quite a few refunds for that one. It was very, very bad.
“In spite of a few setbacks, most of Chang’s inventions worked. Of course, in order to support all of his operations, he needed a steady supply of raw mate-rials. Chang stumbled onto a rich deposit of sulfur, leftover from volcano explosions in the area. The second ingredient—charcoal—he got by burning oak and hickory trees, which were all over the place, and Chang’s neighbors were more than happy to donate ashes from their stoves and fireplaces. For the final ingredient, Chang demanded the highest-grade salt-peter. Chang got permission from the miners to gather bat guano from inside the mining caves that dotted these hills like rabbit warrens.
“Soon he was producing his own black powder out of a small barn on his property. It had two vats for distilling and a big grinding stone. But the more his inventions caught on, the more he needed to expand his operations. In a few years, his powder factory was the biggest business in the area, with demand for Chang’s Super Rich Black Powder coming from the railroads, the military, and mining companies all over the country. An entire cottage industry sprung up around it: a dynamite-making business, a gun-smith and bullet-making company, and, of course, Chang’s Famous Fireworks Factory, where some of the best fireworks in the world are still being made.
“It was at that point, in 1878, when the citizens, under the leadership of Councilman Alden Purdy, drew up the town charter and filed papers with the state applying for recognition as a duly formed township. In gratitude for the important contributions Chang had made, they wanted the new city to be named after him: Changville, Changton, or Chang City.
“But Chang refused. He was a shy man and didn’t want the credit focused in his direction. He said, ‘We built this town together—not just one person, but all of us. Many thanks, but I don’t want the town named after me.’
“That’s when Councilman Purdy, soon to be Mayor Purdy, made a brilliant suggestion: ‘Let’s add an “e” to the end of Chang’s name and call the town Change.’ Everyone agreed, and Change, Washington, was born on May 18, 1878.
“The town adopted the motto ‘Change Is for the Better’ and the chicken as its official mascot. That’s why you’ll find a chicken on the egg-shaped town seal, encircled by the motto and holding two crossed sticks of dynamite in its claws. And in spite of his objections, you’ll also find a statue of Chang erected in the middle of Town Square. It’s out in front of the courthouse, with two chickens in his lap and one at his feet. And right there on the monument, you’ll find these words carved in stone: ‘Chang, Founding Father of Change, Washington. September 8, 1830 – April 12, 1892.’”
Mr. Beedle fell silent and leaned back in his rocking chair and sipped his coffee. He noticed the look of confusion on my face. He was just waiting for me to ask the question he knew I was going to ask.
“This isn’t Change, Washington. It’s Boomtown. And it isn’t on a hill. It’s mostly flat. It doesn’t fit your story.”
Paul smiled and said, “Well, young feller, that’s a mystery, of course, since the only one who really knows what happened is Chang himself. He died on the same day the town of Change changed forever, so of course we can’t ask him. You could ask Olaf Stevenson or maybe Klaus Kanderhoffen if you get the chance. They lived here back in those days.”
Sarah persisted. “But what happened? Why’d they change the name of the town?”
“Well, young lady, there’s a couple of theories floating around, but here’s what I think. It was way too dangerous to be storing the gunpowder and dynamite and fireworks and Hen Grenades and everything else Chang was making right out in the open. All you needed was a spark, and this whole town’d go up like a tinderbox!
“So Chang started stockpiling the inventory down in the caves and tunnels that were dug all over the place, like holes in Swiss cheese. It was a pretty good idea, seeing that there were miles and miles of tunnels down there, what with the mining for gold and then the digging for sulfur. Besides, it was as dry as a cigar box down under the ground.”
“That was a good idea!” Sarah said.
“Maybe so, maybe not. Some think another one of Chang’s chickens got loose and went down into the tunnels. It got into a stockpile of POPcorn, and you remember what happened the first time! Chang went chasing after it as it flew from one cave into the next. The story goes that the chicken flew up onto a shelf and it started to cluck like crazy. When the bird got finished, there was a fresh new Hen Grenade. ’Course, it was round, so it started to roll down the shelf—Chang dove in there and almost caught it.
And then . . .”
“What? What happened?”
“Nothin’. The egg was a dud. It just bounced.”
“It didn’t blow up?”
“Nope. But that’s not the end of the story. Chang was so happy that he started jumping up and down and cheering. Scared the chicken half to death, and it laid another egg—BOOM! Up went the chicken. Up went the gunpowder. No more Chang.”
I looked out over the fields in front of us, as flat as the eye could see with hills rising up in the distance. “But you said this town was on top of a hill. We’re in a valley.”
“That’s what I said. It used to be on a hill, until that egg went kablooey. It set off a chain reaction. First the Hen Grenade, then the fireworks, then the dynamite, then the black powder, and all the sulfur and so on and so on—you get the picture. With all the explosives stored in the mining caves, it pretty much turned the hill inside out. Went up like a Roman candle—whoosh! Musta really been something to see.”
“You’re pulling my leg, right?”
“Scouts’ honor, Reverend! It was a real mess. Fortunately, no one else died in the blast, but it took more’n five years to rebuild everything. After that, they changed the name to Boomtown. You really should stop by the Boomtown Museum and take a look. And you oughta take a closer look at that purty statue of Chang in Town Square. There’s a plaque beside it that tells some of the story.”
I glanced at my watch and saw that it was getting late. But there was still no sign of Mrs. Beedle. “I was hoping to talk to Corine today. You sure we can’t smooth things over before we leave?”
Mr. Beedle squinted at me and said, “Well, Reverend, I’m sure you know your business better than I do, but some things don’t ever get fixed. Try as hard as you want, Mrs.
Beedle may never come around. She’s pretty stubborn.”
“I don’t believe that. I like to think that you can fix any-thing if you try hard enough.”
Mr. Beedle shook his head. “You think so? I’m not so sure. But I’ll tell you what. I haven’t been to church in years, but I like you. I’ll tell Corine that if she’ll go back to church, I’ll go with her. That oughta do it. She’s been trying to save my sorry soul since before we was hitched. I’ll see you this Sunday, Reverend, how’s that sound?”
“Okay, sure. I guess so. Thank you, Paul,” I said, accepting his offer.
Sarah and I shook his hand and then waved good-bye from the car window as I drove away thinking about what he’d said. How was I any different than Corine? I could be as stubborn as a mule. I wanted everything to run smoothly. I wanted everything to be calm and predictable. I thought if everyone would just follow the rules and behave properly, then we’d all be at peace.
Was that fair? What if people couldn’t be the way I wanted them to be? What if Paul was right? What if some things couldn’t be worked out? Was there enough mercy in my world to make room for people who didn’t fit?
As promised, Paul was in church that Sunday, and so was Corine (without a cane or walker, I might add). After church, we went out to lunch and then Paul took me into Town Square to take a closer look at the statue. There was Chang sitting on a chair, surrounded by chickens, with his name carved on the pedestal just like he’d told me. I hadn’t noticed it befor
e, but the town motto was inscribed underneath: CHANGE IS FOR THE BETTER.
I thought, Maybe it is. Maybe I ought to try it sometime.
CHAPTER 7
A Boomtown Christmas
On Mondays, I always try to get a slow start: Sleep in until 8:00 a.m. Kiss the kids good-bye on their way to school. Eat a light breakfast. Drink coffee. Read the paper. Walk to the church office. I love Mondays.
Janice was out the door ahead of me on her way to help some of the ladies decorate the sanctuary for Christmas. “Some of the decorations are in bad shape, so I suggested we get together and make some new ones. Wait until you see how they look!”
“It sounds like you and the ladies are getting along swim-mingly,” I said with my nose in the paper.
“Yes!” she answered cheerfully. “I missed that at our last church. I’ve got more friends now than I can count. I love it.”
“Mm-hm. That’s nice, dear. Have fun.”
My attention was consumed by what I was reading in the Stickville Times. The main headline read: Rash of Robberies Continues. The article listed the items reportedly missing:
Fred Cotton’s truck (disappeared during the storm)
Lazy Gunderson’s fence (likewise)
Tom O’Grady’s thresher (just the blades)
8 trees from the north end of André Soisson’s property
2 bicycles from in front of Martin’s Mercantile (gone in broad daylight)
42 railroad ties from the train yard, 300 feet of track Farmer Higgins’s posthole digger
600 feet of Christmas lights (off the trees in front of the courthouse)
Miscellaneous pickaxes, shovels, and pry bars
Not to mention that my lawn mower was still missing!
No explanation was given in the article. No eyewitnesses. No clues. No suspects. Mayor Tanaka of Boomtown and Mayor Touissaint of Stickville formed a joint task force and authorized Sheriff Burton Ernie to deputize as many men as he needed in order to bring the crime spree to an end. Everyone was encouraged to be on the lookout for the “criminal or gang of thieves who may or may not be armed and dangerous.”
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