The Town I Planned to Hate

I strolled around the square despite the heat. I shrugged off the feelings of brief contentment and entered Foster's corner drugstore. I sat on a stool at a real old-fashioned soda fountain. The hand-lettered sign said Cherry Cokes, and I hadn't had one since I was a teenager. I slurped my large, tasty drink and asked the pleasant woman, "Do you make chocolate sodas, too?"

"You bet. Best in town. You'll have to come back."

Back outside, a bright yellow sign beckoned to me: The Perry Daily Journal. I was surprised that a town so small would have a daily paper. I went in to buy a paper and read about the town I planned to hate.

The minute I stepped inside the glass door, a long-forgotten childhood memory surfaced. Even as a youngster, I knew I wanted to be a writer—and oh, how I longed to meet a real, live writer, any kind of a writer! Of course there weren't any in Elberton, except for a veteran reporter who had his own column at our newspaper, The Elberton Star. I thought up reasons to go to the Star office to buy things from Mr. Herbert Wilcox. Pencils, poster board, even newspapers. He'd smile over his small, round glasses when I entered, get up from his ancient typewriter and ask, "May I help you, young lady?"

As I stood in the office of The Perry Daily Journal, which looked amazingly like the Star office back in the 1950s, a distinguished, white-haired gentleman rose from his outdated typewriter. "May I help you?" he asked. I felt 13 rather than 53. When I found my voice, I couldn't blurt out, "Could you just talk to me for a while?" Instead, I said casually, "I'd like to buy a paper." Even so, I spilled my change on the counter.

I left the marvelous office reading the paper. The man must have been Milo Watson, editor and publisher of The Perry Daily Journal for 42 years. In large, bold letters I read: "Say Something Good About Perry Today!" I stopped smiling abruptly. This was the town I planned to hate.

Later that week Gene asked me to go with him to visit a church member in the hospital. After parking the car we observed an unusual truck parked in the lot. The back was crammed full of iron pipes and junk, and standing on top of it all was a goat! I hesitated. "That goat's fine, Marion," Gene called. He knew my passion for rescuing stray animals.

"Then why has someone tied him to that iron pipe?" I asked. I ran into the hospital ahead of Gene to find the owner and ask questions. By the time Gene found me I was talking to a tired-looking man in overalls.