rest of the day passed in a blur. After the parade, everyone walked over to the meetinghouse, where the ladies of the Circle were waiting with hearts eager to serve the Lord through the ministry of chicken and noodles. Addie ladled out the first serving as Bob Miles snapped her picture for the Herald.
The Circle labored over the steam table through the afternoon, dishing out their heavenly concoctions. They never faltered, not once. When the last plate was served, Fern looked at the clicker in her hand. Seven hundred and eighty-three meals, she announced to the Circle. A record. Then her voice caught, and she burst into tears.
Sam and Barbara and their boys stayed past six o’clock, helping clean up, then walked home in the late summer evening underneath the canopy of maple trees that arched over the streets.
“What a day this has been,” Sam said, as he slid his arm around Barbara and pulled her near.
“Yes, indeed,” Barbara agreed, settling into his embrace.
“Gross,” Levi said. “They’re going to kiss.”
“Right in front of God and everybody,” Sam said, and kissed Barbara flush on the lips.
The boys groaned with disgust.
“I’m proud of you,” Sam told Barbara.
“What for?”
“For not entering the Sausage Queen contest. It would have been a terrible embarrassment to the other girls when you got all the votes.”
“You think?” Barbara asked, with a chuckle.
“I know,” Sam said. “I know.”
Eleven
A Long Stretch of Afternoon
T he end of September found Asa Peacock in his barn, staring out at the rain, listening to the weatherman on the radio prophesy an even wetter October. Miniature rivers coursed through the fields, carrying the topsoil down to the creek. Much more of this and his land would belong to a farmer downstream. A northwest wind had blown for three days and was starting to lay the beans over. Asa was wishing he’d gone into the insurance business like his brother. Fifty-six years old and retired down in Florida, golfing every day without a worry in the world.
It was twelve o’clock and off in the distance he could hear the noon whistle from the fire station in town. Vinny would be serving ham and beans at the Coffee Cup. Ham and beans on Monday, meat loaf on Tuesday, Wednesday was beef manhattan day, spaghetti on Thursday, and a fish sandwich on Friday if you were Catholic, a cheeseburger if you weren’t.
He was on his own for lunch. Jessie had driven up to the city to visit her sister. He ran across the barnyard, hopscotching around the puddles, and into the mudroom, where he pulled his boots off. He surveyed the leftovers in the refrigerator and elected to go with ham and beans at the Coffee Cup.
It was a ten-minute drive. He drove slowly, observing the runoff in the ditches and stopping on the bridge over the White Lick Creek to watch the frothy torrent of water and mud. He went past the Hodges’ farm. A combine was stuck in the mud up to its axles. Ellis would never live that down.
People have long memories in Harmony. Stanley Farlow blew up his truck twenty years ago and people talk about it as if it were yesterday. It happened in the fall, about this time of year. He’d doused a brush pile with gasoline, thrown a match on it, and hustled back to his truck. To his eternal regret, his truck became mired in the mud ten feet from the brush pile. The fire crept across the grass and began licking at the tires. It took him three minutes to run the half mile back to the barn for his tractor, an impressive time for an elderly gentleman wearing clodhoppers, though not impressive enough. They heard the explosion all the way to town.
Asa rolled down Main Street. The square was thick with farmers waiting for the front to pass. He had to park two blocks away, in the funeral home parking lot, then hoof it through the rain over to the Coffee Cup. He stepped through the door, shook off the rain, and looked around for a seat. There was only one open, next to Dale Hinshaw
The Circle labored over the steam table through the afternoon, dishing out their heavenly concoctions. They never faltered, not once. When the last plate was served, Fern looked at the clicker in her hand. Seven hundred and eighty-three meals, she announced to the Circle. A record. Then her voice caught, and she burst into tears.
Sam and Barbara and their boys stayed past six o’clock, helping clean up, then walked home in the late summer evening underneath the canopy of maple trees that arched over the streets.
“What a day this has been,” Sam said, as he slid his arm around Barbara and pulled her near.
“Yes, indeed,” Barbara agreed, settling into his embrace.
“Gross,” Levi said. “They’re going to kiss.”
“Right in front of God and everybody,” Sam said, and kissed Barbara flush on the lips.
The boys groaned with disgust.
“I’m proud of you,” Sam told Barbara.
“What for?”
“For not entering the Sausage Queen contest. It would have been a terrible embarrassment to the other girls when you got all the votes.”
“You think?” Barbara asked, with a chuckle.
“I know,” Sam said. “I know.”
Eleven
A Long Stretch of Afternoon
T he end of September found Asa Peacock in his barn, staring out at the rain, listening to the weatherman on the radio prophesy an even wetter October. Miniature rivers coursed through the fields, carrying the topsoil down to the creek. Much more of this and his land would belong to a farmer downstream. A northwest wind had blown for three days and was starting to lay the beans over. Asa was wishing he’d gone into the insurance business like his brother. Fifty-six years old and retired down in Florida, golfing every day without a worry in the world.
It was twelve o’clock and off in the distance he could hear the noon whistle from the fire station in town. Vinny would be serving ham and beans at the Coffee Cup. Ham and beans on Monday, meat loaf on Tuesday, Wednesday was beef manhattan day, spaghetti on Thursday, and a fish sandwich on Friday if you were Catholic, a cheeseburger if you weren’t.
He was on his own for lunch. Jessie had driven up to the city to visit her sister. He ran across the barnyard, hopscotching around the puddles, and into the mudroom, where he pulled his boots off. He surveyed the leftovers in the refrigerator and elected to go with ham and beans at the Coffee Cup.
It was a ten-minute drive. He drove slowly, observing the runoff in the ditches and stopping on the bridge over the White Lick Creek to watch the frothy torrent of water and mud. He went past the Hodges’ farm. A combine was stuck in the mud up to its axles. Ellis would never live that down.
People have long memories in Harmony. Stanley Farlow blew up his truck twenty years ago and people talk about it as if it were yesterday. It happened in the fall, about this time of year. He’d doused a brush pile with gasoline, thrown a match on it, and hustled back to his truck. To his eternal regret, his truck became mired in the mud ten feet from the brush pile. The fire crept across the grass and began licking at the tires. It took him three minutes to run the half mile back to the barn for his tractor, an impressive time for an elderly gentleman wearing clodhoppers, though not impressive enough. They heard the explosion all the way to town.
Asa rolled down Main Street. The square was thick with farmers waiting for the front to pass. He had to park two blocks away, in the funeral home parking lot, then hoof it through the rain over to the Coffee Cup. He stepped through the door, shook off the rain, and looked around for a seat. There was only one open, next to Dale Hinshaw
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