Pease River Revival

Chapter 3

Yip Yappy YowMom and Dad lived above their Pease River General Store when I was born during the Great War. By the time my two brothers arrived in swift succession, we had moved into a large two-story house with wraparound veranda on which rocked a dozen fine handmade rockers, sold exclusively in our family’s general store. We eventually influenced Jack to sell his unique furniture in Amarillo and Dallas. Although we allowed neighbors a place to sell their handmade goods, we encouraged the best artisans to advertise widely. Mom holds club meetings on the veranda when light summer breezes make it the best place to congregate and in The Best Room when bitter winter winds toss both tumbleweed and person with equal vigor. I’ll move out of my parents’ house after the cotton harvest. At last, I will be the queen in my own home, minus a king or prince; but, unlike my brothers, I’ve never felt rushed to connubial joy.

This is a busy time for our store. We run back and forth among the warehouse, stockroom, and store front; so, I’ve learned to buy new leather shoes every fall. When seasonal laborers arrive, believers and backsliders alike turn up for revival meetings. Peasy’s population doubles, as does my family’s workload and revenue. I am on my feet from sunup to after dusk, and the essential smile I wear for all customers emanates from there. By the time we lock up the store and its diner and walk two blocks home, our feet scream for a warm soapy soak and simple slippers. Surprisingly, our holiday season is slow and restful. Many of our regular customers will drive to shop in Amarillo, Lubbock, or Wichita Falls before Christmas, depending on the availability of beds in a relative’s house, and take in the city holiday excitements. But the liberal revenue our store earns during fall’s revival meetings and harvests shields our family from borrowing to pay bills -- and my parents’ business prudence explains why the town banker shops elsewhere. We’ve stayed open and growing when many small towns and their local stores are shuttering all over the Texas panhandle and caprock region. Every year since 1930 or so we’ve seen Texans’ migration, toward promising jobs in cities and away from family farms that once sustained general stores just like ours.

Had I taken a few minutes longer with the customer who points his finger in my face, demanding to know how one shovel is expensive and another cost less than a diner’s pie -- I assume that he is a supervisor and uses a shovel fewer times a year than does my granny in a week so I shove the expensive shovel into the hand he uses to jack himself off and walk away -- I would have missed this conversation between three of our town’s preeminent citizens who came to purchase tobacco: just not true at all and not fair to us, well we best speak up and write letters to the editor, make sure they drop the yippy yippy yow article or lose our subscriptions, won’t work, but why not we’ve got some influence, dishonest editors and elitist liars, who the yippy yappy writer is, don’t know, but makes us look like bumpkins and ignoramuses, well that’s you not me, too familiar – eh?, better tobacco here than anywhere else nearby, what if yippy writer is here, amongst us, not possible very articulate, humorous too, might be a traveler, you mean a gypsy, no someone who visits town to town to gather gossip...

just not true at all and not fair to us, well we best speak up and write letters to the editor, make sure they drop the yippy yippy yow article or lose our subscriptions, won’t work, but why not we’ve got some influence, dishonest editors and elitist liars, who the yippy yappy writer is, don’t know, but makes us look like bumpkins and ignoramuses, well that’s you not me, too familiar – eh?, better tobacco here than anywhere else nearby, what if yippy writer is here, amongst us, not possible very articulate, humorous too, might be a traveler, you mean a gypsy, no someone who visits town to town to gather gossip...

Although editors say that my readership increases, I had not considered the consequences of meeting the readers. ‘Yip Yappy Yow’ is my baby. Several newspapers from Dalhart to Dallas publish my weekly column but, one hundred newspapers would have to regularly publish my column for me to earn an amount I could call independent income. I live with my parents; I’m a paid employee in a general store, in a shrinking town at the intersection of throughfares on which businessman and family journey to worthier destinations. After graduating college, and with no friendlier place to hang my fedora, I returned to Mom and Dad and the general store. Over the last ten years I’ve worked to save for my own home, and I’ve aspired to an independent writing career. One worked out successfully; my ‘Yip Yappy Yow’ articles seed the other. Two published mystery novels earned little acclaim, much less income – too few readers were willing to set aside their disbelief and accept that murderers, thieves, and molesters live among solid rural folk. How can a place as pleasant as ours beget evil?

How can a place as pleasant as ours beget evil?

The encounter in our general store with readers who’ve known me since I wore diapers hits a nerve like a wake-up call. I risk exposure. I write about the people who inhabit our farming community, everyone who shops and socializes in our store. Every conversation I’m involved in or overhear becomes new material for my column. Does this new situation call for a new attitude, what Dad always meant by Grow a pair? I feel like I’m on the front lines now.

Grow a pair

“Cora Bell. Cora Bell, where are you?” Mom yells from behind the counter where she cashes out the man who had shoved a finger in my face. An assortment of shovels and pickaxes stand tented at his side. After mentally assessing the cost of his purchases, I glance at his face to see a playful wink. “Cora, please help this gentleman get all the tools to his truck. Then, Merlina Rea is here asking for you.”

We gather the tools and place them into the truck bed. “Thank you, Cora Bell. I was rude to you earlier. I apologize. Take care.” He enters the truck cab and drives away, leaving a dust cloud that makes its way into the store before I can close the entrance doors behind me.

“Oh, bother!” I head for the counter where Mom and I store a ready supply of clean hankies.

“At least it’s dry weather, dear. I hate it when our revival meetings are rained out.”

“Mom, either the Lord wants to rain on the circus, or he wants to nourish the fields.” But could be both. “Where’s Merlina Rea?” I search up and down aisles until she appears in the adjoining diner.

But could be both

“This is a good booth. Think I’ll join you for a break.” Faster than my rear can maneuver into the seat our waitress appears, and I order coffee with a pastry. Merlina Rea sucks on a straw that stands on its own in a tall root beer float. Our server was generous with the ice cream. “That looks good.”

“It’s yummy. I wish Noma and Myrtle could be here with us. Mrs. Miller sent me to town for hard candy, and I had my own dime to buy this treat.”

“Next time, bring your friends to the back door of the store where we keep a table. I’ll fetch the root beer floats and bring them to you there.”

“Thanks!” Merlina Rea slurps and giggles, forcing a laugh from me. “Oh Cora, I loved your new ‘Yip Yappy Yow’ column. You made me laugh and…”

Interrupting in a whisper, “Shhh! Please, Merlina Rea. I’m an anonymous author. But I’m glad you like it. I appreciate it.”

“I’m sorry. I do keep your secret; I promise I do. But I must go now. Mrs. Miller wants her candy and I need to help in the gardens today. See you!” Her haste reminds me of myself as a young girl, dashing between general store and home, between school and the library. Where has my vitality gone to?

Interrupting my line of sight to Merlina Rea’s exit, our server steps to my table with a newspaper in hand. “Did you see this article, Cora Bell?” I try to hide my first reaction, alarm. “Says here that bodies found near Whiteflat this week have prompted the notice of state police. Says that the burials and murders are too much like the ones found near Turkey and Paducah last summer to be coincidence. This is unbelievable!”

After suppressing a blush and small quiver from fear of my ‘Yip Yappy Yow’ revelation, I unintentionally breathe a heavy sigh of relief. She notices. So, I hurry to say, “Oh, that. No, I hadn’t read yesterday’s newspapers yet. But gosh, this is horrible, Brenda.” Brenda leaves the newspaper with me while she attends to customers.

Before I know it, Brenda is back to fill my coffee cup – from the pot discreetly labeled first cup only -- and the gap in her story. “Says all the bodies are young single brunettes -- like me, Cora. The story gives me the creeps. This killer looks for women like me. But you don’t have to worry, Cora. You’re safe.”

first cup only

Did Brenda look me up and down just now? “Yep. Looks like the killer has a type. Just be smart and cautious, Brenda. Beware the stranger who offers you a ride.” Brenda, as today’s lone server, leaves again because two checker players at the far end of the diner call for refills. “I’m glad we installed the Refill coffee pot, coffee made from leftover grounds. Those old men buy one cup for every four cups they drink on the house,” I say to no one. After reading the article, I fold the newspaper under my arm and return to work, just in time to stock flannel shirts and long underwear for a north Texas winter.

Refill