COMING HOME: Part II, Everything’s Different now, Chapter 2

Screen Shot 2016-04-21 at 8.48.24 PMOn Fourth of July, 1956, my father and I went to the Fourth of July celebration in town, which was also to to christen the water tower. Ichabod Crandall hand-painted GRAINY, KANSAS CITY OF ADVANCEMENT in dark red lettering on both sides. I wondered what CITY OF ADVANCEMENT meant, as Grainy looked about the same as always. Its residents never went anywhere.

The river was lower than usual, as as spring and summer were, so far, one long-building, dry-skied heatwave that left exposed ground cracked and gritty, and me having to make sure Spot and Caramel, Poppa’s and my horses, had fresh water several times a day. The creek which cut through our property and into the Cantwell’s wheat farm next to us was mostly a muddy, recalcitrant push of goo, and so Poppa ordered extra lengths of hose to hook to the house and drag out to the horses. Because of that, I wondered how much water was up in our new tower. Likely not much, if any.

Grainy is a fairly typical town for western—almost northwestern—Kansas.  across it’s about two miles wide. At a diagonal a little more than two and a half. It sits on the Grasshook River, a tributary of the Smoky Hill River, about sixty miles South of Nebraska and a long stone’s throw from Colorado. Grainy is also the county seat. I never knew if the town was named for the county or the other way around, and nobody had a clear idea of exactly who named either. Likely, it took its name from the numerous wheat fields encircling it—as well as one sunflower farm and the Standing H ranch, owned and run by the Hoffmann family, the original settlers of the area. Despite having sold of much of their land to surrounding farms (and, later, my great-grandfather when he arrived), it remained one of the largest and most successful cattle ranches in Kansas (if Grainy were to include all the acreage for the ranch, its square mileage would almost triple, more so if all the incorporated farms were added.) With the influx of Mrs. Hoffmann coming from an equally-successful railroad and oil family, the Hoffmanns were also one of the more comfortably-living families in the area.

That Fourth of July night, I sat in a metal folding chair, under a tent, listening to an Ernest Tubb song by the band playing in the gazebo, and watching people ladle punch into flimsy paper cups. The night was hot, and I couldn’t understand how anyone could dance in that heat. I had on overall shorts, which usually kept me cool enough, but the air was so still, even more so in the tent, they did little to help. I found myself wishing I chose to wear a dress, something Poppa generally needed to stuff me into, even on Sundays when we went to church. What I really wanted to do was take off my sneakers and go wading in the river.

A familiar malaise ebbed and flowed through me of its own accord, trotting along with my boredom. Despite the loud festivities around me, Grainy was a quiet town, almost too quiet for my own liking. I yearned for adventures, and, while my imagination often satiated that, as did my books and radio serials, I wanted more. Except when I really thought about it, I could never see myself anywhere other than Grainy.

To dull the boredom, I tried to come up with little stories in my head for the folks milling about. But, that night, I couldn’t pull any together. I was hot and tired, the fireworks were over, and all my friends went home, adding to my low spirits. There were eight of us that made up what Laurie—short for Laurence—called “the gang”—four boys and four girls. Laurie was the the oldest, next was Wayne, then Ted Granger and Charlie Saunders by two years. Susan Granger, Judith Cantwell, Betty Carole Munson and I were all the same age (Ted and Susan were second cousins, and, despite the familial gap and two-year age difference, they looked like twins with their dark curly hair, gray eyes and pale, freckled skin.) There was never any real hierarchy, but it always felt like Laurie was the unofficial leader. More because of his nature, rather than his age, which made him exactly three and a half years older than I was. Despite that, I always felt closest to him.

Poppa stood with Mr. Cantwell, Pete Hoffmann, the eldest of the six Hoffmann children, and Hugh Hoffmann. I knew Pete and Hugh, but I had no real memory of the Loretta or Ruby Hoffmann, as they were closer to Pete’s age and were both married and long gone. Laurie was the youngest, twenty years junior to Pete, and eight years younger than Hugh, who was thought the last of the line until Laurie came along, surprising everyone, as Mrs. Hoffmann thought she couldn’t have any more children due to the difficulties during Hugh’s birth. I, on the other hand, was an only child—just as Poppa and my grandfather were. My mother died when I was three, trampled to death by her horse.

If Pete and Mr. Hoffmann were still here, I thought Laurie likely was, too. I hadn’t seen him in awhile. I was about to ask Poppa if we could please go when Laurie came up, dressed in new jeans, a good shirt and a good hat—straw for the summer. The only time I saw him without a hat was indoors or when we goofed off.

“There you are, Lana Jo.” He pushed his hat back, revealing a hot face and a bit of sweaty hair stuck to his forehead. “I reckoned you were still here ‘cause your dad’s over there. You like the fireworks?” He pushed his hat back further, then took it off; his dark brown hair looked blonder than usual because of summer. Mine did the same thing. The lighting and the red plaid in his shirt made his eyes look fully green instead of their usual hazel. Peeling sunburn on his nose and cheekbones made his freckles stand out.

I nodded. “Yeah. Someday I want to see one of those big celebrations like they have in cities.”

His face lit up. “Oh—me too.” He shook three boxes of sparklers. “I saved these for us. And I got some matches. We could go down by the river and light them. Too hot in here and the music’s too loud.”

“Okay.” I hopped off my chair and crossed to where Poppa stood and tugged on his pants pocket. “Me and Laurie want to go down by the river to light sparklers.”

“Laurie and I.” His voice was gentle—as it always was when it came to correcting my grammar.

“Laurie and I want to go light sparklers by the river.”

He nodded. “But don’t stay too long. It’s already past your bedtime.”

As we headed down to the river, I asked Laurie why he was all dressed up.

“It’s a holiday.”

“But it’s not Christmas or Easter. You look like you’re going to church.”

“I guess. Just wanted to.”

When Laurie and I reached the river, the air was noticeably cooler, even with so little water. Quieter, too, as the riverbank created a buffer against the music. Laurie and handed me a lit sparkler. The sparks bit my hand; he lit his off of mine. We made curlicues and shapes, the phosphorous leaving quickly-fading lines and trails.

“Hey, Lana—you know how to write your name?”

“I’m not stupid. I can write my name. I could since I was three.”

“I mean in cursive. See? Watch.” His movements, to me, were nothing more than the usual loops. “I wrote ‘Laurence Grant Hoffmann’.”

“You hate the name ‘Laurence’.”

“Yeah, but only because when I hear it I know I’m in trouble. But it’s longer. See—here’s your name.”

I didn’t understand how the movements spelled my name. All I saw was more curlicues.

“Here, I’ll show you. Give me your hand.” He held my hand and moved it and the sparkler in the motions, explaining each letter. He did it again, and again—and then again, then made me try it. “There.” He looked quite pleased with himself. “Now you can spell your name in cursive.”

Something shifted in me. I looked at Laurie, then the sparkler, then Laurie again. Spelling my name as such felt like a profound gift, one that settled into my chest, then melted into my belly, almost bringing with it self-consciousness.

That night, as I lay in bed, listening to the whir of the fan working to create a cross breeze with the one in my mother’s sewing room, I got up, bare feet sticking to the warm wood floor, and sat at my pink and yellow desk. I turned on the lamp, wincing for a moment in the too-bright light, then pulled out a piece of paper and a pencil from the middle drawer. I copied the movements Laurie taught me as I could; they felt slow and awkward.

Then, after my last name, I wrote Hoffmann, though in print.

Lana Josephine Miller Hoffmann. I smiled. It had a rather regal ring to it, I thought. Like something a princess might have. Or at least someone with royal blood. My imagination began to sputter and turn on its gears. Perhaps someone with royal blood who struck out on her own in the wild, American west to seek her fortune. Maybe the first woman sheriff in Dodge City, where she meets a rogue Texas Ranger striking out on his own. (Of course he bore no resemblance to The Lone Ranger in any shape or form.)

The story grew in as I turned off the lamp, then climbed back in bed. The Adventures of Dana and Maury I could call it. Nobody would know who they were patterned after. Maybe someday I could even make it a radio serial.

I stared upwards into the dark, thinking back to the moment when Laurie taught me how to write my name and I felt pulled both up and towards him. I could still feel it, and it whirled the story faster in my imagination. When I awoke to a cool dawn, the ideas and images were still bright and growing. Not even bothering to dress first or wash my face, I settled down at my desk with paper and freshly-sharpened pencil, scribbling out the first episode of Dana and Maury almost faster than I could create the words in my head.

COMING HOME: Part II, Everything’s Different Now, Chapter 3 →


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