The Betsey Reed Festival

Story ID:	4015
Written by:	Betty (BJ) Roan
Story type:	Musings, Essays and Such
Location:	Palestine USA
Year:	2008

The newspaper headline read, Betsey Reed Fest Promises Tacky and Tasteless Fun. If I could, I would have danced a jig. Come on Friday night! The two day festival would have street music, crafts, food vendors, and a wine tasting. And as if that wasn’t enough, Friday night there would be a free showing Arsenic and Old Lace outside in the street. If you’re not older than dirt or an old movie buff, you may not remember this one. It’s the Old Frank Capra movie staring Cary Grand, I mean Grant. Mortimer, played by the hunky Mr. Grant, visits two aunts who seem to have developed a penchant for serving arsenic laced elderberry wine. What do Arsenic and Old Lace have to do with Betsey Reed? Betsey was accused of using a little arsenic to poison her husband. He died. She was convicted of murdering him. Since the movie couldn’t begin until after dark, the Fife Opera House would begin the evening with a re-enactment of the hanging of Betsey Reed. It would be a fun-filled evening, followed by more unusual events on Saturday.

For those of you who don't know about Elizabeth (Betsey) Reed, which included me before this event, she was the first and only woman ever to hang in the State of Illinois. It seems there is some speculation that the woman was innocent of serving her husband an arsenic laced beverage. Whether or not she was innocent, she was accused and convicted. Many thought she was a witch. Betsey was incarcerated in the Palestine jail and when it caught fire and burned, she was accused of doing the deed. Of course, since she didn’t have matches she must have used her evil powers.

After the jail burned, Betsey was moved to Lawrenceville. The day of Betsey’s hanging, thousands of people gathered to watch as the publicly proclaimed witch and murderer rode from the jail to the noose atop the casket she would be buried in. Without further ado, Betsey was hanged by the neck until dead.

My heart beat excitedly as I looked at the clock that Friday afternoon. Five more minutes and my work week would be done. Tonight was the night for the Betsey Reed Festival. With a flick of a wrist and a flourish of hands, I cleared off my desk, told my cohorts goodbye, and practically skipped to the car. I drove as fast as I could, without getting a speeding ticket, and arrived home in record time. After a quick change into my festival clothes, I grabbed dear Hubby by the arm and practically dragged him out the door. Since the festival would take place right in front of our house, we didn’t have far to go. At the end of the sidewalk, we stopped. We looked up and down the street for the tents. There were only four tents set up along the entire length of our block. Before I could ask why, a flash of lightening, immediately followed by a loud rumble of thunder, drove us back inside.

We watched from our living room window, as festival goers and vendors alike scrambled for cover. The wind blew the trees until I thought they would break in half. We turned TV to see if there were severe storms in the area. The electricity flashed off. It was then the warning sirens began to scream. My teeth started chattering, but not because I felt a chill. It was a very warm evening. My teeth chattered because of my past experiences with tornadoes, I was downright scared.

Hubby gathered a few supplies. He found a lantern, flashlights, and placed them, along with two lawn chairs, beside the basement door. We were ready to run for cover, but we decided to tempt fate. We listened as hail pelted the roof and rain flew sideways into the house. We waited, but we didn’t hear that distinctive roar, so we remained upstairs. The rain continued to pour down, not little pitter pats, but in buckets and barrels. The electricity came back on, so we watched the warnings scroll by: tornado, severe thunderstorm, and then flood.

After a full night of very little sleep, we woke to a bright sunshiny Saturday. I breathed a sigh of relief. Certain the festival would go on as planned I bounded out of bed and readied myself for a day of fun and excitement. Hubby poured each of us a cup of coffee and turned on the TV. I groaned. The Wabash River had left its banks. The massive rain flooded creeks, overflowing even the smallest streams. During the night, our little town had become an island.

Worried the festival was canceled, while still in my robe, I ripped open the front door. I ran down the front walk, skidded to a stop, reversed, ran back inside, and slammed the door. Right in front of the house, a barbecue restaurant just happened to be firing up the grill. In spite of my embarrassment, there was a little hop in my step as I headed for the shower. The festival would take place as scheduled despite the rain. It was time to P-A-R-T-Y!

Hubby was ready before me, as usual, but he waited patiently while I worried over what to wear, slapped on a little makeup, and tried to tame untamable hair. I avoided the mirror as I passed by. Hubby made the appropriate complimentary remarks and being the gentleman he is, held the door open for me. He even held my hand.

At the end of our walk, I stopped and looked both ways. The barbecue vendor was still there, but there were no vendors to the north, and very few to the south. I saw an artist hawking wooden roses across the street. We stopped in front of the tent to admire the blue, red, and yellow varieties. They were nice, but merely dust catchers to me. We continued down the street, stopped to purchase a pork chop on a stick. Yum! We stood in the shade of a building while we ate, licked our fingers clean, and then went in search of a trash receptacle. There were no more tents, but there were a few show cars to admire. We did. Now what? It seemed the flood water had marred my fun after all.

Hubby said, “There is a wine tasting inside the Fife Opera House.”

“Now you’re talking,” I said.

It seems the wine vendors were required to sign in the night before. We were in luck. The Fife Opera House was filled with booths from every winery in the Central Illinois area. We handed a lady a few bucks in exchange for an empty wine glass, and then proceeded to the first booth. We chose a fine red wine, sipped, rolled it around on our tongues, and swallowed, as if we knew what we were doing. We made the appropriate euphoric facial expressions, and moved on to the next booth, where we repeated our performance. And so on, and so on, and so on, until my little tea-totaller self could hardly see through the fog. Perhaps tea-totaller isn’t quite the right word, after all, I do enjoy an occasional drink, but usually not more than one or two glasses of wine in an evening. If I should have more, I’m under the table. I was on the verge of under, but still wobbling along, when I gave Hubby the ‘let’s get out of here’ look. Realizing his wife was a little tipsy, he obliged. “You look like you could use some fresh air,” he said.

Back in the street, someone had lined up what appeared to be soap box derby cars, yet they were different than any I’d seen before. These cars had a handle on the back, like a grocery cart. All were painted brightly and positioned at an angle in the middle of the street.

“Is there a shope box derby?” I slurred quizzically.

“No. These are caskets for the casket races.”

These were not what I envisioned when I first heard of casket races. In my mind’s eye, there were wooden caskets built like the ones on Gunsmoke, with six pallbearers carrying a pretend deceased person lying prone on top. I think my version would be more fun. The race was to begin at eleven, but it didn’t, so I missed it. Bummer!

We crossed the street. I tripped on the curb and almost knocked down a sign advertising a book about Betsey Reed. I decided to buy one. While Hubby was conversing with someone he knew but I didn’t, I careened through a group of festival goers blocking the sidewalk, and grabbed hold of a post in front of the book store.

Since I now knew a little about Betsey Reed, the name on the window had a whole new meaning. It’s called Betsey Reed’s Book Emporium. Below the name it says, a great place to hang around. I had passed that bookstore many times, wishing it were open during evening hours or on Saturday. I guess I thought Betsey owned the store. The owner is actually a man named Rick Kelsheimer, who penned the book The Hanging of Betsey Reed A Wabash River Tragedy on the Illinois Frontier. I've finished reading the book, and must say it is a very good tale.

Inside the store, I found myself all alone. I located a copy of the book, and picked up another by one of my favorite authors. I looked around for someone to take my money. I was still alone. As I was about to put my books back and leave, when a man walked in. He introduced himself. He was the author. He signed my book, and we talked for a while. I tried not to slur, but I’m not sure I succeeded. It seems most locals know to take their money next door to the art gallery. Since I haven’t lived here a year yet, I had no clue. Small towns, you gotta love ‘em!

Back outside, I found Hubby still talking to that local. I motioned him over to where a wooden casket had been propped against the wall. He stood beside it, I took a picture. We joked about my measuring him to see if he would fit. He said he would be doing all the cooking from now on. No arsenic for him.

I told Hubby I thought it would be best if I went back inside until my wine fuzzed brain de-fuzzed. He agreed. I went home, swallowed a pain reliever to stave off an impending headache, and fell asleep.

A while later, Hubby woke me to say the street dance had been cancelled. He wanted to know if I wanted to spend $16.00 to watch the Wrestlemania show instead. It didn’t take me long to decline. We stood outside, talked to the parents of one of Hubby’s students, and watched the wrestlers pass by on their way to the ring, which was half a block down, in the middle of the street. Talking was much more fun than watching.

Later we decided to sit outside on the deck. We talked about the day. Hubby said he was sorry the flood had ruined the festival for me. He explained the festival was moved up a few weeks this year to avoid hot weather. We decided it would have been better to be hot than flooded.

Even though I didn’t get to experience the usual Betsey Reed Festival, I had seen enough to realize the newspaper article was correct. This festival did provide plenty of ‘tacky and tasteless’ fun. Whatever the label, it was fun. I’m already looking forward to next year when the street will be lined with tents and all events will go off as planned. Hopefully we won’t hear the high-pitched scream of tornado sirens, and there won’t be another flood. Next time, I want to see a casket race.

Photo #1 - Hubby being measured.
Photo #2 - A casket racer.
Photo #3 - It isn't a lake. It's a field.
Photo #4 - This playhouse was built by Hubby's Building Trades class. It barely survivied.
Photo #5 - Even the grave yard wasn't spared.