Just before hanging up, Tedi said,“You know, Janie, I think aging is a return to your true self.”
CHAPTER 20
“But look how much money the showgrounds have already generated.” Clay Berry, first year on the Board of Governors, glanced down at his notes. “Surely by next year there will be enough to hire a part-time manager, at the least.”
The board meeting was held the third Wednesday of each month except July. Every member took a turn hosting, a practice that drew them together. Although they hunted together, board members didn’t necessarily socialize. This was not because of personality conflicts, but the group’s interests varied widely. There wasn’t as much time to sit around in one another’s homes as there had been for Sister’s parents’ generation. People worked long hours, even those with money. They ferried their children to and fro, their kids as overcommitted with activities as their parents.
The other factor, true of most hunt clubs, was that members involved themselves in community projects: political campaigns, the Heart Fund, Easter Seals, 10K runs to raise funds for breast cancer research. Let there be a fund-raiser, a ball, a horse show, a trunk show to raise money for a worthy cause, and someone from the Jefferson Hunt would be there or in the chair.
Perhaps foxhunters, by their very natures, possess more animal energy. One can’t fly fences in heat, rain, sleet, or snow for two to four hours without brimming with high animal spirits. This spilled over into many activities. Sister was proud of the good work her members had done for the community. She even believed in a few herself, notably the No Kill Animal Shelter, which was her pet project—her pun.
Ronnie, tough about money, punched numbers into his handheld calculator. He looked up at the faces gathered in Sister’s front room. “Now look, Clay, it’s not a half-pay kind of deal. You know that from your business. There’s payroll, taxes, health insurance—”
“If they’re contract labor, there are no payroll, taxes, or health insurance,” Crawford interrupted.
Xavier folded his hands together.“Ronnie’s right. In order to have someone we can trust, someone who isn’t going to wreck the tractor, who will take some pride in the task, you can’t go with contract labor. I mean, we can’t head on down to the Salvation Army and pluck up one of the winos before a horse show. Either we keep going as we are or—”
“It’s the ‘or’ that worries me,” Walter spoke up. “Right now, the showgrounds are under my umbrella since I’m head of the Building and Grounds Committee. This is our first year, and we’ve been keeping everything together. For instance, the Lions Club left the grounds immaculate.The Antique Auto Club left the grounds immaculate, but grease was everywhere. Jimmy Chirios and I had to scrape down the ring, haul off the oil-soaked sand and bring in a thousand dollars’ worth of twice-washed sand. And we told them not to drive cars in the ring. It’s a sharp learning curve. Much as I’d like a full-time person, we can hold off for another year. Let’s see if the rentals hold up. Right now we’re a novelty in the county.”
Betty Franklin, the newsletter editor, spoke up.“I agree. Actually, I think we’re going to have more and more activity there. The grounds are more beautiful than I expected, and the county has nothing like this. We’ve saved the county commissioners a headache. Not having a showgrounds or fairgrounds has been a sore spot since the old fairgrounds burned down twenty years ago. Every year since then the commissioners would say, ‘Costs too much to build.’ Every year construction costs went up and up. Nothing got done. That we did it is thanks to the Bancrofts for the land and thanks to Crawford.”
“Hear! Hear!” Everyone sang Crawford’s and the Bancrofts’ praises.
Golly, having disgraced herself during dinner before the meeting, perched behind Sister on the wing chair, and cackled.“There! There!”
“I move we table the employee issue, showgrounds, for a year.” Ron moved.
This was seconded and passed.
“Now let me bring up an idea.” Sister smiled. “Actually, it was Ronnie’s idea. You tell them.”
“Why don’t we ask each member to buy a lottery ticket once a month? One dollar. If the ticket wins, they split with the club.”
“Great idea!” Betty Franklin clapped her hands together.
“Who can argue with a dollar?” Her husband, Bobby, president of the club, smiled.
“How do you know they’ll be honest about the winning ticket?” Crawford tilted his head slightly to one side.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Sorrel Buruss, social chair, always the diplomat, quietly said,“It is hoped that anyone who is a member of this hunt has integrity, honesty, humor, and courage. Naturally, we also have feet of clay, but let’s hope for the best.”
“Why can’t members buy a ticket, write their names on the back, and turn it in to the treasurer?” Crawford nodded to Ronnie. “It would remove temptation if someone hit Lotto South’s big jackpot.”
Another silence followed.
“That makes work for Ronnie. It might work, but let’s start with a little trust,” Betty remonstrated.
“Trust is a wonderful thing—” Crawford’s light voice filled the room. “—but removing temptation will yield more results.”
After wasting too much time on this issue, the board voted to trust to luck and the membership.
Bobby Franklin checked off another item on the agenda. Two remained: the election of a president and the election of the master, which was announced on February 14. Whatever board meeting was closest to February 14 before that date was the elective meeting. It usually fell in January. If the membership did not accept the board’s recommendation, people could be proposed from the floor.
The board did not elect new members until the start of cubbing season. Each year three members cycled off the twelve-person board, after having served three years. This provided continuity and also avoided the stress of too much change all at one time. None of the members present, with the exception of Sister and Edward Bancroft, had lived through an upheaval of masterships. The disarray for those two years before Jane Arnold became master left such a bitterness at the time that a huge effort had been made to unite behind Jane. It worked because over time she demonstrated not just knowledge of hounds, game, territory, and wooing landowners, she could get people to work together. She always said she had more patience with animals than people, but being a master forced her to develop patience with people, and to examine other points of view. She felt becoming an MFH was one of the best things that had ever happened to her.
“We are now coming to the election of a president and a master.” Bobby’s eyes swept over the gathering. “As you know, I am stepping down as your president after serving seven years—seven years that I wouldn’t change for anything in the world. But it’s time for new blood and time for me to make a big decision in my life about whether to expand my business or sell it. Betty and I really need to think about all that. I am grateful to you for allowing me to serve.”
“You’ll still lead the Hilltoppers, won’t you?” Sorrel asked. “You’re so good at it.”
Bobby smiled.“Flattery will get you everywhere, Sorrel. Yes, I will.” He paused a moment, getting even Golly’s attention. “It is customary for the outgoing president to name his successor after convening with the master and to give the reasons why he thinks this individual will be a good president.Of course, nominations will be entertained from the board, too.” He paused again. The gathering sat still; the only ones in the room who knew what was coming next were his wife and Sister. “I have given the matter of who should follow me a lot of thought. One of the greatest things about Jefferson Hunt is that I think any member of this board would be a good president. That says a lot about the depth of our leadership and commitment. But the more I thought about it, the more I kept coming back to one man: Crawford Howard.”