The Waltons 1 (2 page)

“Start a bullfrog farm.”

“I never heard of such a thing. You gonna plant ’em?”

“Of course not, Grandpa. We’re gonna let ’em grow into frogs and get rich. Just like Elwood P. Fairweather.”

“Never heard of a rich frog,” Grandpa smiled. “You say his name is Elwood P. Fairweather?”

“Oh, Grandpa!” Mary Ellen said over the laughter.

John Walton had smiled with amusement through the initial controversy. Now he looked curiously at Mary Ellen. “Who in the world is Elwood P. Fairweather?”

“Elwood P. Fairweather just happens to be one of the richest men in the world. And he made about six hundred million dollars sellin’ bullfrogs’ legs to restaurants. I read about him in
Liberty
magazine.”

“I don’t believe it,” Erin said haughtily.

“You’ll believe it when all the people with restaurants in Charlottesville and Richmond come beggin’ us to sell ’em frogs’ legs.”

“We’re gonna make a million dollars,” seven-year-old Elizabeth said gravely.

Ben nodded. “We’ve already caught almost a hundred of ’em.”

“And we’re goin’ to get another hundred tomorrow,” Mary Ellen added.

“If you think you’re goin’ to keep a hundred bullfrogs in our room,” Erin said, “I’m movin’ out.”

“I’m just gonna keep the tadpoles there till they turn into bullfrogs.”

“Yes, and they’ll probably be hoppin’ all over the room. Suppose I have to get up in the middle of the night. You want me to step on one?”

“I just told you, I’m only—”

“All right,” Olivia said gently, “I think it’s time we called a truce. And I think it would be a good idea if you kept the pollywogs outside somewhere, Mary Ellen.”

Any protest was cut short by Reckless’s sudden barking outside the back door. It was not the sound of alarm, but his half-moaning, half-squealing bark of happy welcome. A moment later the screen door slammed and John-Boy came in.

Olivia rose to get the warming meatloaf from the oven. “I don’t appreciate your bein’ late for supper, young man. Get yourself washed up.”

“I’m sorry, Mama.”

“Where you been, son?” John asked.

“I was over at Mike Timberlake’s gettin’ a book. I guess I didn’t see how late it was.”

“Get that chicken winner, did ya?” Grandpa asked.

“Yes, I did, Grandpa.” John-Boy washed quickly, then spotted the tadpole jar as he sat down. “What’re those for?”

“That’s dessert,” Grandpa laughed. “For the last person to finish supper.”

“We don’t need no more talk like that, old man,” Grandma said and rose to help clear the table.

“Daddy?” John-Boy asked, filling his plate. “Do the Pendletons still own that old house down the road?”

“Far as I know Dave Pendleton still owns it. His wife died a few years ago. Why?”

“I just wondered.” Now that he was home John-Boy was more certain than ever that his eyes had been playing tricks on him. “Seems crazy to leave that house empty and let it just fall apart like that.”

“Well, I guess Dave figured to come back sometime. I been keepin’ an eye on it for him all these years.”

“The place is haunted, you know,” Grandpa said.

John grinned. “That’s what they say. Guess that’s as good a way as any to keep people away from it.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” Grandma sighed, “considerin’ all the tragedy that house has seen. That poor Laura Pendleton all consumptive an’ everythin’. It was a mercy she died.”

John-Boy ate in silence while the others finished clearing the table.

“You could bring in some wood for the stove after supper, John-Boy,” John said. “And I expect you and me could be gettin’ another half cord cut up before bedtime, Grandpa.”

Grandpa nodded, but neither of the men made a move to rise. They had worked hard all day, and nobody questioned a man’s right to relax a few minutes after supper before he returned to work.

Much of the wood they cut now would be stacked and allowed to dry out for next winter, while the better logs would be fine-cut for building purposes. Not that there was much building going on in Walton’s Mountain, or even over in Charlottesville. The way things were, a man was lucky he wasn’t being foreclosed and evicted, much less planning on building something new. But barns and fences and roofs had to be repaired, and John Walton liked to have lumber stock on hand if the opportunity arose to sell it.

Grandpa stretched, sat back, and gazed thoughtfully over at Olivia, who had returned to scrubbing clothes. “John,” he said. “When you goin’ to buy Livvy one o’ them new washin’ machines?”

The question was asked casually, as if Grandpa didn’t really expect a serious answer. But John-Boy saw the quick shadow pass across his father’s eyes. Considering that an accumulation of four or five dollars cash at any time was a rarity, a new washing machine was out of the question. John glanced at Olivia and smiled grimly.

“Grandpa, it’s about all I can do right now to put food on this table.”

Olivia laughed and picked up another dirty shirt. “I wouldn’t know how to work one of those things anyway, Grandpa.”

“You could learn, couldn’t you, Mama?” Jason asked from the sink.

“Oh, I reckon I could, Jason. But what’s the use wishin’ for things you can’t have?”

John-Boy suddenly felt a pang of sympathy for his father. Grandpa had meant nothing by the question—he was only making conversation. But John-Boy could feel his father’s embarrassment and the frustration at not being able to buy his family all the things he might have wished.

When the new Sears & Roebuck catalog came just before Christmas, the whole family had gone through it page by page marveling at the clothes and appliances and toys and machinery. But none of them—except maybe Elizabeth—seriously expected to get any of those things. The brand name of the washing machines was Water Witch, and they had all looked admiringly at the gleaming white pictures of the Good, Better, and Best models until his mother insisted they move on. Olivia Walton, more than any of them, knew the foolishness of hopeless dreams.

“Well,” Grandpa said, “as long as we’re wishin’, I think I’ll take one o’ them new Packard motorcars. With yellow paint. How ’bout you, John?”

John Walton was thoughtful for a minute, then he pushed his chair back. “I think I’ll take Livvy, Grandpa.” He grinned and crossed the room. “Why, scrubbin’ clothes ain’t so bad. How do you think this pretty little girl keeps so skinny? Look at her! After givin’ us seven thoroughbred children, why she’s still got a figure like an eighteen-year-old!”

“Oh, John, don’t be silly! John, you’re gonna get yourself all wet!”

He lifted her hands from the tub of soapy water and hoisted her from the floor, swinging her by the waist.

“That’s right, Livvy, girl. And now I’m gonna kiss the prettiest thing that ever came down the turnpike!”

“John!” She held him off with one hand, but couldn’t stop herself from giggling as he finally planted a big kiss on her mouth and swung her around again.

The dishwashing had stopped and they were all watching as Grandpa slapped the table with a grin.

“Lord a’mighty,” Grandma said, “the goin’s-on in this house!”

“Now I got the strength to go back to work,” John announced, “Grandpa, give Grandma a kiss so’s you can be some good out there in the mill.”

Grandma gasped and headed for the living room. But whether it was deliberate or not, she didn’t move fast enough. Grandpa caught her arm and pulled her down.

“Disgraceful,” she said when she broke away.

“Old lady,” Grandpa called after her, “if the good Lord hadn’t wanted us to be kissin’ all the time he’d have fixed it so we couldn’t pucker! Ain’t that right, John-Boy?”

John-Boy smiled sheepishly and carried his dirty plate to the sink. “Well, I guess I’d better be gettin’ that stovewood in.”

“Goodnight, John-Boy.”

“Goodnight, Mary Ellen.”

“Goodnight, Elizabeth.”

The good-nights echoed through the house, each of the eleven family members saying “Goodnight” to ten others until John Walton’s long, sleepy yawn signaled an end to the day. Then he kissed Olivia tenderly.

“I really don’t want one of those washin’ machines,” Olivia told him. She too had seen the look on John’s face when Grandpa mentioned the subject.

“Well, some day you’re goin’ to have one whether you like it or not, Livvy. Things are gonna get better.”

She smiled and moved closer to him, feeling a desire for nothing more than the husband and family that she already had. But she knew the washer was very important to John.

In Jason, Ben, and Jim-Bob’s room, Jason smiled with sleepy amusement as Ben explained to Jim-Bob in hushed whispers how they would put advertisements in all the newspapers and people from all over the world, even Texas, would send money to buy their frogs’ legs.

In the girls’ room, Erin listened closely for telltale sounds indicating the presence of hidden polliwogs while Mary Ellen and Elizabeth fell asleep with dreams of multiplying frogs’ legs.

John-Boy lay with his hands behind his head and listened to the sounds of the night. Somewhere a bedspring creaked and then was silent. From the girls’ bedroom he could hear hushed whispering that finally tailed off, and then he quietly switched on his light and looked at his writing pad.

His notes from last night were about Grandma and Grandpa. He had seen them sitting on the porch yesterday afternoon and had written:

Grandpa is half dozing and Grandma is quietly knitting socks, and Grandpa has reached over and touched her hand for a couple seconds. Neither of them has spoken or looked at the other, but somehow the gesture seems very profound. It says more than any poem or song could ever say, and in spite of Grandpa’s bad jokes and Grandma’s pretenses of irritation they share a great deal of life and love.

John-Boy reread the notes, then put the pad away and switched off the light without writing more. But he thought about his mother and father for some time before going to sleep. As long as he could remember his father had worked twelve hours a day, and still they had very little in the way of comforts to show for it. They were poor, just as everyone else in Walton’s Mountain seemed to be poor. The Depression—some mysterious activities of bankers and politicians in Washington and New York and Richmond—seemed to deprive the Waltons and everybody else of anything more than just enough to eat. And for many, his father had told him, they even had to go begging to get that.

John-Boy knew it was the shadow of this despair he had seen in his father’s eyes at the supper table. And for an instant John-Boy had felt the frustration as deeply as his father had. And yet, if they ever got some money, if some miraculous windfall presented them with a hundred or even a thousand dollars, the last thing his mother would permit them to use it for would be a washing machine.

John-Boy wondered. Maybe it was possible to get her a washing machine without a miracle. If it could be done, he guessed it would be about the biggest, most overwhelming surprise in her life.

II

I
ke Godsey’s General Merchandise Store smelled of leather and pickles and oil and sawdust and ground coffee, and it was far more than a general merchandise store. Ike Godsey could step behind a caged window and become an authorized agent of the United States Post Office, or if someone was going off to Richmond or Charlottesville on important business, he could dust off his old barber chair and make them look as slick and smell as good as any city dude. And for passing time, there was an open cracker barrel, a potbellied stove, a nickel slot machine, and in the back, a genuine pool table. For the children, a glass-enclosed display offered a breathtaking variety of penny candy.

Forty-eight-year-old Ike Godsey oversaw his domain with a smiling good humor that effectively disguised his sharp trading abilities. Like everyone else in Walton’s Mountain, Ike had no money to speak of, but he survived, which was an accomplishment in itself, and he could pride himself on never having once cheated a soul in his business dealings.

This morning his smile was particularly broad, and he followed his two customers around the store with solicitous attention. The customers were the Baldwin sisters: two old maids who had the good fortune of being almost totally unaware that the country was in the midst of a depression. The Baldwin sisters seldom came into Ike’s store in person, and their presence foretold purchases of significant quantity.

“Isn’t that lovely, sister!” Miss Mamie said, admiring a bolt of floral-patterned material. “Do you think it would be too gay for an evening frock?”

“I just got that in yesterday,” Ike encouraged, “all the way from Raleigh. Fine material, Miss Mamie.”

“Oh, yes, do buy it, sister,” Miss Emily enthused. “And wouldn’t it make lovely curtains!”

Of the two sisters, Miss Emily was the more daring and often wore feathers or satin-bodiced gowns that would have scandalized her sister if she were to appear so attired in public. Miss Emily’s enthusiasm for the floral print now quickly decided the question in favor of something more conservative.

“I think I’ll take four yards of this gray material, Mr. Godsey. It’s very dignified, don’t you think?”

“Very dignified. Very elegant, Miss Mamie. And particularly suited to a charmin’ and beautiful lady like yourself.”

It was a plain old silly piece of bald flattery, but still lovely to hear. Mr. Godsey certainly knew how to be a gentleman. Miss Mamie moved to the display of J. & P. Coats thread.

“And how many mason jars will you need today, ladies?” Ike asked.

Mason jars were a staple commodity in Ike Godsey’s store. All the ladies of Walton’s Mountain did canning, and during the summer and fall heavy supplies of preserves were laid in for the winter months. But the Baldwin sisters’ purchases of mason jars were a steady all-year business for Ike. At least once each week, usually on Saturday, they fired up the still in their specially built Recipe room and brewed a supply of the fine old whiskey originally formulated by the late, honorable Judge Morley Baldwin.

There was no commercial taint to the Baldwin sisters’ activities. Indeed, it was purely tradition; a desire on the part of the sisters to carry on the courtly and mannered graciousness so perfectly exemplified by the life of their distinguished father. No matter what the time of night or day, not to offer any caller or wayward traveler a sip of his famous Recipe, to Judge Baldwin would have bespoken gross ill-breeding. And for the Baldwin sisters not to have carried on this tradition would not only have shamed the memory of their revered father but Southern Hospitality itself.