Susan Sipal
Writer

Excerpt from Hear the Whistle Blow:

Prologue

“Oowwaahh.  Wooowwoohh.”

Grandma’s wind-roughened lips radiated in fine lines from puckering into the train whistle.  “That’s how those steam-engines sounded back then.  Every day at quarter-past three.  You could set your time-piece by the Seaboard line.  I’d hear that whistle as I walked down the dirt road home from school, just beyond the bend, and my heart would catch, then chug along to the pace of the train.  ‘Cause I knew.”

I watched Grandma as her thick-soled shoe pushed against the weathered, gray floorboards, maintaining our gentle sway in the porch swing.  Her fingers nimbly shelled out another bean, but her eyes searched far away.  Head tilted back, she gazed absently at white, puffy summer clouds floating lazily by in a Carolina blue sky as she viewed a long-time-ago memory.

“I knew who was tooting that horn.  And it won’t to warn any stray cow off the track.  It was to let me know he was coming, so as I could be there waitin’.  But I wouldn’t miss meeting that train for nothing, whether he tooted or not.  As soon as Teacher rang the bell, I’d high-tail it away from school, and just as I’d hit the head of the path home, I’d see the steam puffing above the tall pines at the edge of the forest, hear that loud clankety-clank-clank.  To the tune of another short toot, I’d race to the edge of the track.”

Like an old home-movie playing in my mind, complete with black and white jerky motion, I saw my grandma at sixteen, just my age, racing down a dirt path, Laura Ingalls style braids flying out behind her head.  “And then what, Grandma?”

She reached for another pod, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.  “There, in that steam locomotive, leaning out the window of that monstrous, black engine was the tallest, handsomest young man I’d ever seen.”  With a sharp ping, a bean hit the bottom of the enamel pail nestled in her lap.  “And he passed in front of our farm outside Littleton every day.”

“What did he do, Grandma?”  I’d heard part of this story before, of course.  But now that I was older, was hoping to get more out of her.  “What did he say?”

“Why nothing, of course.  Can’t hear much above those old noisy engines if they don’t slow down.”  She picked up a half-shelled pod I’d just scooted over to her side and shoved it back to mine.  “Now, if you’re going to help me shell beans, Vada Jean, you’re going to do it right.  You picked those that aren’t filled out yet, you shell ‘em.  Don’t go sneaking them over onto my side.”

I grimaced, but picked the butterbean back up and tried to wedge a sore, green fingernail under flat space.   “Go on.  How did you meet your first beau if you couldn’t talk none?”

“Well, he’d toot the horn again and smile at me, like.  Doff his cap, give it a little wave, and wink at me.  I’d wave back of course.  And then he’d be gone, and I’d cross the track and hurry on home.”

Through the open window of a neighbor’s house, a blast of TV interrupted my thoughts.  President Clinton’s voice came through loud and clear in full re-election mode, as if the citizens of Norlina didn’t have better things to do on a summer afternoon than listen to campaign promises.  Someone turned the volume down, Mrs. Throckmorton likely, and I could think again.

“And you flirted through the window of the train for how long?” I asked Grandma.

She reached to the galvanized tub at our feet, scooped up a handful of beans, and dropped then into the porcelain pail with a dull thud.  I sighed.  Just when I’d been seeing more white-pail bottom than green pods.

“Hmm, how long was it?”  She scratched the side of her head, just where a few white tendrils curled in among the darkening red.  “Oh, probably several months.  Half a year maybe.”

“You mean you flirted with a guy you’d never met for that long without ever meeting?  Without knowing his name?”

She looked at me then, a soft light filling the pale blue of her eyes, the corners crinkled with more than age.  “Times were different back then, shug.  I won’t raised like you girls today.  Plus it was The Depression, and we had it tough.  I had chores to do and no time to be filling my head with such nonsense.”

“But obviously you did meet.”  I wasn’t going to let her distract me by changing the subject.  I’d already heard how easy we had it compared to when she was young.

“Yes, yes.  We met.”

She didn’t seem inclined to say more.  A thoughtful look crossed her eyes as she stared absently at her beans.

“How?” I finally prompted.

“Oh, well, he threw me a note off the train one day.  Almost knocked me upside the head with it, he did.  Had it wrapped around a small rock.  Told me his name was Arthur and would I like to get to know him.  If I was so favorably inclined, would I please wear an orange ribbon in my hair the next day, so as he would know.”  She grimaced.

“Your fingers getting sore?” I asked.

“No.”  She dropped a mess of empty hulls into the rustling paper grocery bag at our feet.  “Never did like to wear orange.  Clashed with my hair.  Kids really called me carrot-head then.”

“But you did it.”

Grandma laughed, a soft, raspy sound.  “Had to make up an excuse to Mama and Papa to hitch up the mule to the wagon and go into town that afternoon.  It took what little was left of my egg money for the week just to buy that foolish orange ribbon.  I bought it, though, and wore it the next day.  And ignored Imogene Wentworth’s comments about a molding carrot.  I was a mature sixteen, then, after-all, and almost graduated.”

She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and with a thump of her foot against the floorboards, gave our swing another nudge.

“Yeah?”  I reached for some Ridgeway cantaloupe in a bowl on the seat between us, and popped a sweet, juicy slice into my mouth.  “Well, they call me a flaming matchstick,” I said, and then had to swipe at the juice dripping from the corner of my mouth.

“Don’t you pay them no never-mind, sweet-pea.”  A cloud passed overhead, bringing a welcome breeze, which gushed around the corner of the wrap-around porch and tugged loose a strand of my red hair.  Grandma reached to tuck it behind my ear.  “Your hair is beautiful, if I do say it myself.”

I shrugged.  “Go on.  How did you meet?”

“Well, after that first note, the engineer started slowing down just enough as they passed by our farm for Arthur to shout a few words at me.  We started to talk regular like, mostly him asking me questions with one word answers.  Told him my name that way the very next day.”

“Oh, that’s funny.  What kind of questions did he ask you?  Like if you had a boyfriend and if you’d ever been kissed?”

“Pshaw.  Arthur’d never ask a question like that, especially shouting out a window.  He was a gentleman, through and through.  May have been raised a farm boy and become a fireman on a train when he had to quit college to take care of his ailing Pa, but he had good raising.  You could see it in his eyes.  And in his hands.  So gentle.”  She flexed her own hand, browned with age spots, the knuckles swollen with one of those Ritis-brothers as she called them.  Arthur, like my grandfather.

“So what did he ask you then?”  I wasn’t about to be deterred.

“Oh, what grade I was in, if I had any brothers, what kind of pie I liked, that sort of thing.”

I snorted.  “Rather lame.  How’d you finally meet?”

“Well as Miss Fate would have it, we discovered we had friends in common.  My best friend Cora Lou Bobbit knew his cousin Clyde Edgerton.”

I rested my hand on the arm of the porch swing, absently picking at the flaking green paint, spots which couldn’t be seen when neighbors looked up at the porch from the yard below.  “So they arranged a meeting?”

“Sort of.  After we’d been talking in those brief stolen moments for a few weeks, or sometimes the odd thrown note when the train couldn’t slow down for whatever reason, Arthur threw a special note.  This one had flowers attached.”  Grandma chuckled.  “What little bit they survived the throwing.  Some early fall mums.  Orange, again.”  Her nose wrinkled.  “Asked me if I’d like to meet him in Warrenton at the county fair the next weekend by the pie contest.  I’d already told him I’d be entering my apple crumb.”

“So, did you?”

Grandma’s lips twitched a bit upward.  “I brought a dozen apples with me to school the next day, but didn’t give a one to the teacher.  I used ‘em all to spell out ‘yes’ in great big letters on the ground.  I swear I can still hear the whoop from him and the engineer that day as they passed.  Met him that weekend at the fair.”

She reached out and cupped my cheek with her palm, watching me with her twinkling blue eyes, a youthful blush reddening her age-freckled face.  “And that, Vada Jean, is how I came to meet your grandpa.”

Chapter 1

“Ah hum,” a cough rasped behind me.

I spun on my unaccustomed heels, kicking up a small cloud of dust in the dirt floor under the tent yawning.  He stood there, tall and lean.  The sun setting behind him silhouetted his body in an orange glow and cast his face in shadows.  I had to squint to see him clearly.

He clutched his railroad cap in his hands, wringing it as he stepped forward.  His eyes, a deep, rich brown I could finally see, wrinkled...a bit worried maybe.

“Ginger Ann?” he asked, then cleared his voice gruffly.

I nodded my head slightly, a shy blush warming my face, but for some reason afraid to trust myself to talk yet.

“Hiya.  I’m Arthur.”  A matching red flush crossed his cheeks.

I grinned.  Seeing he was just as nervous as me made it so much easier.  “I know.”  I turned to hide the shaking of my hands.  “Would you like to try some pie?  I didn’t get the blue ribbon, but I came in second.”

Almost without sound, he was right behind me, standing at my elbow.  My, I hadn’t realized just how tall he was seeing him hanging out the train window.  Or how big.  I was always considered tall for a girl.  Tall and ungainly.  Ginger the Giraffe they called me at school, when they weren’t calling me a carrot-head.  But I felt small compared to him.  Small and...female.

He took the hunk of pie I offered and bit into it, swallowing quickly.  “Why, that’s the best apple crumb pie I ever did taste.”  A morsel of filling clung to his thin, black mustache.  “Better than Mama’s even, and that’s saying something.”

I ducked my head, pleased as peaches at his warm praise.  “Thank you,” I said, then kicked myself for sounding so timid and uncertain.  Me, who had grown up the sole girl among five elder brothers.  I’d learnt young to hold my own, and here I was acting like some namby-pamby.  I straightened my spine and looked him in the eye.

A slow smile spread across his face, softening the square thrust of his jaw.  “Are you ‘bout done here?”

I nodded.  “Just got to pick up Cora Lou.  She’s over in the exhibit hall waiting on them to announce the winners of the pickles.”

He inclined his head toward a nearby tent.  “My cousin’s hanging by the turkey-shoot.  Let me fetch him and we’ll go together.”

I took advantage of the time he was gone to give myself a sharp talking-to.  It won’t like I hadn’t had a beau before.  I’d been sweet on Cora Lou’s brother Horace until he’d gone off to State College and gotten himself a city girl in Raleigh.

After making sure my red ribbon was back in place by my pie, I reached for my knit purse under the table, and while bent, tried to surreptitiously reach beneath my pleated skirt to straighten the seam down the back of my new stockings.

“Uh, Ginger, I’d like you to meet my cousin Clyde.”

I jumped up, knocking the table with my shoulder, making all that glass and silver jangle and earning a sharp look from an older woman down the way judging the sweet potato pies.

“Sorry,” I mouthed at her as I grabbed the table.

Two large tan hands appearing alongside my pale ones, helping to hold the table steady.  Arthur.  As I looked up at him, I caught a whiff of musky Old Spice.  The scoop of pie I’d eaten since the judging curled/dipped in my stomach.  I stepped back, my hip hitting the table this time, jarring it again.

“Would you please step away until I’m finished judging here,” the old biddy down the way asked.  She reached for a linen napkin and dabbed at a stain on the tablecloth.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, stepping briskly away.

Arthur took my arm in a firm grip and turned, sending a glare at the older woman.  But when he spoke, his voice was trained courteously.  “We’re sorry to disturb you ma’am.  Please excuse us while we go on to more entertaining pursuits and fresher air.”

Arthur’s warm grip at my elbow seemed odd but comforting, whereas his cousin’s guffaws burned my ears.

Arthur leaned closer and whispered, “He’s not laughing at you, Ginger.”  Then he turned to his cousin.  “Cut it out, Clyde.”

His cousin subsided with one last chuckle.  Despite the early fall chill, warmth flooded me inside, like I’d nipped into Papa’s hard apple cider, and I felt more protected than five bossy brothers had ever occasioned.

As we left the tent and headed toward the exhibit hall, Clyde and I exchanged greetings.  He wasn’t as tall as Arthur and he was burlier, like a football player, but his brown eyes, so like his cousin’s, bore a decided mischievous glint.  I could see what Cora Lou saw in him as she had a habit of getting me into trouble with her pranks.

Inside the exhibit hall, we hurried down the aisle, passing booths of preserves and produce, people listening to sales-pitches and vendors handing out samples of warmly roasted peanuts.  The hulls crunched under our feet as we approached the back, where a small crowd gathered.

“Ginger, Clyde, over here.”

Past a haze of tobacco smoke, in the middle of a group of young ladies, Cora Lou stood on her tiptoes, which still meant several inches shorter than the rest of the crowd milling about.  With one arm, she waved wildly waving at us, while with the other she clung to her Greta Garbo fedora, securing it to her tight, blonde curls.  I waved back, then releasing my other arm from Arthur’s firm grip, reached inside my purse for my own squashed knit cap.  I’d thrust it inside an hour ago when I’d been awaiting the pie judging.  When I got anxious I tended to sweat, and didn’t need my red hair looking limper than normal.

Trying to place my snug cap on my head at a jaunty angle, I stepped to Cora Lou and gave her a quick hug.  “Did you win?” I asked.

“Shh,” she motioned with her finger, “they’re announcing now.”

Arthur, Clyde and I arraigned alongside Cora Lou, my friend clasping my fingers tight.  The head judge, a balding man sporting an old-fashioned bow-tie, cleared his throat and glared around at a few old ladies chattering nearby.

“We had lots of fine entries in this year’s pickle preserve contest,” he began, his voice a bit squeaky.  “But the judges have decided.  Third prize goes to Mrs. John Shearin of Aurelian Springs for her cucumber pickle.”

A middle-aged woman stepped forward, white-gloved arm extended, and accepted the ribbon, a bit of a disappointed droop to her padded shoulders in her tailored suit.

“Our runner up, and winner should our winner be unable to fulfill her duties as pickle queen--”

Hoot calls and raucous laughter stopped the judge, who stood there grinning, obviously enjoying his moment at center stage.

A man in overalls standing nearby cupped his hand over his mouth and called out, “This ain’t Atlantic City, Gilbert.”

“You done told the missus you watched that beauty show on your vacation?” another yelled.

“All right, alright, calm down.”  The judge, Mr. Gilbert, raised his hand, a sheepish look now crossed his eyes as he darted a glance at a red-faced matronly woman in the corner.  “Just a bit of fun, ya know.”  He cleared his throat even more roughly than at first.  “Anyways, our second place winner with her tart squash pickle preserves--Miss Erma Butts from Halifax.”

A gray-haired, wiry spinster stepped forward, but instead of accepting the red ribbon, she rapped the judge’s knuckles with the back of her out-of-style fan.  “Oughtta be ashamed of yerself, young man.  Looking at them women near naked.”  She snatched the red ribbon out of his hands and turned her back, hastening away.  “And you won’t get me in one of them whorish bathing trunks neither,” she called back over her bony shoulder.

“Thank the Lord,” Clyde murmured beside us.

Cora Lou bent over, giggling so hard I thought she might hyperventilate.  I was trying unsuccessfully to hold back my own laughter, till I caught a glance at Arthur.  His brown eyes twinkled with golden lights of mirth, and his wide-shoulders shook silently.

My breath left me in a whoosh and I couldn’t laugh no more no-how.

“Come on, now, y’all, listen up,” the judge’s voice roared over the tittering crowd.  “Our winning entrant, and 1938 Pickle Queen...”

Cora Lou’s hand found mine again, and she ‘bout squeezed the life out of my fingers.

“...with her scrumptious watermelon rind pickle recipe, Miss Cora Lou Bobbit from Littleton.”

Cora Lou’s shrill squeal blasted through my eardrum.  I leaned over and gave her a hug.  She raced forward and shook the judge’s hand, almost shaking it off it seemed, she was so excited.  A wide grin split her heart-shaped face and wrinkled her pert nose.

Beside her dainty blondness, I’d always felt like what my classmates called me, a gangly red giraffe.

She returned in a breathless rush to our small group, holding out the bright blue ribbon like a badge of honor in front of her.  Clyde swooped down and gave her a peck on the cheek.  My face practically burned at the public display of affection, but Cora Lou beamed, chattering like a magpie and accepting congratulations from the people moving on now to the next exhibit.

A warm grasp at my elbow brought my attention back to Arthur.  He stood straight and firm beside me, watching me with gentle concern, as if he understood my insecurities.  Turning to our companions, he said, his voice flowing like warmed clover honey, “Shall we take in the Midway, then?”

Cora Lou chattering away, we approached a booth near the side exit door, crates and bushel-baskets piled high with orange sweet potatoes.  Behind the table, an older man and two burly, blond young men, who looked to be his sons, passed out slices of potato--oven roasted and sprinkled with cinnamon.

My stomach rumbled and I edged closer to try a sample.  Ridgeway, a German settlement just a few miles outside Norlina, was best known for its summer cantaloupes, but I loved their sweet potatoes just as well.

The father turned to me, a pleasant glint in his light-blue eyes, and held out a piece.  “Try some delicious German produce.”

As I bit into the tender, sweet slice, a poster at the back of the stall caught my attention.  A blond-haired, blue-eyed couple looked toward a rising star with something in a foreign language written beneath.  “Pretty picture.  What’s it say?” I asked the farmer out of curiosity and courtesy.

Clyde released Cora Lou’s hand.  “Come on,” he said, nudging me and Arthur on.  “Let’s get out of here.”

“Here, have another.”  Holding the potato in his left palm, the farmer used an old, sharpened-thin paring knife to cut-off another crescent-shaped slice.  “It says ‘Es Lebe Deutschland’.”

“And what’s that mean in En—?”

“Let’s go, now.”  Clyde practically shoved me out the door.

Arthur jerked his head back to glare at Clyde, a darkening frown on his face.  Then arching a brow, he grabbed my hand, not my elbow this time, and pulled me forward as well.
     Leaving behind the warmth of the exhibit hall, I buttoned my cardigan up against the nip of the early October air.  “Well, that was certainly rude,” I mumbled.

“What was that all about?” Arthur asked his cousin as soon as we stepped away from the flowing traffic surging in and out of the building.

Clyde turned his face to watch people angling for the floating ducks in the nearby game tent.  “Just someone I don’t want to have anything to do with.”

“What did it mean?” Cora Lou asked, then turned to me.  “Clyde’s mama is from Germany.  He can speak it.”  Her green eyes widened with a touch of pride.

“Long live Germany.”  Clyde shrugged, his shoulders pushing against the thinning wool of his frayed saddle coat.  “Just some silly Nazi poster.  They’ve been flooding the German communities here with propaganda to maintain pride in their German heritage above their American.”  He grabbed Cora Lou’s hand and stepped briskly ahead.  “Come on, let’s go.”

I followed along at Arthur’s side.  Overhead the harvest moon was just peeking out from behind a passing dark cloud.  I closed my eyes, inhaling the thrill and fragrance of the county fair—roasting hot dogs and ears of corn, the cloying sweetness of cotton candy and caramel apples, and from beyond the Midway, the smell of hay and dung from the livestock tents.  Even that smelled good to me.

I so loved the fair.  And here I was, walking around with a straight-ace guy.  I’d dreamed about such a miracle since I was a little girl, spying on my brothers as they beaued their girls around each passing year.

A rise of excited whoops and hollers drew my attention and I turned toward a clutch of tents at the edge of the field.

Arthur clasped my hand, drawing me back.  “Not that way.”  He jerked his head to the left.  “Midway’s down there this year.”

Above my head, he and Clyde exchanged a knowing look.  They both firmly steered me and Cora Lou away from the dark alley in front of the tents.  Tents practically hidden by the jostling men and teen boys surrounding the openings.

The girly tents.  Papa had warned me about them.  Said he’d be checking up on me later in the evening, and he better not find me anywhere near the gambling stalls or dancing hall.

We started down the Midway, making our way through the jovial crowd, struggling to stay together in the thickening bands of people.  I squinted against the glare from strings of brightly colored bulbs which rigged the stalls.  Carnies hawked their prizes, urging the farmers to spend their hard-earned harvest money.

A line of running, laughing boys sped past us, tripping up Cora Lou and Clyde in the lead.  “Hey, watch it, you ruffians,” Clyde called out.  But good-natured humor lingered on his freckled face as he reclaimed Cora Lou’s hand and drug her up closer to his side.

Arthur kept a firm grip on my arm, but maintained a proper distance.

We had a grand time.  Arthur bought us all grape ices, then Clyde treated us to pickled pig tails.  We rode the Ferris Wheel and the Merry-go-Round.  Then the boys both tried their hands at a couple of games, Arthur throwing baseballs at stuffed cats to win me a green Teddy, whereas Clyde threw a pie in the face of the John Graham High School principal.  Cora Lou picked out a bright pink balloon.

“Hey, bub,” a squawker called to Clyde as he left the pie-throwing stall.  “Why don’t you win your girl a real prize?  Prove you’re a real man.”

“I’ll show you a real man.”  Clyde surged toward the scrawny man standing with a mallet in front of the Strong Man meter.

Arthur released my arm to grab his cousin’s.  “Easy there, Bud.”  Her jerked his head and scowled at the carnie.  “You know he’s just trying to get you to waste your money.”

“Yeah, well, I could do it, you know.”  Clyde moved to edge past his cousin.

“Sure you could,” Arthur said.  “We all know that.  But I promised Ginger a candied apple.”

Clyde pushed ahead of us, brushing past the scrawny squawker enough to elicit a rough “watch it.”

But, fortunately, the carnie didn’t rise to the bait.  He turned to a teen with a girlfriend clinging to his arm, lips painted red to make herself look older, and taunted the boy to prove his manliness.

“Hey, look,” Clyde called back to us.  “They’ve got an old steam engine set-up to tour.”

Arthur dug in his heels, hanging back.  “I see enough of that every day.  Let’s go do the milk-jug toss.”

“Aww, come on man,” Clyde teased, pushing past any embarrassment.  “Show us how you keep them fires burning.”

Reluctantly, Arthur trudged forward, reclaiming my arm.  I was starting to get used to the feel of his hold.  We mounted the stairs from the back of the engine, and I ducked my head as we entered the cramped cab.  How in the world could he work in such a tight compartment for so long?

Arthur pointed out the various parts of the engine, the firebox within the boiler, the reverse lever and the injector.  He showed us how he worked the controls to maintain a steady heat, talking about the importance of keeping the fire hot enough to provide sufficient steam, but not so hot as to cause an explosion.

As we exited the back of the cab, the evening breeze whistled though with biting sharpness.  We found our way blocked by those two Ridgeway farm boys we’d seen in the exhibit hall.  The taller one was taping one of their German posters to the front of the Tender car behind the engine.

“Hey, there.”  Arthur stepped an inch short of the farmboy.  “You got permission to be putting up posters on railroad property?”

The young man clenched his fist, but his face paled.  “Don’t need no permission to spread the good word.”

Slowly and deliberately, Arthur reached and pulled a taped corner free.  “Why don’t you two boys go on?  What’s going on over there is none of our concern.”

“It is his.”  The shorter one, standing behind his brother, jerked his head at Clyde.

“Oh, yeah.”  Clyde stepped forward, pushing Cora Lou at his back, clenching his fist.

Arthur instantly maneuvered in front of his cousin, placing himself between Clyde and the farm boy.  “I said,” he pronounced each word slowly and distinctly, “We’re not involved in what’s going on in Germany, nor do we care to be.  But you can’t go placing posters all over United States railroad property.”

“And who are you to say so?”

“A Seaboard Air Line Railway employee.”

The shorter boy snickered.  “A fireman from what I heard.”  He jerked the poster away from Arthur and handed it to his brother.  “We can do what we want.  Go on Dietrich.”

Dietrich turned back to the poster, ready to attach the last bit of tape, when a large tan hand came down beside him, grabbing his wrist, holding it immobile.

A couple of young boys, who’d been waiting on the lower step to get in the train, ran off into the surging crowd, yelling, “Fight, fight.”

“There’s not going to be any fight.”  Arthur said, his jaw clenched, his tone determined.

“I’ll say there’s not.”

The familiar, firm voice, which usually was most welcome, now made me turn my head with dread.

Papa.  And four of my five brothers.  All aligned behind me, their fists clenched, and their faces sour.

“Ginger Ann, I’ll be taking you home now.”

    “Papa, I can explain,” I breathed.  The end of my dream evening passing out before me.

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