Soon, after much hugging good-bye, the big silver Oatman bus pulled out, headed for an all-night sing in Birmingham. Minnie hung out the window, tearfully waving her large white handkerchief, and Chester the dummy hung out another one, making eyes at the couple until they were out of sight.
When they came back, they told everybody the news. They were going to drive up to Poplar Bluff and be married by a justice of the peace the very next day. Jimmy was the only one who was not quite sold on the idea but if that was what Betty Raye wanted, then he was not going to say anything. However, later that night, when he and Hamm were on the porch smoking, he said quietly, “I hope you are going to treat that girl right now that you got her.”
Hamm said, “Oh I will. I know how lucky I am.”
Jimmy flicked his cigarette off the side of the porch. “Good, ’cause I’d hate to have to kill you.”
Hamm laughed and started to say something but Jimmy had already gone in.
The next morning Hamm picked her up at the house and the entire bowling team, including ex-member Tot, came over and stood in the yard to say good-bye, and off the engaged pair went, amid tears and good wishes.
“Name the first one Bess even if it is a boy!” Bess called out as they drove away.
“We didn’t even have time to buy her a decent trousseau,” said Dorothy. “I just hope she won’t have any regrets down the line. He hardly gave her time to pack, let alone shop for a trousseau.”
That afternoon, standing in front of the justice of the peace, when Betty Raye said, “I do,” she meant it. She had no idea how this all had happened or why but the new Mrs. Hamm Sparks found that she was hopelessly in love with her new husband.
Two weeks later Dorothy walked into the house with a big smile on her face and handed Mother Smith the postcard from the Blue Haven Motor Court outside Centralia, Missouri.
Dorothy said, “I know we both had our doubts for a moment but it looks like everything is going to work out.” Written on the back of the card was:
Dear Smith family,
I am so happy! Thank you for everything.
Love,
Betty Raye
Congratulations
It seemed as if the summer was to be a lucky one for everybody. On the morning of August twentieth Dorothy came fluttering down the hall, like a great butterfly. She was elated over the news she had just received and she could hardly wait to get on the air and tell all her listeners. The red light went on just as she sat down.
“Good morning, everybody. It’s a beautiful day over here in Elmwood Springs and I hope it’s just as pretty where you are. You know, over the years I have announced so many weddings, births, deaths, engagements, and what all and I never thought I’d live to see the day when I would have a wedding so close to home.” Mother Smith played two bars of “Here Comes the Bride.” “That’s right, Mother, last night Anna Lee called home and told us all the good news. It’s official. She’s engaged to that nice boy I’ve been telling you about . . . so . . . I, too, am going to be the mother of the bride. We are so excited for our girl. She and William will be married next June, right after she finishes her nurse’s training, and we are glad of that, of course. And also, this morning in the believe-it-or-not category, I am not the only mother in Elmwood Springs that has good news today.” Mother Smith hit a few chords of “My Blue Heaven.” “Right, Mother . . . and baby makes three. Ida Jenkins called right before the show went on this morning and informed me that she expects to be a grandmother before the year is up, so congratulations to her daughter, Norma, and husband Macky.
“Oh, we have all sorts of good things planned for you today but first—did you know that nine out of ten screen stars use Lux soap? ‘I’m a Lux girl,’ says beautiful movie star Linda Darnell. So if you want clear, glamorous skin tomorrow, use Lux today. And we have a good-neighbor item to pass along. Mrs. Ellen Nadel of Booker, Missouri, writes in and asks if anyone has a copy of the last chapter of Vera Caspary’s serial murder The Murder in the Stork Club, which was carried in Collier’s last month. She says her subscription has run out and she wants to see how it ends. So let us know if you do. And now, here are the Goodnight twins, joined by sister Irene, to sing a song expressing exactly how I feel this morning, ‘I’m Sitting on Top of the World.’ ”
And as if Bobby’s having become the Bubble Gum King and the news of Anna Lee’s engagement were not enough good news for one year, something else wonderful was about to happen. On a beautiful Sunday morning, one week after Bobby was to enter the seventh grade, Old Man Henderson went out in his yard with his pair of World War I binoculars. He had spotted something odd a few minutes before.
When he focused them he mumbled to himself, “Some gol-darned fool has gone and tied red balloons all over the top of the water tower.”
THE FIFTIES
Cowboy Bob
THE NEXT TIME Mr. Charlie Fowler, the poultry inspector, came to town, he was surprised to see that “young Robert” had grown almost five inches and his voice was already starting to change. If he kept growing at that rate, they said, he might get to be taller than his father by next year. Two weeks after Bobby’s fifteenth birthday, the letter he had been waiting for from the national office of the Boy Scouts of America in Irving, Texas, arrived. He ripped it open and was elated to read:
Dear Robert,
Congratulations! You are an Eagle Scout. With the completion of the requirements you have mastered many skills and made the Scout Oath and Law a part of your life. Our prayers are with you and your future successes.
Sincerely,
Bruce Thompson
Chief Scout Executive
Both he and Monroe had made Eagle Scout, and the following summer they took the train all the way across the country to the big Boy Scout Jamboree in Santa Ynez, California. This would be the first time either of them had ever been out of Missouri and, for Monroe, his first trip out of Elmwood Springs. When they crossed into Oklahoma and Texas and into New Mexico and Arizona, they might as well have been on the moon. As they stared out the window at the western landscape they could not believe their eyes. It was hard to even imagine it was all real. They were both in awe of the vast landscape that stretched as far as they could see. Neither one had any idea how big the country was. All Monroe could say as they passed by the Painted Desert, Indian reservations, herds of buffalo, and saw their first western sunset, was “Whoa!” He repeated the word a lot all the way to California and also when he first saw the huge Alisal Ranch, where the Boy Scouts were staying. It was a real working ranch and they met a genuine bowlegged cowboy, who showed them where they would be sleeping. In a real bunkhouse, as it turned out. That night, after they’d walked back from the first Boy Scout ceremony, the dark blue sky was spangled with stars so close you could almost touch them. And they had thought the stars in Elmwood Springs were bright. Even though it was summer, the night was cold and Jake, the hired hand, made a fire in the big stone fireplace. What a day. They had met boys from all over the world who had also never seen a ranch before but none was more impressed than Bobby.
Later, when everyone else went to bed, he was too excited to sleep. He lay there watching the reflections of the orange and black flames dancing on the ceiling and listened to the sound of coyotes from a distant hill and he felt as if he had just stepped into a Zane Grey novel. As he fought to stay awake his mind began to wander . . . and dream.
The boy’s father walked into his room with a letter in his hand and a solemn look on his face.
“Son, we never told you this before today . . . but you have an uncle out West who has just died and left you his entire ranch. Running a five-hundred-thousand-acre spread is a big responsibility but I know you can handle it.”
The young stranger rode up to the Double R Ranch house and thought to himself, as he surveyed the thousand head of cattle mooing gently in the meadow and the cowpokes that stood around warily eyeing the slow but steady approach of the new young owner, “Yes . . . you may be a tende
rfoot today, Bob Smith, but tomorrow . . .”
Just then the daughter of the ranch foreman, a shy, pretty girl, suddenly appeared on the vine-shaded veranda. “Howdy, ma’am,” he said as he swung down from his horse. “And what is your name?”
“Margarita,” she replied, her dark eyes flashing. . . .
This was a trip he would never forget.
The Baby Boom
The fifties brought many profound changes both at home in Elmwood Springs and all over America. Everywhere you looked, hundreds of TV antennas seemed to pop up overnight, until every house on every block had one. Names like Philco, Sylvania, Motorola, Uncle Miltie, and Howdy Doody were now part of the language. But television sets and performers were not the only things multiplying. Babies were being born by the thousands every minute of the night and day.
Norma and Macky Warren now had a little girl named Linda, and Anna Lee had a child on the way, and this morning Dorothy had yet another birth to announce. On April 7 Dorothy came down the hall as usual, greeted her guests, and the show started. “Good morning, everybody . . . it’s another pretty day over here. Mother Smith as usual says hello and is feeling good today. Flash, as Walter Winchell would say. Attention, Mr. and Mrs. America and all the ships at sea. Last night our little friend Betty Raye over in Sedalia, Missouri, gave birth to a seven-pound little Hamm Sparks Junior . . . So a great big welcome to the world, baby boy! I know your parents are proud. It seems like only yesterday we were waving good-bye to your mother. Oh, how time flies. We have a lot of fun things lined up for you today. Our two special guests, Ruth and Dawn, the Bohemian harpists, are here all the way from Gaylord, Missouri, and they will be doing their famous rendition of ‘Sing Gypsy Sing’ for us.
“But before we start the show, we have one more little cat that needs a home and I’ll tell you he’s the sweetest thing, just wants to sit in your lap all day and love on you. Dr. Stump says he’s in good health and he will do his male operation for free. . . . We really need to make sure that all our animals have their male and female operations . . . there are just too many precious dogs and cats out there with no home. I look at Princess Mary Margaret and it almost breaks my heart to think she could be out in the world all alone without a family and I’m sure you feel the same way.
“Also we do want to thank Mrs. Lettie Nevior of Willow Creek who sent Princess Mary Margaret the loveliest little coat with her name embroidered right on it. And Mrs. Nevior, how I admire your tiny little stitches. You are just an artist, that’s all I can say, just an artist.”
Bess Goodnight, who worked at the Western Union office, walked up on the porch and handed Dorothy something that had just come in over the wire. “I thought you might want to see this,” she said.
“Thank you, Bess,” Dorothy said as she quickly scanned the news item. “A fanfare, if you please, Mother Smith. An announcement has just come in and I am happy to report that our own wonderful sponsor, Mr. Cecil Figgs of Cecil Figgs Mortuaries and Floral Designs, has just been named Missouri Businessman of the Year for the second time in a row. So another great big congratulations to you! We always love it when our advertisers do well.”
The Funeral King
IF THERE WAS ever a business that proved advertising paid off, it was Cecil Figgs Mortuaries and Floral Designs. What had started out as one small, pink concrete-block building was now thirty-six large, white-columned affairs designed to resemble Tara in Gone with the Wind scattered across the state, two in Kansas City alone. By now Cecil Figgs was the biggest name in the funeral and floral business. He was advertised statewide, on the radio, on billboards, on bus stop benches, in newspapers and the Yellow Pages. Everywhere you looked or listened you would see or hear about Cecil Figgs. “Open twenty-four hours a day to better serve you and will arrange pickup at any location. We treat your loved ones as one of our own.” Of course, he advertised layaway plans. After Cecil had been named Businessman of the Year for the second time, Helen Reid, a woman with the local newspaper, who was assigned to do a story on him, arranged an interview with his two aunts, who still lived in the small town of Eudora, Missouri, where he’d been born. Mrs. Mozelle Hemmit was sitting in her parlor recalling his childhood for the reporter. “Cecil always loved a funeral. From the time he was six years old, you bring him a dead cat and you had yourself a funeral. Flowers, music, and headstone to boot.” His other elderly aunt, Mrs. Ethel Moss, agreed. “It’s true. Whenever most boys were off playing ball he’d be down at Shims’s Mortuary in his little blue suit attending somebody’s funeral. It didn’t matter whether he knew the family or not. Did it, Mozelle?”
“No,” she agreed. “He just liked mingling with the crowd and sympathizing with the grieving relatives. By the time he was twelve Mr. Shims had already put him to work overseeing the visitors book and handing out fans. Remember, Ethel?”
Ethel nodded. “That’s right and he made good money, too, and I’ll tell you this, if there is such a thing as a born mortician, he’s it. Cecil just loves the public, dead or alive, and he always did.”
“And,” said Mozelle, “he was just a natural florist right from the get-go. Cecil was always a whiz with flowers, wasn’t he, Ethel?”
“Oh yes, that boy could whip up an arrangement out of what most people threw away . . . and creative! Remember that spray of wheat and corn shucks he arranged for old Nannie Dotts’s casket? He’s just a miracle worker when it comes to arranging. You hand him five dandelions and a handful of weeds and by the time he gets done, you’ve got yourself a dining room table centerpiece.”
“I remember when he first started out,” Mozelle said. “He bought Mr. Shims’s place. He was a one-man band as far as the funeral business. He did the flowers, embalmed the departed, greeted the mourners, sang the hymns, and preached the sermon . . . and if that wasn’t enough, he drove the hearse. Now, if that’s not service, I don’t know what is. But he’s come a long way from those days. I know Ursa is proud of him. He’s been a good son. How many boys that age would bring their mother to live with them and be so sweet? He takes her everywhere, buys her anything she wants. Hired a maid for her and treats her like a queen. She doesn’t have to lift a finger.”
Mozelle shook her head, puzzled. “A sweet boy like that but he never married and I don’t know why. He was always real popular. Wasn’t he, Ethel?”
“He was. Cecil was the band major in high school and was in all the school plays.”
The reporter asked, “Did he have a high school sweetheart?”
Mozelle said, “Well . . . there was that one girl—remember?—that he went around with for a while. We thought maybe something would happen but when I asked Ursa about it she said that girl was a Christian Scientist and it never would have worked out. But he has lots of friends. He’s very active in the Young Men’s Christian Association and he directs the Miss Missouri contest every year and runs the Little Theater group up there in Kansas City.”
“And directs sacred-music festivals,” Ethel added. “And don’t forget his church work. He’s choir director over at the big Methodist church. So with all his theater and music friends, I’m sure he never has time to be lonesome. He’s made a lot of friends in the gospel world. There’s not a gospel-singing family in a six-state area that’s not a customer. When one of them dies he’s the first one they call to come and officiate.”
Ethel nodded. “They’re always falling out with massive strokes and heart attacks and things. Cecil said he has to special-order the caskets and keep a few in stock just for them.”
Mozelle said, “That gospel crowd alone keeps him busy night and day.”
The reporter addressed the next question to both of them. “What would you say is the secret of his success?”
They both thought about it and Mozelle spoke first. “I would say that it’s his love of pageantry and knowing people. He told me one time, he said, ‘Aunt Mo’—Mo, that’s what he calls me—he said, ‘Aunt Mo, people need a little help to cry over their departed.’ He said most peo
ple try to hold it in when they should let go and get it over with. And believe me, with his theater background he knows exactly how to tug at your heartstrings . . . with music and lighting and all. He really knows how to pull it out of you.”
“That’s true. I’ll guarantee you will not go to one of Cecil’s funerals and not wind up crying along with the rest of them. I know. He did Old Lady Brock’s funeral and by the time we were halfway into the service he had me carrying on like she was my own mother. By the time he’s done you come out feeling like a dishrag—but you feel good too, don’t you?”
“You do,” said the other aunt. “And with him it’s not just a business. I’ve never been to one of his services that he didn’t get all emotional himself. Every time, no matter who the departed is, he sits in the back and has himself a good cry. I think he enjoys his work as much as the customers do. And he is not afraid to spend money. He hires only the best cosmeticians and hair people.”
“That’s right. I’ve yet to go to one of his funerals where the family didn’t say that the deceased looked better dead than when they were alive.”
The reporter thanked them and went home and wrote her story. She was tempted to headline the piece “Better Dead Than Alive” but thought better of it and used “Funeral King Kind to His Mother” instead.
Ferris’s Funeral
TRUE ENOUGH, when Ferris Oatman died suddenly in 1952 of a massive stroke, Cecil Figgs was the first one called. Although it was seventy-five miles from Ferris’s hometown, Cecil decided the service was to be held at the old Boutwell Auditorium in Birmingham, where the Oatmans had sung at so many sacred-music festivals. On the day of the funeral every gospel group in America showed up to pay their respects. Everyone said it was one of the biggest the gospel world had seen, by far. Besides all the Oatmans and the Varners and the devoted fans, and the gospel groups by the hundreds, so many buses rolled in that they did not have room to park them all. Even the mayor and the governor himself showed up.