The Folks of Weezer Township

by Charles C. Cole

Part 1 appears in this issue.

conclusion

There was a free spaghetti dinner at the recently reopened Unitarian church. Everyone in the isolated community knew it was a recruitment affair thrown by the new preacher. But free food was free food. Besides, the small town hadn’t seen a resident clergyman in almost ten years. Now was the time to put one’s house in order, not when on one’s deathbed.

Someone in the state government of all things, with local ties, had shepherded a grant for three months of summer worship under the guise of grief counseling following a regional mining disaster.

For many years, young bachelor Swain Clatchee had performed the duties of a lay minister. He was a good listener, discreet, with the acumen of King Solomon. This night, in close quarters, in front of friends and neighbors, Swain was formally introduced to the temporary professional, the Reverend Baz Wilton.

Wilton and his two teen-aged sons, all of them lean and six-foot or better, one of them bald, served the entrée from behind the buffet table. The dessert display, in the opposite corner of the hall, overflowed with generous potluck treats, like strawberry-rhubarb pie, apple bread pudding, and double-chocolate brownies.

With most in attendance already seated and no line, Swain held out his plate for pasta and meatballs. “Evening, Reverend. Sorry I’m late. Big fan of your work.”

“I do believe we’re in the presence of the Right Honourable Swain Clatchee,” said Wilton. “Sons, a private moment if you please.” The boys shrugged and wandered toward the dessert table. Swain smiled in acknowledgement. “Some of your friends didn’t think you’d make it.”

“Here I am. How did you know it was me?”

“They described you to a tee: mid-twenties, rugged, too serious for every occasion, bright white shirt, wearing a sterling silver crucifix. And everybody else was already here.”

Swain turned to look at his neighbors, chatting at card tables about the hall. A few waved or nodded. There was the barber Sid Sutter and his posse, Burt Walz and Ike Noonan. At another table: his landlord Miss Mamie and her on-again, off-again beau Doc Buckle with retired farmers Luke and Dora Doolittle. And most of the town.

“Please allow me to shake your hand,” said Wilton. Swain lowered his plate and reached around the mound of steaming pasta tentatively. They shook. It wasn’t as awkward as it could have been. “I hear you’re the village humanitarian.”

“I do what I can, but now that we have a professional amongst us, I was thinking of taking the summer off.”

“Swain, I’m not here to replace you. You know your people. I just thought we’d give them a place to gather on Sundays, to sing a little and pray a little. And maybe, if folks were interested, they could wander by at other times to unburden an overbusy mind.”

“That’s very Christian of you,” said Swain. It was meant as a sincere compliment but came out biting.

“I’ll be gone before you know it.”

“I expect they’ll take advantage of you,” said Swain, “in your professional capacity. You can’t tell, but they all have a lot going on in their heads. They find me during a crisis of conscience, but otherwise they keep their innermost thoughts to themselves, which isn’t necessarily a good thing.”

“So, do I have your tacit endorsement?”

Swain once more turned to the crowd. “Everybody, if I can interrupt your meal for a quick second.” The group hushed, like they’d been expecting an announcement. “As unlikely as it seems, the state has agreed to let us borrow Reverend Wilton for the summer. I don’t know about you, but I find Sunday mornings in summer a little too quiet; I sleep late — even though the sun has been up for hours — because I have nowhere to be. Now I do. And you do, too. Please rise and help me welcome Reverend Wilton.”

The group, led by Doc Buckle, stood and applauded. Percussive without being strident, it was music to the ears.

* * *

Months later, with summer ending, as Reverend Wilton and his two boys packed up, Swain Clatchee pulled up in his truck.

“Reverend Wilton.”

“Reverend Clatchee,” said Wilton. They shook hands for only the second time. “You ready to have your flock to yourself?”

“I’ll be honest,” said Swain, “I like my flock one sheep at a time. I’m not really into group activities. I already told Doc Buckle and Miss Mamie that I’ll be sleeping late on Sundays, old habits and all that. Maybe we can get a grant again next year.”

“You didn’t hear? I thought word would spread like wildfire: I have a permanent assignment over to White Rock. Almost four times as big as Weezer Township, but still small. No auxiliary minister to help everyone adjust. I’ll miss that. You made it easy.”

“I never asked. How did the one-on-one counseling go? Wasn’t that your main purpose?”

“I shouldn’t say,” said Wilton, “but no dark secrets or broken hearts, though Ike Noonan would have you believe he was a demon child. He wasn’t, just normal.”

Two days later, Doc Buckle bumped into Swain filling up at the Gas and Go. Doc approached. “Swain.”

“Doc.”

“We need your services. Luke Doolittle’s dog, Tanzi, was chasing a rabbit and ran out in front of a truck. There was nothing anyone could do. Maybe you could visit a spell and help Luke. He’s struggling.”

“Tanzi was family,” said Swain. “I remember when she was a puppy. Of course, I’ll stop by.”

The lay minister finished filling his truck and headed over to the Doolittle farm.

* * *

On a quiet sunny Friday afternoon at just after 4, County Deputy Charles “Skip” Dutrault parked his cruiser in front of The Dewdrop Inn, as he did every week. This was his Main Street check-in time with the gentle folk of Weezer Township. If there was an issue, large or small, he’d hear about it within the next 60 minutes.

Sitting on Miss Mamie’s veranda was his “open door” policy. Some people needed face-to-face time, not impersonal phones, to share their feelings. Knowing Skip’s office hours were about to start, Miss Mamie had left out a steaming cup of coffee and a small tray of fresh sugar cookies on a folding tea table.

Skip reached for the coffee before a cookie; it was a long winding way to rural, isolated Weezer Township. Though no needful constituent was in sight yet, it was rare that Skip left the community without some sort of serious, though not life-changing, conversation.

Within minutes, Doc Buckle went gliding by on his bicycle, professional black valise in his basket. He waved warmly and then quickly circled back. wWe have our first customer. Doc hopped off his bike and leaned it against the nearest utility pole.

“Doc.”

“Skip.”

“How’s the practice of medicine these days?”

“Win some and lose some, sorry to say,” said Doc. “We do what we can.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Actually, I stopped for a fresh cookie and to check in with Miss Mamie. Seen her about?”

“The coffee’s still warm,” said Skip, “so I bet you don’t have to look far.”

Doc saluted and opened the door to the homey establishment. “Smells even better inside. Good luck keeping the peace, Deputy.”

Several minutes passed during which Skip enjoyed the quiet of a small town and a couple more cookies. Next to arrive: Ike Noonan, long-time columnist for the county’s weekly newspaper.

“Skip.”

“Ike.”

“I don’t know if you’re the right man for this,” began Ike, “but you’re here and I’m here.”

“Right you are, my friend. How can I help this fine day?”

“It’s about the deer, Skip. It’s almost like they’re waiting at the side of the road for me to drive by. It’s unnerving. It’s not even hunting season; they should be in the woods.”

“Sorry, Ike.”

“I’ve always had a good driving record. I watch my speed. Never tailgate. Never roll through stop signs. I’m respectful of other drivers, like my father taught me.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Skip.

“I was thinking; hear me out. What if we set up designated deer crossing zones?” asked Ike. “We’d have to make them conducive. Something about them that’s encouraging, you know? A place for deer to gather. I don’t have the answers, but I bet everyone would benefit.”

“I’ll talk to a few people I know. Get back to you. How’s that?”

“That’s all I ask,” said Ike.

Skip was alone again, but not for long: Swain Clatchee, local lay minister and self-appointed mediator, soon wandered up the walk. His chin was up. He smiled. He beamed. Could he possibly have an issue concerning safety and order?

“Swain.”

“Skip.”

“Have you come for Miss Mamie’s fresh cookies?” asked Skip.

“To be honest, I came for you,” said Swain.

“For me?”

“Lola Delacroix told me about your dog,” said Swain. “I wanted to offer my sincere condolences. Pets are family.”

“Caesar was an old boy; it was time,” said Skip. “Still, I appreciate your making the effort.”

“Barring an emergency, we only see you on Fridays, but you’re still part of the community.”

“Thank you, Swain. You and the other residents never cease to impress me. You could teach the world a thing or two about respect and kindness, that’s for sure. You certain there’s nothing I can do for you or your neighbors? You tend to hear complaints as I recall.”

“Can’t think of one. Tell you what, Skip, you come back next Friday: I’ll try and think something up. Don’t want you to feel your efforts are in vain.”

“Appreciate the offer and the support on my recent loss.”

Swain left the way he’d come, with one pause. “I don’t suppose you know the fella who fills up potholes.”

“I know a guy who knows a guy,” said Skip with a smile.

“Tell him where Routes 100 and 25 come together. Can’t miss it, no pun intended.” And he left.

Skip finished his coffee and stood. He’d be back in a week. Nice people. Worth staying in touch.