Small Town Saturday Night

Birds flit back and forth, hurrying to bring home one last worm for their babies. A warm breeze rustles the leaves of a nearby maple tree. A teenager drives by in his freshly polished pickup truck, windows down, music thumping. One car drives slowly down Market, the man has white hair, as does his wife. They wave, we wave back. A young couple is walking through the alley, pushing their baby in a stroller. Their son rides his bicycle alongside. They wave, we wave back. Everyone knows everyone here. It’s a small town Saturday night.

The back deck offers shelter from the bright evening sun, while providing a view of our newly planted butterfly bush, and flourishing tomato plants. Water drips from the freshly watered pansies in the window box next to us. Droplets collect on their upturned faces, emphasizing the already bright yellows, dark reds, and deep purples. The grill is cooling after providing us with a tasty dinner of steak and potatoes. The meal is finished, the kitchen tidy, and the coffee is ready for the morning. After checking to see if there might actually be anything good on television, we retire to the deck with a glass of red wine.

A newly graduated teenager stops by to say hello to Mr. E, obviously comfortable talking to a former teacher he admires. He has a summer job working for his father, and will start classes at the community college in the fall. His older brother leaves for Iraq in a few weeks. He seems worried, but proud. He doesn’t visit long. He’s on his way to pick up his girlfriend. They’re going to one of the few remaining drive-in movie theaters, twenty miles away, to see the new Indiana Jones movie.

The sun sinks below the horizon. The street lights come on, illuminating a street lined with signs bearing yellow ribbons with the names of hometown boys serving in the military. One has given his life for our freedom. The community prays for him and for the others to come back safe. A banner hangs over the street welcoming Joshua home. He will arrive tomorrow, escorted by the town’s fire truck and only police car, their sirens will announce his arrival. Residents will flock to the sidewalks to wave, and he will wave back. Everyone is thankful he made it home safe.

We talk about our week and what we’ll do tomorrow. We talk about our children and grandchildren. We tell stories from when we were young, just like my dad and his brothers used to do. Some are funny and some are sad, all are part of our history. I yawn, he looks at his watch. It’s eight-thirty, too early to go to bed. We laugh and joke about it being past our bedtime.

The low moan of a train whistle breaks the silence. We listen to the bumping of the cars as the train stops, takes off, and stops again. When it starts moving, the whistle echoes through the night, as it approaches the first railroad crossing, and then another. We think its leaving, but then the cars banging together tell us there are more cars to add. It reverses. When the engine passes under a street light, we see it is the red train, not the black one. The red train never leaves the switching yard. It only moves cars around on the many rows of tracks. As the train gets longer, and each time it takes off down the tracks, we make bets on whether it’s leaving or if it will reverse again. It becomes a game. Two hours later we’re still playing. I yawn again. Now, it’s ten-thirty. We watch the train reverse once more, and then call it a night.

Through the open bedroom window, we hear crickets chirping. A dog barks, another answers, and then another. Two cats are squaring off next door, their low yowls warn of the fight to come. The train’s whistle moans one last time as it picks up speed. This time it doesn’t reverse. We laugh. If only we had waited a few more minutes, we could have waved goodbye to the engineer.

I closed my eyes, opened them, and sat up. “Next weekend is the Betsey Reed re-enactment. Who was Betsey Reed anyway?” I asked.

“Betsey Reed was hung for poisoning her husband. She was either the only woman hanged in Illinois, or the first person to be hanged. I’m not sure which,” my husband explained. “I don’t know much about her. There is a book. The author will be signing copies all day Saturday.”

“Really? Where?”

“He owns the book store down the street.”

I smacked my pillow into shape, snuggled down for the night, and said, “I’ll buy one.”

Next weekend, we will go to the Betsey Reed Festival. After the festival, we will probably cook dinner on the grill and sit outside on the back deck. To those used to the faster pace of a city life, our weekends may seem dull. To me, they’re priceless. We’ll talk about our week, solve the problems of the world, and tell stories from when we were young. When our neighbors waive as they pass by, we’ll wave back. It will be another exciting, small town, Saturday night.

Story ID:	3987
Written by:	Betty (BJ) Roan (bio, link, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Musings, Essays and Such
Location:	Palestine IL USA
Year:	2008