Maggie and the chief commissioner were posed with the bronze plaque, and a young woman from the florist’s van came running with a large wreath tied with purple ribbon, to hang on the post supporting the marker. Photographers jockeyed for angles that would include the shafthouse in the background.
Then the commissioner made his speech about Moose County’s proud mining heritage… . The thousands of miners and their families who had lived and died here … the disasters they endured: cave-ins, explosions, riots … their primitive villages of huts, a one-room schoolhouse, a chapel, and a company store. Now there was nothing left but the shafthouse! He talked a little too long, and the celebrators were glad to return to their cars.
Qwilleran thought, One down and only nine to go!
At the next mine, associated with the Harding family, there were more photographs, another wreath, and another speech by another politician, who said, “Other parts of the country have Niagara Falls, the Grand Canyon, or the Statue of Liberty. We have ten shafthouses!”
A photographer told a direct descendant to take his thumb out of his mouth and try to smile, but Leslie only cocked his finger at the man and said, “Ping!”
The rest of the afternoon was reported by Qwilleran himself in his personal journaclass="underline"
After the first five stops, all the direct descendants had been photographed and had lost interest in the proceedings, but they were trapped. So were the other dignitaries. Photographers from the Bixby Bugle and Lockmaster Ledger had all the stuff they could use, and they left. The TV crew drove back to the airport after shooting what they considered most newsworthy: Amanda with her built-in scowl and scarecrow style of dressing, and Burgess with his kilt and Alexander.
The speeches were getting shorter-and the listeners fewer. Homer Tibbitt refused to leave the limousine anymore, and Leslie continued to torment him, cocking his finger and saying, “Ping!”
“Kid, if you do that one more time,” Homer screeched in his high-pitched voice, “I’ll bash you with my crutch!”
His wife said, “Leslie, dear, he doesn’t have a crutch. Why don’t you sit up front with the driver, and you can shoot sheep and cows through the windshield.”
“Thank you, Rhoda,” I said sotto voce. “You’re a sweetheart!”
So Leslie rode with me in the front seat, and I guess I unnerved him by saying, “What kind of ammunition do you use? Do you have a license to carry a handgun? How long have you belonged to the NRA?”
After a while he pounded my arm and whispered something. “What?” He whispered again. There we were-in the middle of nowhere-surrounded by acres of stony pasture with not a bush in sight! So I leaned on the horn and brought the motorcade to a stop. I checked with the deputy; wasn’t there a crossroads store nearby? He said yes-at the next intersection.
When we got there, I grabbed Leslie by the wrist and virtually dragged him into the store. The storekeeper was a character with a beard about a foot long. I said to him, “This young man wishes to use your restroom.”
“It ain’t a public toilet,” he said.
I didn’t say a word, but dragged Leslie out to the sheriff’s car. A few seconds later a deputy with a service gun in his holster conducted the boy back into the store.
Meanwhile, one of the politicians riding with Dwight went into the store and bought a pint of something. By the time we arrived at our tenth minesite, the pols were stoned, and the direct descendants were bored out of their skulls. Homer was asleep. The photographer had run out of film, and the florist had run out of wreaths. Such is life in the boondocks!
Three
Qwilleran placed his new “old book” from Edd’s shop on the coffee table. It had a handsome jacket that had been protected by a plastic slipcover: an illustration of pyramids rising mysteriously from the desert. He thought, Egypt has pyramids; we have shafthouses.
Whenever something new was added, the Siamese had to make an immediate inspection. Yum Yum was subjective in her appraisal. (Can it be batted around? Hidden under a rug? Chewed?) Koko was inclined to be more objective. (What is its purpose? Where did it come from? Why is it here?)
Mysteries of the Egyptian Pyramids came under close scrutiny. Yum Yum rejected it on all counts; Koko found that it had merit and gave it his blessing: He sat on it. Qwilleran would read aloud from it before leaving for Sunday brunch and the silent auction. They liked the sound of his voice, whether he was reading about ancient Egypt or the World Series. Then, at noon, he gave them
a crunchy treat and a few parting instructions: “Drink plenty of water. Take your afternoon naps. Don’t make any long-distance phone calls.” They listened politely.
Qwilleran picked up Polly and the Rikers in his van. Just in case he bought the six-by eight-foot rug, he wanted to be able to bring it home.
Arch and Mildred were eagerly awaiting an afternoon of food and bargains in the company of their best friends. The couple had found each other late in life, and both had found new careers after retirement. She was plump and pretty and loved to cook; he was paunchy and ruddy-faced and loved to eat.
“Beautiful day!” Mildred said as she climbed into the van.
“It won’t be long before snow flies,” Polly said.
“It’ll put an end to the threat of wildfires,” Arch observed.
“Tell them what you’ve just found out, hon,” his wife said.
“Yes … It’ll be Monday’s banner story. A geologist from the state university called and said there’s a similar situation in Canada. In abandoned mines it’s quite possible that fires have been smoldering underground for as much as a century. Normal rainfall keeps them under control, but they surface as spontaneous conflagrations when drought conditions prevail. All our mines are said to be connected, you know.”
“No, I’ve never heard that,” Polly said.
“We should have constant surveillance of the mine area, but the sheriff claims to have insufficient vehicles and personnel for a stepped-up patrol. That’s the bad news. The good news comes from Moose County Community College. Burgess Campbell’s students propose a Citizens’ Fire Watch. Volunteers will drive their own vehicles over prescribed routes in three-hour shifts. They’ll use cell phones to report smoke or burning weeds to a hotline.”
Mildred was always optimistic. “They won’t have any trouble enlisting volunteers. It’s a temporary thing-until snow flies-and it’s for a good cause. Everyone wants to save the shafthouses.”
Arch said, “Tomorrow’s paper will be a fat issue: the wildfire emergency, the motorcade, the silent auction … How was the motorcade, Qwill?”
“Interesting,” he said.
Tipsy’s Tavern in nearby Kennebeck was a road-house in a sprawling log cabin that had been noted for good food since the 1930s. The founder had named it after his cat, a white one with comical black markings, and her portrait hung in the main dining room. At one time there had been a countywide controversy over her feet in the painting; should they be black or white? Customers were in complete agreement about the steak and fish, however. It was the best!
The Sunday brunch was a recent innovation, offering “anything you want, as long as it’s eggs.” They were “laid this morning by happy hens in our own backyard.” The yolks were domed and intensely orange-yellow-a good sign, according to Mildred. The house specialty was called Eggs Tipsy. A large English muffin was split and grilled; then each half was topped with a homemade sausage patty, a poached egg, and melted cheddar cheese. Local grandmothers waited on tables.