The Vanceboro Strawberry Festival had been an Eastern
North Carolina tradition for uncounted years.
Citizens of Craven County crowded the crooked streets of the heart of
the little town sampling every booth’s contribution to the festivities of the
day. The volunteer fire department
paraded down Main Street at two o’clock in the afternoon, followed by dens of
Cub Scout Packs, patrols of Boy Scouts and floats of Brownies and Girl
Scouts. Each unit held their banners
with pride, throwing strawberry-flavored candy to the bystanders, smiling and
waving to mothers and grandmothers, dads and grandfathers.
The
dunking booth was everyone’s favorite.
If you were skilled enough to hit the bulls-eye and give someone a dip
in the water, then it was your duty and right to be the next one to get dipped. Todd used to play it every year, always
persuading his little brother to get in the booth for a quick dip in the
water. This year, the dunking booth was
awkwardly missing. The old man who had
brought it to the festival for so many years had fallen ill and could not make
it. There was a noticeable aura of
disappointment in the air.
Todd
and Abby walked hand-in-hand through the maze of exhibits. There was the lady who made Christmas tree
ornaments from seashells. She would be
the only one totally out of place among all of the exhibitors, but every year
she was there, spreading Christmas cheer in the middle of the July.
The
other people had landscape portraits, of the coastline mostly. They were infatuated with the lighthouses:
Bodie, Hatteras, Lookout and Bald Head.
One older man had pencil drawings of Fort Macon that he sold for ten
dollars a piece. Todd bought one and
tucked it under his arm. It would be a
nice addition to his study.
The
strawberry ice cream booths were on Second Street with the Post Office. He knew where to go by the age of the woman
behind the booth. If she was under
fifty, then he took only samples. If she
was over fifty or at last looked old enough to be a grandma, then Todd would
indulge himself into the mature recipes of these masters of homemade ice cream
making. It was a fail-safe way of overfilling himself on only the best that the
Strawberry Festival had to offer.
“Todd
Dawson,” a voice shouted from behind.
Todd
spun around, spinning Abby almost in a circle.
He squinted into the sun trying to make out the shadow walking his way.
“Todd,”
said a skinny hobbling shadow, “it’s Ralph Clemmet.” The shadow walked to Todd’s side so that he
wouldn’t have to look into the sun. “You don’t remember me?” He smiled a gap-toothed smile. “I lived across from your great-grandparents,
just down the road. Your grandfather
would bring you over sometimes when he would go over to his parents.” The old man stared at Todd for a minute,
smiling. “My
God, could you believe it’s been twenty-three years since I last saw you?”
Twenty-three
years was a long time ago, Todd thought. In fact, it was nearly a lifetime
ago.
“N-n-nice
to see you...” Todd stammered, “again Mr. Clemmet. I guess I didn’t r--recognize you. It has been a very long time.” The old man
smiled at him. Todd silently cursed his stutter. It would inexplicably show up
when he met someone new. It was a
phenomenon which he knew to expect, but he still cursed it nonetheless. Clemmet looked inquisitively at Abby. “Oh, I’m sorry, this is my wife, Abby.”
Clemmet
reached for her hand and kissed it like a gentleman. “Ma’am.”
Todd
struggled to find the words for conversation for this man from the past. He
wasn’t the best at simple chit chat even with the best of his friends. His mind raced for what felt like minutes
until he finally blurted, “ But how did you know who I was?”
“Oh,
well” started Clemmet, “I actually didn’t – at least not at first.” He looked quickly down the street towards the
crowd of people in front of the church. “Amelia Scott – I think you remember
her as Grace. She’s in town visiting her
mother.” The name itself, made Todd’s
stomach tighten just a little. But
before he could think on her any longer, Clemmet continued, “ I was just over there talking with her and
her mother and - she’s back in town you know.
I said something about hearing that you and Abby had moved back to town
as well recently. No sooner had I said it, than she looked up and saw
you.”
Still bewildered and
looking past Clemmet towards the church where the old man had just glanced
seconds prior, Todd absently but slowly said, “I guess you didn’t know we had
moved into my-”
“Grand parent’s old house?” Clemmet
finished the sentence. “This town is so
little, Todd, everyone knows what goes on.
I’ve lived here for seventy years. I know the comings and goings of everyone.” He eyed Abby again. “You’ve found yourself quite a lovely one
son. Your grandfather always said that
you would charm the ladies when you got older.”
Again, she smiled the gap-toothed grin, this time with a wink.
“How
well did you know him?” For the life of
him, Todd couldn’t place the old man. He
was a bit surprised that Clemmet knew he had moved into the old house. But, in a way, he wasn’t. After all, the town was small, and word could
travel fast, especially if the old man ever ate at the local dive, Vera’s
Diner.
“I
can’t believe he never told you about our fried chicken and ice cream parties
when our children were younge,.” Clemment seemed to shout in excitement. “Your mother and aunt, and my children would
eat ice cream and listen to the Beatles on the radio while the adults sat out
on the porch talking. We spent many
nights just talking to our old friends.” He clapped his hands together rubbing
them, closing his eyes appearing to pull the vision from the past into the
present. He smiled again and laughed.
There
were so many stories that Todd heard over the years, that it was hard to place
the old man among them. Inside he knew
something about Clemmet, but couldn’t remember exactly what.
“I
guess I never really listened to them reminisce. I always found talk of drought and
mite-infested tobacco and corn to be on my list of conversation topics to
avoid,” Todd said drolly. The old man didn’t smile, instead he just looked down
the street and then back at Todd.
“What
d’ya say you two come over this afternoon for a few sandwiches?” He noticed the ice cream cups in their hands,
“That is, if you aren’t too full from the sweets.” He looked at Abby. She smiled and nodded her head in
agreement. “Well, let me find Maggie and
then we’ll all walk over to the house.”
He
slowly wandered off to one of the ice cream stands that the couple had visited
earlier. The old lady peeked out from
behind her white curtained booth and waved at Todd and Abby in
recognition. She then ducked back
inside, presumably to let her daughter know that she would be gone for a while,
and then exited the side of the booth and walked towards the two of them.
She
looked so familiar to Todd as she walked up to him.
“My
law, Todd, you sure have grown up!” She
touched his cheek and held him at arms-length.
The slight sweetness of a just picked strawberry lofted lightly to his
nose. She turned to Abby, “And you,
child, you are as beautiful as an angel.”
Todd
and Abby held each other’s hands nervously.
She squeezed his tightly. “Thank you, Mrs. Clemmet.” He was searching for words again. He knew that he was supposed to know him,
somehow. “Were you in the Navy with my
grandfather, Mr. Clemmet?” he questioned, praying for some kind of affirmation
of acknowledgment from the old man.
“Yes! See, I knew he had told you something about
us. We had the fortune of...well, let’s
get going over to the house, we can talk about this all afternoon.”
The
walk was short, yet crowded. Cars were
parked the full three blocks back to the Clemmet’s house, and a steady stream
of people walked against them the whole way.
The sun was making its trip to the horizon slowly. Todd figured on at least another three hours
before the mosquitoes came out.
Their
house was just like all the others in Vanceboro–quaint little two story one
trimmed in olive green shutters. The
shrubbery was full, as was the flower garden surrounding the flagpole next to
the driveway. The gravel driveway led to
a pull-through carport in the backyard. Next to it was the boom of a water well. Undoubtedly it was dry, probably boarded up
on top, or cemented, remaining only now for decoration.
Clemmet
walked up quickly to the front door and opened it up for everyone. He seemed to
dance his way the entire walk to the home.
“We don’t have to lock our doors here, Abby – ain’t no one got anything
anyone else wants to steal,” He chuckled to himself. She gave an understanding nod and followed
Mrs. Clemmet into the house.
The
inside was filled with 1940’s and 50’s dining and living room sets. The kitchen table was covered with a vinyl
tablecloth and set up like near-by Vera’s Diner, with ketchup, mustard, salt,
and pepper right in the middle. In the
far room, across an open bar, there was the mantle upon which what seemed like
a hundred picture frames sat. Todd
walked over to them and looked for recognizable faces among the confused
cluster of the Clemmet’s undeniable children, grandchildren, and
great-grandchildren.
“He’s
right here, son,” the old man pulled a gold-tinted tin frame from beside the
clock. “This was probably taken right
before he went off to sea. We all went
to go have our pictures taken so that our mothers and girlfriends would have
something to hold on to of us while we were gone. We all thought it was something for them to
be proud of, but I guess, it was something for them to pray upon.” He pulled his blocky plastic glasses over his
eyes and squinted. “See that widow’s
peak there? You have it, too. You have it, too.” He looked at Todd and smiled. “He was a good friend of mine, son.”
Todd
could feel the presence of his grandfather in the room. He could feel him standing beside Clemmet,
being a part of it all. He could smell
his after-shave in the stale, warm air of the house. But perhaps most of all, he could feel the
old man’s need to talk about his old friend.
“
When the two families were together on those Saturday afternoons, the four of
us – John, Mary, Maggie and I – would sit out on that porch and smoke a
cigarette and drink sweet tea.” Clemmet
lightly reached for the picture frame and held it in his own hands for a
while. ‘That was years ago.” He took his glasses off and sat them on the
top of his head. “Years.”
“C’mon
boys!” shouted Mrs. Clemmet. The
sandwiches were already cut and pinned with toothpicks. At each place setting was a glass of
glistening iced tea, sweet of course, with chicken salad and chips.
“I
know chicken salad isn’t the same as crab cakes, Abby, but maybe one day you
can cook some of those up for us,” joked Mr. Clemmet, picking on her Maryland
origins.
“Don’t
let these boys pick on you about what everyone else around her eats. They just think they know the tastes of everyone. You can’t live without a man spilling out
their own philosophies on-”
“Maggie,”
the old man interrupted, “you couldn’t live without me for a day.” He winked at her and then reached over and
pinched her lightly on the elbow. Abby
laughed to herself.
“I
remember one winter, Abby, when we actually had snow down here on Christmas and
John volunteered to plow the roads near his house, ours, and his parents with
the tractor. I guess that sounds a bit
silly to you guys up there. Down here all we can do is have the roads scraped
by farmers and then put sand on the roads to reduce the slippin’. Guess that makes us seem kinda like bumpkins
to you guys up north.”
“Naw,”
she said mimicking their accent, “ those trucks up there don’t plow all the
streets, just the major ones.”
Mrs.
Clemmet, not wanting to be left out of the conversation again, piped in, “and
they made snow angels in the front yard when he was done.”
“Who?”
asked Todd. He had heard this story from
his grandmother, but he never knew that it was with the Clemmets.
“Your
grandfather and the children. Once he
finished getting all of the streets that morning, he ran inside and got all the
children out of the house to play in the snow on Christmas. He must have known that we wouldn’t see
another white Christmas for thirty-odd years.
Later, after opening presents, we made snow cream. Your grandfather loved that more than any
other sweet in the world.”
They
finished their sandwiches and sat around in the living room. Mrs. Clemmet pulled down photo albums for
them to look at. They all sat there
until around dusk and Todd could tell that the old couple was getting tired,
yet he knew that they seemed to thoroughly enjoy the company.
After
having a bowl of ice cream with iced peach quarters, Abby mentioned that she
needed to get back to the house to finish grading some papers. The Clemmets walked them to the door.
“Don’t
make yourself strangers, kids. We’re
neighbors of sorts now. Come see us from
time to time,” Mr. Clemmet said.
‘Thank
you so much for the wonderful afternoon.
We will certainly get in touch with you as often as we can,” said
Todd. “Next Sunday for brunch sound
good?”
“Sounds
like a date, then. Next Sunday. Goodnight Todd, Abby. Drive safely.”
They
drove home and both lay down on the bed to relax for a few minutes.
“Nice
old couple. I guess you find out that
you don’t know that much when you move into a small town where everyone else
knows everything,” said Todd.
“Yeah,
but still, they’re a nice couple. She
kinda reminds me of an old June Lockhart, wanting to serve the perfect
sandwiches to the perfect couple.” They
laughed out loud at the thought.
Todd
kissed her and then walked into his study. After finding a cheap frame that was
hidden away in the closet, he hung his new picture of Fort Macon on the
wall. He sat down at his desk and leaned
back in his chair. He closed his eyes
trying to remember the picture of his grandfather. He was so much younger looking than any other
picture he had ever seen. How many other
events in his life, did Mr. Clemmet participate? Was he at his grandparents’ wedding? At the kids’ communions? So many questions. His mind kept spinning as he thought about
everything again.
Gravel
driveway with potholes and standing
water
that rarely dries. Yellow and brown
tobacco
wilt in neglected fields. Bulk barns
leaning
more towards the ground than skyward.
Willie’s
chair rocks slowly underneath
the
sign “Dunn’s Country Store.”
An
edge tethered black wallet lays open
between
his crossed dark denim legs. A black
and
white picture of Lily and Cricket
blowing
out candles. Cricket’s first birthday
forty-two
years ago. Raggedy Ann
and
Andy hugged tightly against her chest.
An
off-color snap of a snowfall in January ’63.
Snowmen
standing like giant centurions
guarding
the princess. Broomsticks
held
like rifles while at attention. Eyes,
made
from two steel bolts off of the harvester
seats. Lily, in the background, making angels.
A
wedding portrait. Veil pulled back
showing
sprouts
of chestnut hair. Dark eyes,
just
like her mother. Full scarlet lips.
Her
hands entwined in his. The priest,
holding
the Bible reverently. We stood
still
for this one last moment all together.
A
phone rings inside the rarely visited
landmark
store. Lily, laid to rest in February,
loved
these old pictures. She said, they
were
magical. They were her last true
reality;
each
snapshot, a moment of time frozen
acknowledging
the gravity of the situation.
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