"I've known Pat O'Dell since he was in the first grade. He's a good boy, but he hasn't made a study of mouse holes." "Before we launch a campaign against mus musculus, Mr. Tibbitt, I'd like to get some of your recollections on tape for the oral history program — that is, if you would be willing."
"Turn on the machine. Ask me some questions. Just give me another cup of coffee with a drop of brandy — make it two drops — and be sure it's decaffeinated."
The following interview with Homer Tibbitt was later transcribed:
Question: What can you tell us about the early schools in Moose County?
Beginning way back when my mother was a schoolmarm, they were built of logs — just one room with desks around the walls, hard benches with no backs, and a potbellied stove in the middle. And they were drafty! She taught in one school where the snow blew through the chinks, and there were rabbit tracks in the snow on the floor.
What was required of a teacher in those days?
My mother walked three miles to school and got there early enough to sweep the floor and start a wood fire in the stove. She taught eight grades in one room- without any textbooks! Her pay was a dollar a day plus free board and room with a farm family. Male teachers were paid two dollars.
How many students did she have in that one room?
Thirty or forty enrolled, but only half of them ever showed up for classes.]
What subjects did she teach?
She was supposed to teach the three Rs, history, geography, grammar, penmanship, and orthography. She also organized games and special programs, and she was required to lecture on the evils of drink, tobacco, and tight corsets.
How about team sports? Was there athletic competition?
They played games at recess, and there was rivalry between schools, but it was over spelling matches, not football.
Had conditions improved when you started to teach?
We still had one-room schools, but they were well built, and we had textbooks. We still didn't have in- door plumbing... Could I bother you for another cup of coffee? My mouth gets dry.
Did you know any of the Goodwinters connected with the newspaper?
I retired before Junior was born, but I had his father in my classes. Senior was a quiet boy with a one-track mind. I grew up with Titus and Samson, and I knew the old man. When I was eleven years old I worked as a printer's devil after school. Ephraim Goodwinter made plenty of money in mining, but he was greedy. Ever hear about the explosion that killed thirty-two men? The engineers had warned Ephraim, but he wouldn't spend the money on safety measures. After the explosion he tried to make it right by donating a public library.
Is it true he hanged himself?
Aha! That's one of Moose County's dirty little secrets. The family said it was suicide, and the coroner said it was suicide, but everybody knew he was lynched, and everybody knew who was in the lynching party. The whole town turned out for his funeral. They wanted to be sure he didn't come back, the saying was.
What happened to Titus and Samson?
There was a cock-and-bull story about Samson's horse being frightened by a flock of blackbirds and that's how he was killed. Then Titus was murdered by the Picayune wagon driver. Died with his derby hat on his head.
Who was the wagon driver?
Zack Whittlestaff. This county is full of curious names: Cuttlebrink, Dingleberry, Fitzbottom — almost Elizabethan. I used to have a Falstaff in one of my classes, and a Scroop. Straight out of Shakespeare, eh?
Would you say there was a vendetta against the Goodwinters?
Well, the relatives of the explosion victims hated Ephraim, you can be sure of that. Zack was one of them. He was a ruffian. No good in school. Married a Scroop girl. I had their two children in my classes. The girl got into trouble and drowned herself. Left a suicide not addressed to her cat — probably the only living being that loved the poor girl.
End of interview.
The recording session was interrupted by a phone call from Minneapolis. Harry Noyton was on his way. His chartered plane would arrive at the Pickax airport at five-thirty.
"How's the weather up there?” Noyton asked.
"No snow, but it's cold. I hope you're bringing warm clothing."
"Hell, I don't own any warm clothes. I grab a heated taxi when I want to go somewhere."
"There are no taxis in Moose County," Qwilleran said. "We'll have to buy you some long johns and a hat with earflaps. Meet you at five-thirty."
He allowed plenty of time for driving. Airport Road ran through deer country. At dusk they would be feeding and moving around. Gun hunters had been in the woods for three days, stirring them up and making them nervous. Qwilleran drove cautiously.
While waiting for the plane to land he had a few words with Charlie. "Do you think we'll get any snow this winter?"
"It's kinda late, but when it comes it'll be the Big One."
"I hear you've lost a good customer."
"Who?"
"Senior Goodwinter."
"Yeah. Too bad. He was a nice fellah. Killed himself with work. Most people are always taking off for Florida or Vegas or somewhere, but all he ever did was fly down to Minneapolis on business and come back the same day. That's why I say he killed himself with work. Fell asleep at the wheel, most likely."
When Noyton galumphed off the plane, he had a light raincoat flapping around his lanky figure, and he carried a traveling bag just large enough for a razor and an extra shirt. That was his style. He boasted he could fly around the world with a toothbrush and a credit card.
"Qwill, you old rooster! You look like a farmer with those boots and that hat!"
"And you look like a visitor from outer space," Qwilleran said. "You'll frighten the natives with that three-piece suit. First thing tomorrow we'll take you to Scottie's Men's Shop and buy some camouflage... Buckle up, Harry ," he added as he turned on the ignition in his small car.
"Hell, I never fastened a seat belt in my life, except on planes."
Qwilleran turned off the ignition and folded his arms. "There are ten thousand deer in Moose County, Harry. This is the rutting season. At this time of evening all the bucks chase all the does back and forth across the highway. If we hit a buck, you'll go through the windshield, so buckle up."
"Jeez! The odds are better at the Beirut airport!"
"Last winter a buck chased a doe down Main Street in Pickax, and they both went through the plate-glass window of a furniture store. Landed in a water bed."
Noyton fastened his seat belt and stared anxiously at the road for the next ten miles, while Qwilleran scanned the cornfields and thickets for movement.
"If we encounter a buck, Harry, do you want me to hit him broadside and risk having his hooves come through the windshield, or shall I try to avoid him and land upside down in a ditch?”
"Jeez! Do I have a choice?" said Noyton, gripping the dashboard with both hands.
When they reached the outskirts of Pickax, Qwilleran said, "Here's the program. Tomorrow I turn you over to the mayor and the economic development people. He'll put you in touch with the widow — and she's a merry one, I might add. Tonight I'll take you to dinner at the Old Stone Mill. After that there's a bedroom suite awaiting you at the palace I inherited. You have your choice of Old English with side curtains on the bed, or Biedermeier with flowers painted on everything, or Empire with enough sphinxes and gryphons to give you nightmares."
"To tell the truth, Qwill, I'd be a helluva lot more comfortable in a hotel. It gives me more flexibility. I had a meal in Minneapolis, and now I'd like to turn in. Any objection?"
"None at all. The New Pickax Hotel is centrally located near the city hall."
"Building new hotels, are they?" Noyton said with obvious approval.
"The New Pickax Hotel was built in 1935 after the original hotel burned down. It has a part-time bellhop, color TV in the lobby, indoor plumbing, and locks on the doors."