The box social
Luther Click, a banty rooster of a man, though on the quiet side, was the first to arrive at the Skuppernong School. He tied his sorrel mare to the rail fence at the side of the building, then wandered over to peer in the window.
Nothing, absolutely nothing had changed in the little school since he had worked his way through all the readers when he was a child some forty years before—the teacher's desk on the platform, the blackboard on the wall behind, above the blackboard the letters of the alphabet in cursive—black, painted on the white wall by a Mister Wilcox, one of the school's first teachers, a man who had what Luther's mother had called beautiful handwriting.
A picture of George Washington hung to one side of the alphabet, to the other side, a picture of Abraham Lincoln, and right in the center—above the alphabet—on a stick poking into the room from the wall, the flag of the United States of America, a bit faded now.
Luther peered around for the bench where he had sat when he was a student, disappointed when he discovered it was not there.
There had been a change. Desks now occupied the center of the room. He counted them—twenty-four. How could that be enough? Most years, when he was a student, thirty children attended Skuppernong, and one year, there were thirty-six. Of course, of the thirty-six, seven were Clicks. There also were six Belsons and five Tibbetses. Three families accounted for half the students that year.
He climbed the steps to the front door and just naturally put his hand on the doorknob. And he did as he had done when he was a child, he turned it.
The door opened.
The school had never been locked when Luther was a student, and it still was not locked.
He took a cautious step inside, and the familiar aromas of chalk dust and old books swept over him. He even thought he smelled the lilac water Miss Campbell had worn every day during the two years Luther had worked his way through the third, fourth and fifth readers.
There was the big wood-burning stove where children put their mittens to dry after recess in the winter, the stove that could roast your backside in less than a minute when the damper was open, when you listened to the flames roar up the chimney as they consumed the chunks of oak that fueled the stove.
Luther's gaze drifted to the side wall, and there it was—his bench. He saw the initials he had carved into the edge of the board seat.
Oh, what a boy can do with a Buck knife.
Mister Dobbs had whaled him for that.
All the benches were there, pushed up against the side walls. Luther wandered over. He ran his fingers across the initials. His fingers hadn't forgotten the feel of the letters even though the sharp edges had been worn smooth over the years.
He sat down.
As Luther closed his eyes, he was a kid again. And there in his memory he saw her, Miss Kronvick, leading the fifth reader students in reciting the times tables.
. . . four times three is twelve, four times four is sixteen, four times five is twenty . . .
And there was his brother Bill, standing by her desk, reciting "The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner."
"Excuse me."
Luther flicked open his eyes.
He found himself looking up at a beefy young woman standing before him.
How long had she been there?
"I'm Miss Brown. I'm the teacher here."
Luther scrambled to his feet. He snatched off his hat and held it in front of him, that awkward way a child would.
"I'm Luther Click. I used to sit right here when I was a kid." He motioned at the bench. "See the initials? They're mine."
"You certainly left a mark on the school, Mister Click. I surely hope the school left a mark on you."
Miss Brown laughed.
There was that hint of lilac water, Luther was sure of it.
"Click?" the teacher said, mulling over the name. "I don't have any Click children in my classes."
"No, ma'am. My brothers and sisters, those still alive, moved away. I'm the only one what lives near the school. I never married."
"If you don't have children here, how did you find out about our program?"
"Neighbors invited me. They got children, the Andersons and Missus Tatum."
"Oh, the Tatum twins, Amanda Jane and Willy. They are bright ones, aren't they? That Amanda Jane just is devouring the first reader."
"Well, I expect you'd like me to get out of here so you can get things set up."
"Oh, no, you're fine just where you are, Mister Click. Just one thing." Miss Brown gestured toward a box that rested on the corner of her desk, a white box with a large red-ribbon bow on it. "That's mine, for the social. I'd appreciate it if you didn't bid on it. I got a young man, you see."
"Who that be?"
"Horace Tanner. You know him?"
"I know the Tanners. He works the farm with his pa, don't he?"
"That's Horace."
"You picked a good 'un, Miss Brown. You surely did." Luther moved backward toward the door.
"You'll help me, won't you?"
"Count on me. You surely can."
Luther heard horses trotting up the road toward the school, pulling a farm wagon clattering over bumps and ruts.
Soon some twenty families were there. They arrived by means of shays, buckboards, and wagons. None drove cars, although a few farmers in the cove had Model T's they had adapted for farmwork. The rears of the cars were usually on blocks and a tire belted to a pump, saw or grist mill. One farmer used his T to pull a plow.
The families packed the school, filling even the folding chairs brought in from the Grange hall. Several late-arriving aunts and uncles found themselves having to stand outside the open windows.
Miss Brown called for order, then asked Luke Tanner to lead the Pledge of Allegiance. Barefoot and in bib overalls, like most of the other boys, he stepped up on the platform and put his hand over his heart.
Everyone shuffled to their feet and, when the room became quiet, Tanner spoke out loud and clear: "I pledge allegiance . . ." and everyone recited the words with him. When he reached the end, he marched back to his desk.
"I want to welcome everyone to Skuppernong school," Miss Brown said. "Before we auction off the box suppers, the children wish to present a brief program."
She stepped aside and the students came forward in groups of twos and threes—some alone—and sang a song or recited a poem or a story.
The Tatum children sang "Bluejean Jim and Gingham Sue." Janey Leigh, their mother and a widow, had made a gingham sunbonnet for her daughter, and her son wore his grandfather's straw hat that was a good three sizes too large. It slipped over his eyes while he sang, and he forever pushed it up with the heel of his hand.
All applauded, but the greatest applause came for the Grunstad boy when he finished his recitation of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's epic poem, "The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere." Miss Brown knew how to build a program, Luther concluded. Little Adolphus was a showstopper.
She thanked the children and then called on Elroy Masters to cry the auction. As school trustee, the job fell to him.
"No IOUs, gentlemen," Masters called out as he waved his hands for everyone to become quiet. "This is strictly a cash-money transaction. We need to buy new arithmetic books and a big dictionary, and your dimes and dollars will help us, so bid high, everybody. I don't want nothing going cheap here."
Luther saw several fathers slip coins to their ten- and twelve-year-old sons so they could bid.
"Now here's the rules," Masters said. "When you win the bid, you come up here and give your money to Miss Brown, and you take the box you bought. Now don't open it and don't start eating. When we sell the last box, the person who made your box will join you for supper. Sound good?"
Several men whooped and others clapped their hands.
Masters picked up the box closest to him. He held it up for all to see—a fancy box decorated like a package one might find under a Christmas tree.
"Who will open for a quarter-quarter-quarter-quarter? Who will open for a quarter?" Masters started his chant. "Who will open for a quarter-quarter-quarter-quarter?"
"Ten cents," Mister Tanner said from his place on a bench at the side of the room. He raised a hand to acknowledge his bid.
His wife jabbed him in the ribs. The glare in her eyes told Tanner that was not her box supper.
"Got a dime, who will go fifteen? Somebody gimme fifteen, fifteen, fifteen, gimme fifteen."
Someone outside a window waved.
"Twenty," said a man inside.
"Twenty-five," said the man outside.
Masters seesawed the bidding by pennies to thirty-four cents.
"Sold for thirty-four to somebody outside," Masters said and picked up the second box. "Oh, this one is heavy. Lotta food in here. Come on, you big eaters, somebody open for a dime."
The dime came, and Masters rocked the bidding back and fourth until he got eighteen cents.
"All right, now the third box," Masters said and held it up. "Isn't it a beauty with this little shock of wheat tied to the top?"
He lifted the top and sniffed the contents. "Fried chicken and it does smell good. Come on, Ed Williams, open for twenty cents. I know you got it and a lot more because I saw you sell a hog yesterday."
Williams nodded.
Another man chimed in twenty-five, Williams twenty-six, the other twenty-seven, Williams twenty-eight.
Masters conjoled for another penny. "Twenty-nine?" he asked. "Twenty-nine? Going then for twenty-eight cents to Ed Williams. Going once? Twice? All done? All in? It's yours, Ed. Enjoy the fried chicken."
Masters sold three small boxes, that had apparently been prepared by girls, to boys in the audience. The next box, also small, had orange construction-paper pumpkins on it.
"Who will give me a nickel for this fine box supper?" Masters called out as he held the box high.
Willy Tatum jumped to his feet. "I got a penny!"
Masters smiled at the boy. "Have you got more?"
"Just a penny."
Masters looked over the audience. "What do you think, should we let this fine young man have this fine box supper for a penny?"
Applause answered his question.
He walked down to where Willy Tatum stood and handed him the box. "Young man, you just bought yerself a mighty fine supper."
Tatum pulled his penny from his overalls pocket. He gave his coin to the auctioneer who handed it to Miss Brown.
Next Masters picked up the white box with the red ribbon. Miss Brown winked at Horace Tanner.
Tanner waved a hand at the auctioneer. "Fifty cents."
"Now that's more like it," Masters said. He held the box high. "Who will give me seventy-five?"
Luther, sitting on the bench next to Tanner, ever so casually touched the brim of his hat.
Masters nodded. "I got seventy-five, who will give me a dollar?"
"Eighty," Tanner said.
"All right, I'll take eighty cents. Now let me have eighty-five, eighty-five, eighty-five, eighty-five." Masters looked around the room as he chanted. Luther thumbed the lapel of his coat.
"Eighty-five, who will go ninety? Ninety, ninety, ninety, who will go ninety?"
"Here," Tanner called out.
"Now ninety-five. Will someone give me ninety-five, ninety-five, ninety-five, ninety-five?"
Luther winked.
"Now a dollar. Who will go a dollar? A dollar, a dollar, a dollar, who will go one dollar?" Masters stepped forward. He spoke directly to young Tanner. "Horace, you going to let this get away from you? I get the feeling this is special."
"A dollar," Tanner said. He bobbed his foot.
"And a nickel? Who will give me a nickel more, a nickel, nickel, nickel more?"
Luther touched the corner of his eyebrow.
"Now I want a dollar and a dime, a dollar and a dime." Masters looked at Tanner again. "You going to let this fine box supper go because you're too cheap to go another dime? I know you want it."
"Who's got the bid?" Tanner asked, his foot bobbing at a furious speed.
"Don't worry about who has the bid. If the man wanted you to know, he'd announce himself."
"Pigs' knuckles."
"What?"
"Pigs' knuckles. I'm out."
"All right. Going once for a dollar and a nickel."
Luther slipped a quarter from the palm of his hand to between his thumb and forefinger. He tapped the back of Tanner's hand. "Don't let him get it away from you," he whispered.
Tanner took the quarter. He slapped Luther's knee in appreciation.
"A dollar twenty-five!" Tanner shot to his feet, his grin as big as a summer sun.
"All right! Let's go for thirty. I got a dollar twenty-five, now I want thirty, thirty, thirty, thirty. Who will give me thirty?"
Luther stared at the floor, and Masters stared at Tanner. "Thirty. Thirty, anybody? All right, it's going once for a dollar and a quarter. Going once? Going twice? All done? It appears your bid's good, young man. You've got it."
Tanner pounded Luther's back. "Mister Click, you're a savior."
Luther gave a shy smile and shook his head.
Masters next held up a box wrapped in gingham cloth and tied with a yarn bow.
Pauline Tatum, the youngest of the three Tatum children, slipped away from her clan and came over to Luther. She stood at his knees. In her forever whisper she said, "That's my mommy's box."
Luther winked at the girl, then hoisted her onto his lap.
"Well, this is a pretty one," Masters said of the box. "Surely I can get a quarter for an opening bid. Who will give me a quarter?"
Luther touched a finger to his nose.
"I got the quarter," Masters said. "Who will go thirty, thirty, thirty, thirty? Who will go thirty? Thirty? No one? All right, I'll take a penny for twenty-six."
It came from someone outside.
Masters ran the bidding ran by pennies up to thirty-one cents.
Luther tapped the back of his hand for thirty-two.
"All right, I've got thirty-two cents," Masters called. "Who will make it thirty-three? Thirty-three? Thirty-three? Thirty-three? The man outside, thirty-three? No? Then I'm letting it go for thirty-two. Thirty-two cents it is."
Luther gave a quarter, a nickel, and two pennies to Pauline Tatum and pointed her to the teacher. She ran out of the audience.
"Well, look at this? A girl bought this box supper." Masters stepped down to the floor and gave the box to Pauline. She took it and ran to her mother.
"Who gave you the money for this?" Janey Leigh asked, but the girl said nothing. She instead worked her way onto the bench beside her mother and snuggled close.
After the last box sold, Miss Brown, who had been keeping a tally of the money, stepped to the blackboard and wrote in thick chalk letters $12.67.
"There you have it, folks," Masters said. "That's generosity, and we can buy books with that."
People applauded. Then they turned to the serious business, the women—and girls—identified themselves to the men—and boys—who had bought their box suppers. Next came the search for desks, chairs, platform space, and benches where the couples could eat together.
Several buyers found they got more than they had bargained for. Tanner spread a blanket on the grass outside and lit a lantern so he and Miss Brown could see what they were about to eat when up rushed six of the teacher's smaller students intent on eating with her.
Luther got not only Janey Leigh Tatum, but her daughters, Pauline and Mary Sue.
Willy Tatum won the right to eat with an embarrassed eight-year-old beauty, Bethy Anne Tanner.
Amanda Jane Tatum—Willy's twin—had joined the gaggle of children with Miss Brown and Tanner.
Elroy Masters' brother Enos, another small man like Luther and, like Luther, a bachelor, found himself diving into a box of ham and candied sweet potatoes with Ed Williams' spinster sister, Ethel, who tipped the scales at two hundred thirty pounds.
Masters, to his surprise, found that he had bought the supper box his mother had made.
Luther improvised what proved to be the best eating space. He got the saddle from his horse and brought it in the schoolhouse where he placed it on the floor. Pauline and Mary Sue climbed aboard. For himself and Janey Leigh, he rolled out the canvas he had tied behind the saddle, and he invited the auctioneer and the auctioneer's mother to sit with them.
Over supper, Luther and Masters reminisced about their days as Skuppernong students.
"I never put a black snake in Mister Egleston's desk like your brother Bill did," Masters said, laughing at the memory. "Mister Egleston was looking for his ruler, and I can still see his hair spring up on end when saw that thing looking at him, flicking out its tongue."
One memory triggered another.
"Remember that old trapper who told us he had caught the most fearsome creature ever knowed to man up in the mountains," Masters asked, "and for a nickel a head he'd show us?"
Luther slapped his thigh. "I can still see myself going out the window."
"Missus Tatum," Masters said, "the man asked to use the school for a Saturday night, and he told everybody in the cove to come, and for a nickel each, he's show 'em this monstrous creature, a skyfloogle, he called it. He just packed the place and got the awfullest bag of coins in return. Remember, Luther, he had a canvas across the front of the platform?"
"Yup."
"That old trapper got us all to hush up, and he went behind the canvas to make sure everything was ready, and we heard these chains a-rattling something fearsome and boards splintering and the most awful scream. That old man, his shirt tore and blood on him, he come running out from behind the canvas yelling: 'The skyfloogle's got loose! Run for your lives!'"
"That's right," Luther said. "We saw something beating against the canvas, trying to get through it and it was just panic in here, grown men knocking people down to get out the door. Luther, you went out a window, I went out a window, that old man dived out the window after me. He hit the ground running, screaming, 'Run for your lives! Run for your lives!'"
"And we did," Luther said.
"We all pulled foot for home, running off into the night," Masters went on. "Maybe you didn't know it, Luther, but the next day my pa and me, we come back to the school to get the horses we'd left behind. We expected to find them tore to pieces—dead—but there they were where we'd tied 'em to the fence down by the outhouse, dozing in the morning sun."
"Oh, no."
"That's right. So we eased up to the window of the schoolhouse and stole a look inside, and it was the awfullest mess, the benches upset, blood everywhere. But it was so quiet we figured that floogle thing had to be long gone back up into the mountains. So we went inside, and the canvas was still hanging there, ripped but open.
"On the platform was chains and busted boards, but something didn't look right to Pap. He found a spot where the blood wasn't fully dry, and he knelt down there and he touched it. And he worked some of it between his fingers. Finally, he put a dab on his tongue, and that's the only time in my life I ever heard him swear. 'Damn,' he said—excuse me, Mother—'It's catsup,' he said. We had been fooled royally."
"Ever see the man again, the trapper?" Janey Leigh asked. She hadn't touched a bite of her chocolate cake since Masters had started the story. Neither had the children. They had fallen off the saddle when Masters squawled "run for your lives!"
"No, Missus Tatum, not one of us in the cove ever saw that old trapper again, nor our nickels neither. Ever anybody tells you they been floogled, well, now you know where that comes from."
Janey Leigh motioned to one of the windows. "Is that the one you went out, Mister Click?"
"I surely did, Missus Tatum. It was one bodacious exit. I came right down on a big bull thistle. Pa, he picked stickers out of me for days."
© Jerry Peterson.
