Moon Over Manifest

My ruminations were particularly profound at church last Sunday when Pastor Mankins illuminated us all. His words of purging our souls of anger and hatred were so taken to heart by some that they rose out of their seats, just itching to praise the Lord. Buster Holt and Elroy Knabb were so moved they fairly fled the service afterward to spread the Word. In my rovings about town, I’ve learned that the same two gentlemen have been frequent patrons at the drugstore. They didn’t say so, but I gathered they were putting together supplies for the missions. I had no idea there was such a need for calamine lotion among the indigent, but that selfless act of charity will be forever embalmed on my mind.

I regret there will be no “Hattie Mae’s News Auxiliary” next week, as I will be visiting my aunt Mavis. I was tickled pink last week with the birthday gift she sent all the way from Jefferson City. A thesaurus is a commodious tool for any reporter.

So, for all the whos, whats, whys, whens, and wheres, refer to the penultimate page every Sunday (except Sunday next).

HATTIE MAE HARPER

Reporter About Town BURT’S BOTTOMS UP

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Miss Sadie’s Divining Parlor

MAY 30, 1936

“You can’t be serious,” Lettie said as the three of us peered through the wrought iron gate in front of Miss Sadie’s house. Ruthanne and Lettie thought I was crazy to be going to work for her. I’d told them all about Ned and Jinx and the poison ivy as we’d kicked up parched leaves on the way over from Shady’s place, and they’d read Hattie Mae’s column.

“Read it again, if you want. Buster Holt and Elroy Knabb. Calamine lotion? Those were the two guys at the Klan rally in Miss Sadie’s story. They used poison ivy for toilet paper. At least that much of her story was true,” I argued.

“You don’t know that for sure. And for crying out loud, don’t you know what ‘perdition’ means?” Lettie pointed to the sign on the iron gate.

I nodded. “I know what it means,” I said. I recalled a preacher in Des Moines who had warned folks who had come for a soup supper to give up their evil ways and stay off the path to perdition. My stomach had been a little upset after that.

“What if she’s a witch and casts a spell over you?” asked Lettie.

“She’s not a witch. More than likely she’s just crazy,” I said, even though I didn’t believe that either.

“Like a fox,” Ruthanne said, chewing on a blade of grass. “Be careful, Abilene. That old woman might have more up her sleeves than jangly bracelets.”

My confidence was seeping out of me like water through a bucket full of holes. I wished Lettie and Ruthanne could go with me, but they had eggs to sell. Besides, it was my debt to work off. “I broke her pot and I want to get my compass back. It’s as simple as that. I’ll meet you at Hattie Mae’s later on.”

I took my leave with all kinds of frightful images rolling around in my head. Miss Sadie’s house seemed lifeless, as there was no breeze to give breath to her wind chimes. So I was glad when I found her out back and she said she’d have me working in the garden that day, although calling it a garden required a whole lot of imagination. Mostly what I did was break up clods of dirt. Miss Sadie sat in a metal patio chair, smoking a corncob pipe and giving me instructions on how to put my weight into that shovel to turn up the dirt.

Just what she figured on planting in that parched earth, I couldn’t reckon. It reminded me of sermons I’d heard from priests and preachers about planting in dry soil. Those seeds would just wither up and blow away, never taking root.

“Deeper. Dig deeper,” Miss Sadie said in her rich voice. “The ground should not merely cover the seed. It must embrace it.”

“What kinds of things do you plan on growing here, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Miss Sadie closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She sniffed the air around her, as if it would give her the answer. “It is not yet clear.”

I took a whiff too, but all I smelled was dirt. Dry, dusty dirt. Seemed like that was all there’d ever been. Oh, I had a vague notion of green grass, soft and wavy. Before Gideon and I were on the road, he’d worked as a groundskeeper at the Maple Grove Park in Chicago. I was three or four and we’d lived at a boardinghouse across the street. I thought there had been swings, but I had been so young and the memories were so distant that it could have been a dream.

“I wonder what it was like before the world went dry,” I said, looking up into the sun.

“The world? Pah. What is it you know of the world?”

“I know that any place I’ve been to is dead dry.”