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About the Author:
T. L. Ingham was born and raised in upstate New York, before short stints in Connecticut, Rhode Island, Illinois, and then finally, Indiana where she lives today, residing with her husband and their two dogs. She is the author of the blog 'Did This Really Just Happen?' at https://tlingham.blogspot.com/
She can be reached at https://tlingham.webs.com/ and https://www.facebook.com/tl.ingham.1
Sneak Peek at The Dradon Project, a full length novel.
The Dradon Project
Forward
March 20, 2011
The First Day of Spring
Welcome to Knollsville. Knolls County, Indiana, smack dab in the middle of Cass and White counties. You can find it traveling west on US-24 heading for Monticello. A handful of other small towns just like it make up the county, towns like Henrietta, Humphrey, and Coretta; all established by the same man over one hundred years ago. Hiram Knolls the first, who named the county and the towns within after himself, his wife, and two of his children. It was his own private dynasty. Back then, Hiram was a man of big dreams and even bigger means. Surrounded by vast acres of rich, fertile farmland and strategically placed en route to bigger cities like Monticello, Knollsville was the county seat of an up and coming metropolis, an illustrious empire. Now you can’t even find it on a map.
But you didn’t come here for a history lesson. So let me just get you started.
Name’s Abigail Simms, but most folks just call me Abby. I got a few minutes free to show you around, and the weather’s cooperating, which is something you never can quite be sure of hereabouts. But this early spring thaw is a welcome thing after the freezing winter we had, so I won’t complain. Lord knows, it won’t last. Never does.
The first thing you’ll notice when you head into Knollsville, aside from the weatherworn sign (the red paint’s so chipped you can barely read the words), are the two rusty silos and the deserted grain elevators less than a quarter of a mile from where US 24 turns into Main Street. They’ve been growing rusty for years now, and they, along with those large stone and brick buildings over yonder, haven’t been used for years. Almost as long as I’ve been here anyway.
The considerable bulk of those buildings casts a shadow over the entire town, making it seem downright gloomy and maybe even a bit unfriendly. Well, on the one hand, you would be right. Knollsville is a gloomy town, and we ain’t always known for our friendliness. But the shadow don’t come from those deserted buildings. Now, don’t get me wrong. There is a shadow. But it ain’t from there. It comes from someplace a little bit deeper in town. And, I guess, someplace a little bit deeper in some of us in town. But we’ll get to that later; right now I just want to get you acquainted.
Knollsville, now a bleak little run-down town to even the most forgiving of eyes, had a second run at distinction in the late seventies to early eighties, thanks in large part to Hiram’s namesake (now on the fourth run), who owned and operated three booming businesses. The local agriculture- corn and soybeans to be exact- was harvested and processed here, helping to develop an impressive trucking facility. And then there was a thriving construction company beyond that. These vacant, ramshackle buildings speckled about town are all that’s left of them. The trucking company and construction company (still owned by the same man) have long since moved on. Now they’re a stone’s throw from Monticello, where presumably business is better. And while the corn and soybeans still thrive in the surrounding fields, the fields have been sold off to multi-million dollar corporations and the harvests are shipped elsewhere to be processed and sold.
Over the years, a few other businesses have tried to gain a foothold, but none have succeeded, finding Knollsville too quiet, too small, and too far out of the way. It’s truly a wonder that Knollsville isn’t a complete ghost town. And it would be if folks could afford to desert homes they owned outright to move away and start over. But, of course, most folks can’t, and so they stay. Ghost town status is inevitable though. Eventually the children hereabouts will be grown and they’ll move away to greener pastures, and the folks living here now will all die off. Nature’s course, I suppose, but sad. Meanwhile, those of us who’ve been here the longest, hold down the fort.
For now, small, still mostly occupied homes line both sides of the street, intermingling with the few businesses that remain open against all odds. The buildings vary in ages, from older homes built somewhere around the turn of the century, to the newest, built as late as the early seventies. Many of these homes have had renovations, slip-shod as they may be, and the once box-shaped houses, now display angular jut-outs where additional rooms have been added. There’s a good example of one right there, old Carl Radner’s house. He and his wife just kept having babies, almost like they weren’t sure where they was coming from, and each additional baby marked a new jut-out on the house where Carl built another room. If Mother Nature hadn’t stopped them they just might be living in the Taj Mahal. We got to keep moving though, otherwise I could stand around all day long passing on the town’s best gossip and we wouldn’t get anywhere.
As we make our way down the road, you’ll notice there are no stop lights or stop signs on the main drag, just a long, narrow, two lane road cutting a perfectly straight line right through the center of town. A long abandoned set of railroad tracks are the only thing that interrupts it. Most of the businesses in town can be found on this highway, including the diner. Abby’s Diner. I’d call it the most interesting place in town, and not just 'cause I own it. It’s the one location in town where practically everyone shows up at least once a month, so pretty much anything that’s going on, I get to hear about it sooner or later.
Just down the way, on the opposite side of the street, there's a two story home that has become the local newspaper, post office, and a lending library all rolled into one. Across the street is the hardware store, owned and operated by the mayor. A little further down there's the sewing and craft store owned by the same man, but run by his wife. Back about two miles behind where the “Welcome to Knollsville- Founded 1886- Population 949,” sign stands peeling its paint, is the local vet’s office. His wife also happens to be the local doctor, though she does most of her doctoring in Monticello now. Can’t blame her, that’s where the money is. But she’s a charitable sort, so she keeps her office open twice a week here in town.
All the streets, if you haven’t noticed already, are named for trees: Elm, Oak, Maple, Hemlock, Beech, Birch, Poplar, Ash, Buckeye, and Walnut; we got it covered. Not very imaginative, but then Hiram Knolls was less known for his imagination than his money. And to be fair, money built the town, not imagination. Anyway, on the corner of Main and Elm Street lies the Town Hall. The county courthouse, Sheriff's department, and county clerk and treasurer all share the same building, though you enter the Sheriff's department from one side, and the hall and courthouse from the other.
The local sheriff, now on his fourth term, has presided over this and several other small towns in the county for more than fourteen years. He splits duties with his two deputies fairly equally, but still, he’s a busy man. He’s also a good man, though I’m still on the fence regarding his deputies. One is definitely an arrogant toad, and the new one, well let’s just say we have each other pegged. Or at least I’d like to think so. I’m fairly certain I’ve got him pegged, and I think he’s fairly certain he’s got me. We’ll see. I’ve learned to bide my time regarding judgment calls, life’s taught me that if nothing else, so I’m still waiting it out. I'll let you make your own call.
Right next to the town hall is the old firehouse. It houses the one and only fire truck the town owns outright, and a few local volunteers work it. Aside from that, the department in Henrietta covers all fire emergencies for the entire county, and the hospital in Coretta handles the ambulance. It’s not a great system, but it’s the only one we’ve got.
Further west, just before Main Street turns back into US 24, is the local garage. The man that runs
it inherited it from his father, who inherited it from his father before him. The fact that it is on the edge of town is probably the only thing that encourages folks to stop and fuel up there. I think they feel as if they are gaining an edge to get away from this gloomy place.
Dozens of houses squat within ten feet of most of the tree lined roads, their shadows looming across the pot-hole riddled streets, as they hunch over the pavement. Looking at them reminds me of watching a dog, straining forward from its seated position, waiting for someone to throw it a bone.
To the south a thick forest borders the town, crossing over Main Street, and attempting to stretch its border across the whole west side of town. On the southwest side of town, down about a mile of gravel road, lies the one and only trailer park, one of the biggest blights to a proud but meager town. Built sometime in the mid-seventies, it was meant to accommodate the sudden influx of workers required to staff Knolls’ growing businesses; it brought about a legal battle of epic proportions between the town and its primary benefactor. Needless to say, hard-fought as the battle was, it was inevitably won by Hiram Knolls. Money equals power and money always wins.
The trailer park now houses primarily jobless drunks, many of whom were left behind when Hiram closed up shop and moved away, laying them all off. Now they just sit around waiting for their next government check, making monthly runs into Humphrey or Henrietta for the few requisite groceries and a stop at the liquor store, before returning home to drink the month away. Nothing but a waste of good land, if you ask me.
Off to the north, amongst the seemingly endless fields of corn and soybeans, there are still some local farms running. However, most of the better farm land was owned by the Knolls and has long since been sold off. What little land is still in use by local farmers provides produce for the farmer’s markets and feeds the farmers themselves.
With only about half a dozen businesses still up and running and most of the folks still living in Knollsville commuting to places like Monticello for work, I know you have to be asking, what brings us here of all places? What kind of story could you possibly tell me about this dull, drab, god-forsaken place that might pique my interest?
Hard to believe there could be any kind of story here isn’t it? Just goes to show you, some of the best stories can be found in some of the worst places. Or maybe, in this case, some of the worst stories can be found in some of the best places. Because, at one time, Knollsville was one of the best places to live, and the tale you’re about to hear, well, it made it one of the worst. But, still, it’s home to me. Has been for more than thirty years.
As I’m sure you’ve figured out by now, (can’t hide my accent for nothing), I’m not originally from Indiana. I came up from Tennessee at the conception of the Dradon Project, and though life had changed drastically for me over that time, I stayed.
But, I’m rushing ahead. I have a tendency to do that, sprint for the finish line before the starting gun’s even gone off. Got to slow down, keep on track, let the story tell itself. ‘Cause it will you know. This story’s been wanting to be out for a long time, and the catalyst has finally arrived. Just now, this town's one big powder keg, and it's just waiting for someone to strike the match. And there are lots of people running all over town, fingers clutching matches, scratching them everywhere that can be thought of.
Getting back to the starting line; you see that