WELCOME TO NEWTONBERG
by David Emprimo
Copyright 2012 by David Emprimo
Cover design by David Emprimo, based on an
original photograph from Special Fork Blog (https://www.specialfork.com).
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CONTENTS
FOREWORD
FOUNDER’S DAY
BROTHER JIM AND THE BIG TENT REVIVAL
CAP’N
HOMECOMING ‘77
CHRISTMAS IN NEWTONBERG
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book would not have been finished without the efforts of the following people:
Patricia Donahoe, Wendy Emprimo, Michelle Shipman and Jennifer Emprimo (or as I call them, my mother and sisters) for their encouragement, proofreading and critique of the original stories over the years;
Cheri Pate, the best friend in the world, for more of the same;
Terry Shipman, the best brother-in-law in the world;
Barbara Crossman for being a great boss and an even better friend;
Joanne Fluke, Stephen King, Roddy Doyle and Mick Foley, for teaching me how to write;
Sandy and Dave Hu at Special Fork (https://www.specialfork.com) for the beautiful photo and the permission to use it;
My nephews, David Wingard and Trey Shipman, for inspiring me.
This book is dedicated to the memory of David F. Emprimo, D.W. and Billie Donahoe, and Harold Small.
Thank you all.
FOREWORD
Newtonberg is a small town, buried deep in the Piney Woods of East Texas. There it has stood, relatively unchanged, for over a hundred years; and it will probably stand, relatively unchanged, for a hundred more.
Roughly nine hundred and seventy people call the town home, representing the hundred and ninety families or so (with minor additions and subtractions) that have lived there for time out of mind. Here they live out their daily lives – working, shopping, gossiping, and worshiping at one of the three local churches.
They're nice to strangers, whether you're just passing through, or if you decide to settle down. Sure, some of the “older families” might treat you with some suspicion: initially as outcasts, then as step-members of the family; but eventually, you are treated as equals. It is said in Newtonberg that once your name appears in the Newtonberg Daily Sentinel, our newspaper, then the people of the town have accepted you. The Sentinel being what it is, it doesn’t take much to get your name in there.
Many people grow up in Newtonberg and can’t wait to get away to the “big city.” After several years away, they are able to observe their hometown and its inhabitants with a certain degree of detachment and perspective. They’re able to see the humor, the love, and the tradition that lies beneath the surface of this community. For that reason, they love it all the more, and it is for that reason that many return, this time to stay.
I hope you enjoy these glimpses at a year in the life of the citizens of Newtonberg, and that you will come to appreciate and love this little town for what it is: one of the last true examples of “small town life” in America.
FOUNDER'S DAY
On February 20th, Newtonberg celebrated its 150th anniversary. We had our usual Founder's Day picnic on the square, but the sesquicentennial celebration added a bit of excitement to the festivities, and for some of the older families, a bit of poignancy as they remembered their ancestors.
The history of the people who founded our little town is almost as fascinating as some of the people who still live here. General James M. Newton, while serving in the Republic of Texas Army, was sent once from Washington-on-the-Brazos to Natchitoches, Louisiana on an errand. While passing through East Texas, he spotted a lovely piece of land just east of the Neches River and decided that once the war was over, he was going to come back and claim it for his own.
So, once the war was over and Texas had won its independence from Mexico, he returned to East Texas to get his land. Unfortunately, time does a lot to wild countryside, and he couldn't find the right spot. He fought his way through the Piney Woods looking for it for almost eight months. Finally, in desperation, he gave up and just claimed the land where he was. That was the beginning of Newtonberg.
Of course, it wasn't called Newtonberg then. It wasn't even a town. He cleared out the land around him -- probably about eighty acres in all. He built a large barn, a two-story house for himself and his wife, a bunkhouse for hired workers, tilled about five acres of land for a garden, and fenced in an area for cattle.
He kissed his wife goodbye and said he was going to go west, back toward Washington-on-the Brazos, and see if he couldn't find some men in need of work. He hadn't gotten ten miles down the road (such as it was) when he hit upon a group of wagons, men and women who looked travel-weary and in dire need of a place to stay. He told them about his land and his need for workers. The men agreed to work on the farm, but being that some of them had families of their own, they asked if those men might each have some land of their own on which to build a home. Newton agreed. The single men moved into the bunkhouse, and the men with families each took an acre or two of land surrounding Newton's. Within six or eight months, a thriving little community had risen up in those woods. One of the men was a preacher, and they built a little chapel for church services.
The following spring, Newton sent a young man by the name of John Garrison west with a few other men to buy seeds for planting. Garrison made it as far as the Neches River, found a lovely little spot, claimed it for his own and built a lumber mill on the river, sending word to Newton that he wasn't coming back.
Newton just about kicked himself, assuming that Garrison had found his spot, and then sent Henry Albert Johnson (forefather-in-law of our own Widow Missus Harriet Johnson) east to Louisiana, lest Johnson lose his way as well. He did make it back with the seeds, and the harvest that fall was fruitful. The families all gathered at Newton's house for a feast to rival the Pilgrim's original Thanksgiving dinner.
It went on that way for many years. Newton, who had been in his mid- to late-thirties when he had claimed the land and established his homestead, got older and grayer. Eventually, he took ill with a bout of influenza and died. The other families, to honor his memory, petitioned to have the town incorporated and called it Newtonberg.
At this year's Founder's Day, Mayor Al Thompson arranged to have local historian and city librarian Michael C. Baldridge give a short history of the town and share a few anecdotes about the colorful characters from the past. Everyone agreed this was an excellent idea, except Mike, for two reasons.
First of all, Mike’s not actually from Newtonberg originally. He moved here about ten years ago after college. His mother and father had both passed on, and he had no brothers or sisters. He started out helping in the library, doing research on local history, and eventually took over as Library Director after Madge Corbett retired about five years ago. Goodness only knows how he found Newtonberg, but the people here sure are glad that he did. Even if he doesn’t consider this as his hometown, the townsfolk have completely accepted him as one of their own.
The other thing is that Mike is the nervous type. He doesn't like speaking in public -- put him in front of more than five people and he is downright terrified. Brother Jim Campbell tells that once they tried to get him to give the prayer in church before the offering, and he
just stood there, mouth moving, nothing coming out. Finally, he managed to whisper "Amen." They never asked him again after that.
So all week before Founder's Day, people would come up to him on the street, or come into the library, and try to give him advice. "Now, don't you worry about it, dear," the Widow Missus told him when she stopped by the library to pick up the check for the library's newspaper subscription. "You know all of us. There's no reason to be scared of speaking to friends."
"Just imagine everyone in their underwear," Mayor Al told him. "That's what they always taught us. Works most of the time."
"Drink," was the advice of Cliff Magnuson, who ran the local watering hole. "Not a lot, but keep a small glass with you and sip from it occasionally. That'll calm your nerves."
"What should I drink?" Mike asked him.
"Whiskey. But remember: little sips. Don't drink it all in one go."
Walking around with all this advice in his head, he plotted how he'd handle the day. He wasn't much of a drinker, so that would be his last resort. He came up with a three step plan:
1. Try it cold turkey, as the Widow Missus suggested.
2. If that didn't work, he'd follow the mayor's suggestion and imagine the crowd in their underwear.
3. If all else failed, he'd have the whiskey.
He spent the week doing his research, writing his speech, and trying to keep the actual act of giving the speech out of his mind. It seemed to be going well. He covered the story of the town as quickly as he could so he could get right into the anecdotes, since that was what entertained the crowd the most. Cold facts and dates were too much like being in school.
Founder's Day arrived and he joined everyone else on the square. It was a hot day, one of the hottest of the year. People were drinking the water and iced tea one after the other.
There were vast tables of food. The women of Newtonberg love to cook, and the men of Newtonberg love to eat. It's a fair arrangement.
All morning people would stop and say to him, "looking forward to the speech." He would smile and try to act appreciative.
He was scheduled to give the speech about 11:30 a.m., after the Mayor gave his welcome. About 11:00, Cliff Magnuson came up to him and handed him a cup containing a brown liquid. It looked like watered-down ice tea. "Just in case," he smiled.
"Thanks," Mike replied. "I hope I won't need it."
At 11:20 he made his way to the bandstand. The Mayor was there, making his preparations. Mike stepped over to the podium and placed his speech under it, weighing it down with the cup of whiskey.
He took his seat and waited. People were piling into the pavilion, and he began to get nervous. You know everyone here, he reminded himself. No reason to get nervous around friends. He scanned the crowd, picking out familiar faces, reassuring himself that he was among friends. There was the Widow Missus, who'd been almost like a second mother to him when he first came to town. Cliff Magnuson. Oliver and Orville Nelson. Bubba Lowry. Cap Blakeney. Brother Jim. Father Louis. Reverend Stanley. Janet Carmichael.
Janet Carmichael. Maybe he shouldn't have done that. Janet Carmichael was the kindergarten teacher at Newtonberg Primary School. Beautiful, sweet, and single. He'd had his eye on her for years; a silly schoolboy-type crush. He couldn't even bring himself to talk to her. Giving this speech would be a hundred times easier than even saying "hello" to her. His stomach tightened and he looked away. He made a mental note not to look at her during the speech.
Mayor Al looked at him. "You feeling okay, Mike? You look pale."
Mike gave him a sickly half-smile. "I'm fine. Just nervous."
"Imagine everyone in their skivvies, like I said. Makes 'em look ridiculous, and it puts you at ease."
"I might have to try that." I hope not.
"Well, here we go. Can't wait around forever." With that, Mayor Al approached the podium and turned on the microphone.
"Friends, Romans, countrymen -- lend me your ears," he said, and a ripple of appreciative laughter went through the crowd. "I've always wanted to say that. Welcome to the Sesquicentennial Celebration of the founding of our fair town." A cheer from the crowd.
"We would not be standing here today, together, as the community we've become, without the sacrifices made by our forefathers. On this day each year, we pause to remember those who paved the way for us. This year, we have asked local historian and librarian Michael Baldridge to speak to us concerning the founding of our home town."
He turned. "Mike? Will you do the honors?"
Michael rose and made his way to the podium on shaky knees. He shook the mayor's hand and took a deep breath. They're all your friends. "Good morning, fellow citizens of Newtonberg. While doing research for this speech, I discovered..." His voice caught.
He coughed, cleared his throat and tried again, his voice trembling. "While doing research..." His voice caught again.
He took a deep breath. Step two. They're all in their underwear. He looked through the crowd. Cliff's in his boxers and a tee shirt. That was a funny little image. He glanced at the mayor. Old Al's in holey BVDs! He choked back a chuckle and continued. "In doing research for this speech, I discovered that if General Newton's memory and sense of direction had been better, we might not be here at all."
He was doing fine. He went on, made it through the history and into the anecdotes about their relatives. As he told them, he'd look at the descendants, imagining them in their underwear. One about Jeremiah Nelson, Oliver and Orville's great uncle, who'd had the entire town caught up in fear of a black panther roaming his property until he'd discovered it was just his old dog who'd fallen in the oil pit out behind Johnson's Texaco. (Oliver and Orville are in briefs and knee socks. Identical. They're twins, after all!). Or how Henry Albert Johnson's second trip to Louisiana actually ended up in Mexico because he got turned around in the woods. (The Widow Missus is wearing Fruit of the Looms and a sports bra. He had to admit, that one creeped him out a bit.)
He continued. "Then we come to saga of the Right Reverend Joseph Carmichael." He glanced over instinctively.
At Janet.
Oh no.
For the purposes of decency, I won't describe what she was wearing in his reverie, but suffice it to say that it choked him up so bad he reached out, grabbed the whiskey, and downed it in one shot.
He might have been all right after that. He might have been able to continue the speech and even finish it, if the cat hadn't chosen that moment to brush past his legs.
Unseen by anyone, a cat had wandered into the pavilion and had been making its way through the crowd. During his speech, it had made its way to the stage and come up behind him. It rubbed up against his legs just as he'd downed the whiskey.
He screamed. What else could he do? He screamed and dashed out of the pavilion. The cat quietly exited from the back of the stage, still unseen by anyone.
As the crowd murmured in astonishment, the mayor did what he could to salvage what sanctity remained.
"Ladies and gentleman, we've heard this morning about the history of our town and its founders -- even if the speech did end in a bit of an unorthodox manner. As we go through the rest of this day, have fun, by all means. Enjoy yourselves. But please take a few minutes to think about why we are here, and the men and women who made it possible. Thank you."
People filed out of the pavilion, talking amongst themselves about the strange manner in which Mike had behaved. Poor boy. Nervous breakdown, probably. Too much stress.
Cliff blamed himself. He shouldn't have recommended the whiskey. The few times Mike had come in to the tavern to talk to him about town history, he'd never had anything stronger than a beer, and he never even finished that. Whiskey was just too much for him to handle.
Mayor Al blamed himself. He shouldn't have asked the boy to speak. He knew he was the nervous sort, and speaking in front of the whole town was just too much responsibility to put on him. Still, up until that last fiasco, it had been a good speech.
Janet Carmichael let hersel
f out quietly through the side of the pavilion. She had some thinking to do, and needed to be alone to do it properly.
What was it about her that upset Mike so much? Was it just coincidence that he'd had his "episode" just as he'd looked at her? She thought not. She had seen him glance at her before, but he always looked away. If she tried to talk to him, he would suddenly have some pressing business that needed to be done. Either that, or his answers would be short, curt responses, as if he didn't want to talk to her.
A shame really, since she thought so much of him. He seemed like such a sweet man; intelligent and thoughtful. Not drop-dead gorgeous, or even handsome; but good-looking in a classical way. She would like to get to know him better, but every time she tried he seemed to put up a wall.
She had hoped that today might possibly be the day they'd talk. She'd ask him a little more about the town history -- not because she was terribly interested, but just to hear his voice. To hear him talk to her using words that consisted of more than one or two syllables. Later on, she'd try to steer the conversation to more personal matters, learn more about him; let him learn more about her. Maybe they'd have walked around the carnival together, and maybe at some point he'd take her hand and they'd walk that way for a while.
And maybe that evening, as the fireworks were being set off by the Newtonberg Volunteer Fire Department for the big finale...maybe they would look at each other, look deep into each other's eyes, and maybe he'd try to kiss her.
And maybe she'd let him.
But they were all maybes, and it didn't matter now anyway. He had run off, to who knows where, and people probably wouldn't see him until Monday morning when the library opened, at the very least. And even then, nobody would mention it to him, because that's the kind of thing you don't say anything about. She hoped he was alright.
She turned back toward the square and started walking back to the crowds of people. She was a schoolteacher, after all, and would be expected by the students and parents to join in for this sort of thing. She slowly made her way back into the Newtonberg Founder's Day celebration.
Alone.