Signs and Wonders Page 14

  In 1927, with an excess of pumpkins, Abraham Peacock had lobbed the surplus off a fifty-foot cliff into White Lick Creek, which ran along the west edge of his farm. Around the fourth pumpkin, he spied a big rock in the creek and launched ten more pumpkins, zeroing in on the rock, until the fifteenth pumpkin hit home with a resounding splat and a burst of pumpkin innards.

  The next spring he planted extra pumpkins and that fall invited his friends to join the festivities. Thus was born a hallowed tradition that continues to this day—the Great Pumpkin Toss. When Abraham Peacock died in 1943, his son, Abner, took over. Abner had a flair for promotion, and by the early sixties the Great Pumpkin Toss had grown to quite a large affair.

  It was Abner Peacock who moved the toss to the Saturday after Halloween and invited the townspeople to bring their used jack-o-lanterns and contend for the hundred-dollar grand prize and the privilege of having their picture on the front page of the Harmony Herald. Abner made his money selling pumpkins, knowing no one could toss just one pumpkin, that pumpkin tossing was addictive. He set up a pumpkin stand and sold enough to buy braces for his son, Asa, whose buckteeth were so bad he used them to open pop bottles.

  In the years after the war, the toss was a fixture in Harmony, with fathers passing on pumpkin-tossing secrets to their sons—the horseshoe pitch with the half twist, the bowling-ball lob with the vertical spin, and the rare two-handed push with the fading curve. The old men down at the Coffee Cup still talk in reverent tones about 1965, the year Melvin Whicker hit the rock three times in a row with an aerodynamic, hybrid pumpkin he had developed just for the toss.

  In the mid-sixties, there was also a pumpkin-stacking contest, which was discontinued after a tower of pumpkins collapsed on Abner Peacock’s rat terrier, Squeaky, who never fully recovered and spent the rest of his shortened life quivering under their kitchen table, crippled by pumpkin flashbacks.

  In the early seventies, the Great Pumpkin Toss fell on hard times after being rained out two years in a row. The creek was up, the rock was covered with water, Abner Peacock was in failing health, and his son, Asa, was trying to keep the farm going. In 1974, Abner died, and Asa turned the toss over to the Odd Fellows Lodge, who lacked Abner’s gift for promotion.

  It was Bob Miles who noticed the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Great Pumpkin Toss was fast approaching and wrote an article about it for the Herald. He recalled the crowds of people who’d attended the toss in his childhood and lamented its decline. He had heard the Odd Fellows were thinking of putting the toss to rest and hoped to prod them into action with an editorial accusing them of cultural apathy.

  He waxed eloquent about the cherished traditions that bind people together—Thanksgiving dinners, family reunions, and pumpkin tosses—and how if these customs were neglected, society fell into decline, and before long people were setting old people out on the curb to die. The lodge responded by telling Bob if preserving the toss was crucial to Western civilization, he should donate free advertising space in the Herald so they could get word out.

  Bob wasn’t that concerned; he was just fond of hyperbole and tired of writing about town board meetings and church socials. But he did write another editorial encouraging people who wanted to preserve their way of life to join him for the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Great Pumpkin Toss.

  Meanwhile, the lodge held a special meeting to discuss ways of attracting more people to the toss. They finally decided it might help to have a celebrity throw out the first pumpkin.

  “The baseball teams have the president do it. Why don’t we see if he’s available?” Harvey Muldock suggested.

  “You’re crazy,” said Kyle Weathers. “You think the Secret Service is gonna let the president anywhere near a bunch of people tossing pumpkins. All it’d take is one pumpkin upside the noodle and he’d be a goner. Use your head, for crying out loud.”

  They finally settled on Nora Nagle, the 1975 State Sausage Queen and current cashier at Kivett’s Five and Dime. A few of the men suggested she wear her bathing suit, but it was pointed out that November weather was not always conducive to swimwear, so they asked her to wear her Sausage Queen sash instead, which she agreed to do.

  Seeing Nora Nagle in her bathing suit has become an obsession for the men in the lodge. They have set up a phone tree to call one another when Nora goes swimming at the town pool. Within ten minutes, fifty-three Odd Fellows are congregated around the pool, plucking stray weeds from the cracks in the cement or inspecting the fence for possible security breaches.

  Down at the school, they held a convocation for the children in which Asa Peacock recited the stirring history of the Great Pumpkin Toss. Then Kyle Weathers raised the stakes by donating a year’s worth of free haircuts to the winner of the toss. Uly Grant at the hardware store upped the ante with a five-gallon bucket of driveway sealant. Over at the Coffee Cup, bets were placed, with the odds favoring Howard Whicker, Melvin Whicker’s son, with his aerodynamic, hybrid pumpkins.

  The morning of the toss dawned damp and cold. At ten o’clock, the rain stopped and the sun came out. By eleven, it was perfect weather for pumpkin tossing. The pumpkins were wiped dry to avoid a repeat of the 1959 disaster when Murray Newlin, using a bowling-ball lob with a vertical spin, had the pumpkin slip from his hand on the backswing and clobber Robert Miles, Sr., smack on the head. It jarred something loose. His IQ slipped south thirty points, and shortly afterward he joined the John Birch Society.

  The water in the creek was down, and a large portion of the rock was exposed. “It’ll be great tossing today,” Asa Peacock said. “Like aiming at a barn.”

  At eleven o’clock, Sam Gardner gave the blessing of the pumpkins, and then Asa Peacock cut the ribbon with a pair of hedge clippers to begin the festivities. There were shouts and applause and a scattering of wolf whistles as Nora Nagle, wearing her Sausage Queen sash, stepped forward to toss the ceremonial pumpkin.

  “She don’t look strong enough to even pick that pumpkin up,” Kyle Weathers whispered to Asa.

  Nora grasped the pumpkin with both hands and, lifting it a few inches off the ground, waddled it over to the edge of the cliff. She gave a brief speech, recalling the honor of being selected the State Sausage Queen in 1975, but that tossing the first pumpkin on the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Great Pumpkin Toss was an even higher privilege. Bob Miles snapped her picture. Then she bent down, grasped the pumpkin, rocked back and forth three times, and launched the pumpkin.

  It flew in an arc out from the cliff, spinning on its axis.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Kyle Weathers said. “That’s a two-handed push with a fading curve. I haven’t seen that since Melvin Whicker threw it in ’65. I wonder where she learned it?”

  The pumpkin hung in the air, then hurtled toward the left of the rock. Nora twisted her hips, willing it to move right, which it did, hitting the rock dead center with a tremendous slap.

  No one had ever hit the center of the rock. Not even Melvin Whicker, with his aerodynamic, hybrid pumpkins. Up until now, they had all been glancing blows. Now, Nora Nagle, on her very first toss, had hit the bull’s-eye.

  The Odd Fellows stood speechless. Bob Miles leaned over the cliff and snapped a picture.

  The pressure was on, and the tossing began in earnest. But it was as if an invisible shield now protected the rock. Ten pumpkins, then twenty and fifty and a hundred pumpkins, lay broken in the creek. The rock seemed to taunt them, daring them to hit it.

  By noontime, all the pumpkins had been tossed.

  Eighty-five men stood looking over the cliff, dejected.

  “Looks like we didn’t have a winner,” Kyle Weathers said. “I guess that means we’ll have a bigger pot for next year.”

  Sam Gardner said, “What do you mean? Nora hit the rock. She’s the winner.”

  “That was a ceremonial throw,” Kyle protested. “That wasn’t a real toss. It don’t count.”

  He probably could have gotten away with it, except that it was the seventy-fifth anniversa
ry and the men had brought their wives, all of whom began to boo Kyle.

  In the end, the Odd Fellows awarded Nora the hundred dollars.

  “What about the free haircuts for a year and the driveway sealant?” asked Jessie Peacock. “What about that?”

  “Yeah, what about that?” Sam said.

  “Traitor,” Kyle hissed at Sam.

  Nora wasn’t all that keen about Kyle cutting her hair. She had serious reservations about sporting a flattop haircut with whitewalls. She gave the coupon to Sam.

  Uly Grant lifted the bucket of driveway sealant and handed it to Nora. Her driveway was gravel, but she didn’t want to appear ungrateful, so she smiled at Uly and thanked him. Then she gave a little speech about what an honor it was to win the seventy-fifth annual Great Pumpkin Toss, and how she hadn’t even really tried, which made it all the worse for the Odd Fellows, because it implied that beating them required no special effort.

  After her speech, the Odd Fellows retreated to their lodge to lick their wounds. “A woman,” they grumbled. “Can you believe that? What is this world coming to?”

  Kyle looked at Asa Peacock. “You oughta be ashamed of yourself.”

  “What’d I do?”

  “It was your idea to have her toss the first pumpkin. I hope you’re happy.”

  “I thought it was Vinny’s idea,” Asa said.

  “Don’t pin it on me,” Vinny objected. “I wasn’t even at that meeting. I heard it was Harvey’s idea.”

  “Not me, mister, I wanted the president.”

  They went round and round, each of the men blaming someone else. It was not their finest hour.

  Back at the cliff, Nora Nagle and the other women were savoring their victory.

  “Did you see the look on their faces when you hit that rock?” Jessie Peacock said. “It was priceless.” She peered over the cliff at the rock. “How’d you hit that all the way from here?”

  Nora chuckled. “Amanda Hodge gave me the pumpkins she had left over from Halloween, and I practiced tossing them from the Hodges’ hayloft. Miriam taught me. Did you know her father was Melvin Whicker? Well, anyway, he taught her, and she taught me. The two-handed push with a fading curve.”

  “I wouldn’t let that out if I were you,” Jessie advised. “I’m not sure the men could bear to hear it. They’re awful fragile.”

  Thus, one secret piles upon another, breeding mistrust and cynicism. Your cat is found dead in the street, but no one’s knocked on your door to confess. Maybe it was an accident, but probably not. Probably it was Satan worshipers. Classified pumpkin-tossing information is passed on to a select few members of a pumpkin-tossing cartel whose goal is nothing less than the overthrow of the Odd Fellows Lodge.

  “She set us up,” Kyle Weathers said, back at the lodge. “Now that I think about it, we didn’t even ask her to throw out the first pumpkin. She came to us. It was her idea.”

  That must have been it. What else could explain it? What were the chances a rookie pumpkin tosser, a woman at that, could hit the rock?

  “I wouldn’t put it past her,” Ernie Matthews said. “I heard her uncle was one of the judges that picked her as the Sausage Queen back in ’75. I’ve always said those Nagles were a shady bunch.”

  “That ain’t the worst of it,” Dale Hinshaw said. “Last week, I seen her drive past my house real slow, and the next day my cat turned up dead. Now if that ain’t suspicious, I don’t know what is.”

  “I tell you one thing,” Kyle Weathers said, “that woman bears watching. She was gone all those years. Lord knows what she coulda been up to. I say we keep a close eye on her.”

  “I’ll watch her at the pool,” Ernie Matthews volunteered.

  “I’ll help you,” Kyle said.

  “You can count on me,” Harvey pledged.

  It had been a long day, and the Odd Fellows were tired from tossing pumpkins, though even in their weariness they would stay awake and aware, diligence being the price to be paid if Western civilization is to be preserved.

  Sixteen

  Thanksgiving

  It was Sam’s idea for Barbara to help the Friendly Women’s Circle make noodles the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. She doesn’t do much in the way of fellowship, doesn’t hold teas for the ladies, teach a women’s Bible study, or serve on committees just because there’s a vacancy. She believes having to put up with Sam griping about the church is obligation enough.

  So when he suggested she help the Circle make noodles, she said, “If you think it’s such a good idea, why don’t you do it?”

  “That’s the very thing I mean,” he said. “You’re too cynical. Maybe spending more time with fellow Christians would help your Christian walk.”

  “My Christian walk is fine, thank you.”

  Barbara has never been the typical minister’s wife. She likes a salty joke now and then and reads novels that would not receive the Friendly Woman seal of approval—books about women who have given themselves over to indiscriminate romance and don’t appear to feel sorry about it.

  Sam bought her a Christian novel, which was also filled with indiscriminate romance, though by the book’s end the women had repented of their sins, joined the church, and were working at the church rummage sale to the glory of God the Father.

  When Sam had first talked about becoming a pastor, she went along with it, thinking he’d get over it in a few years, then become a schoolteacher or insurance salesman. She hadn’t braced herself for the long haul. It annoys her when people invoke Jesus’ name at the drop of a hat, which means she’s irritated most of the time. Dolores Hinshaw tells how she forgot to add the garlic powder to her sausage cheeseballs, but, praise Jesus, they turned out just fine. Barbara has a sneaking suspicion that with all the other problems in the world, Jesus doesn’t give a flying fig about Dolores Hinshaw’s cheeseballs, though being the minister’s wife, she can’t say that. Instead, she smiles and says, “Well, isn’t that precious.”

  But Barbara drew the line at noodle making. She told Sam, “Your call to the ministry was not two for the price of one. If you think noodle making is a Christian virtue, you are free to make noodles. Just don’t volunteer me.” Which he forgot all about when Fern Hampton stopped by his office the week before Thanksgiving to gripe that the Circle had fallen behind in their noodle production.

  “We’re ten quarts short of where we should be this time of year. You’re the pastor. What are you going to do about it?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe Barbara could help.”

  “We’ll just count on it,” Fern said, then stood and marched from his office.

  Sam went home for lunch. After lunch he gathered the dirty dishes from the table, carried them over to the sink, and began washing them. That’s when Barbara knew something was up.

  “Why are you being so helpful?” she asked.

  “Oh, no special reason. I’ve just been thinking how hard you work around here, and that I’ve not been good about thanking you.”

  “Okay, Sam, what’s her name, and how long have you been seeing her?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Sam Gardner, I’ve known you eighteen years. You’ve done something wrong and now you feel guilty. What’d you do?”

  Sam winced. “It’ll only take a couple hours of your time.”

  Barbara groaned. “What did you volunteer me for this time?”

  “Helping the Friendly Women make noodles next Tuesday.”

  “The week of Thanksgiving! Sam, we’re having all your family over for dinner and you volunteered me to make noodles? What in the world were you thinking? That was my day to clean the house.”

  “I can clean the house.”

  “Hah!”

  Sam’s idea of housecleaning was to swipe a rag across the coffee table, stuff the clutter under the couch, and then light a candle to make the house smell nice.

  Barbara doesn’t get mad often, but she did then. Since the children weren’t there, she lit i
nto Sam, complaining about how keeping the family going was hard enough, and now Sam wanted her to keep the Friendly Women afloat, too, and how she was only one person and couldn’t do it all, and why did they have to make all those stupid noodles anyway when they could buy them for next to nothing, and how come Sam jumped every time Fern Hampton snapped her fingers.

  When she paused to breathe, Sam fled out the back door and holed up in his office working on his sermon. He’d written a message on the blessings of family, but was now thinking of preaching a sermon endorsing the Apostle Paul’s advice to remain single.

  Sam waited until the kids returned from school before going back home. Barbara had settled down by then and was feeling ashamed for the way she’d yelled at him. Besides, she’d told herself, it wasn’t like the Circle was making the noodles to line their own pockets. All their money went to Brother Norman’s shoe ministry to the Choctaw Indians. And here she was, with six pairs of shoes, while shoeless Choctaw children were stepping on nails and dying of tetanus.

  She apologized to Sam and told him she’d be happy to help the Friendly Women. “Just don’t volunteer me,” she said. “If something needs to be done, don’t just assume I’ll do it. Ask me first, instead of telling me.”

  “I don’t know why I do that,” Sam said. “It’s just that Fern was staring me down. I tell you, Barbara, you don’t know what it’s like to be stared down by a Friendly Woman. I felt lucky to escape with my life.”

  That was Friday. The next Tuesday, Barbara woke up early, got the boys out the door to school, cleaned the kitchen, and was down at the meetinghouse by nine o’clock to make noodles. Fern was there, barking orders to the flock of Friendly Women.

  They floured down the noodle table and began rolling out dough. They talked about Thanksgiving and who was going where and what they were serving. Dolores Hinshaw mentioned how she’d misplaced her mother’s turkey Jell-O recipe. “I was just so upset, so I took it to the Lord and asked him to show me where the recipe was. And he told me to go to his Word, and there it was, smack in between First and Second Chronicles. It just isn’t Thanksgiving without turkey Jell-O.”