Boomtown (12 page)

People were still talking about the day when Whiskers got loose. They wondered if Corine Beedle would ever come back. Two of our elders went out to see her, but she wouldn't answer the door. I called on the phone a few times without success. I even sent three letters of apology. The mailman brought them back unopened. I finally decided to go on out to the Beedles' farm to see if there was some way I could make amends.

“You're going with me,” I told Sarah.

“Why?”

“You know why. You're going to apologize. You're going to beg Mrs. Beedle for forgiveness.”

“She oughta be
thankin'
me. She doesn't need that ol' walker anymore.”

“That isn't the point, and you know it.”

“Can we bring some brownies? Maybe that'd help.”

“That would be very thoughtful.”

“And I'll make her a card. I'll draw a picture of Whiskers on it.”

“No Whiskers!
But the card would be a good idea.”

Sarah made a very nice card with a pink ribbon on it, and she promised to be good. We drove to the Beedles' farm, parked the car, pushed open the gate, and walked up to the front door of the farmhouse. As we approached, Sarah pointed and whispered, “I saw Mrs. Beedle in the window, right over there.”

“Don't point, Sarah.” The curtains swung shut, and no one opened the door when I knocked. I kept at it for a few more minutes, but still no answer. Just as I stepped off the porch and was heading back to the car, a man came around the corner from behind the house.

“Howdy, there! Can I he'p you?”

“Please. Are you Mr. Beedle? I'm the Reverend Button, from Boomtown Church.”

“Sure, Reverend. I know who you are. 'Course, I didn't recognize you at first, not without your three heads and the horns.”

“What? Oh, is that what Corine told you? I don't blame her, I guess. She's still pretty upset?”

“No more'n usual.” He put out his wrinkled hand, and I shook it. He looked to be about sixty-five or seventy years old, with a friendly smile, black horn-rimmed glasses, a wisp of graying hair, blue overalls, red flannel shirt, and cowboy boots. You could see he was a commodious sort of person, especially when he smiled. He had a pipe in his left hand that he used as a pointer when he talked.

“And this here,” he asked, gesturing to Sarah, “would this be the little miracle worker? Sarah, ain't it?”

“That's me!” she announced proudly.

“Of course it is,” he said. “I heard all about you.”

“You have?”

“Sure 'nough. Healed my old lady, how 'bout that! What else can you do—raise the dead?”

“I don't think so. But I
did
bring some brownies.”

“Well, that's very neighborly of you, Miss Sarah. My name's Paul. Beedle. Is that a card for Mrs. Beedle?”

“Yes. I made it myself.”

“It's very pretty,” he said, accepting the card. “I'll have to take it in to her, though. Don't think she'll be coming out. That ol' woman is as stubborn as spinach stuck in your dentures. Never been able to get her to do nothin' she don't want to.”

“Same as me,” Sarah admitted. “I
rarely
do what I'm told.”

Mr. Beedle chuckled. “Well, I sure am grateful to you, young lady. Her mood ain't improved any, but she shore is gettin' around a whole lot better. I don't trip over her walker no more. No more silly doctors neither.”

“You sure she won't talk to us?” I insisted. “I'd really like to apologize to her. What I mean is that
Sarah
would like to apologize. Isn't that right, dear?”

Mr. Beedle pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Tell you what. Why don't we sit for a spell on the porch? When she sees you ain't leaving anytime soon, maybe she'll come out and say somethin'. But I wouldn't bet on it.”

It sounded good to me. I didn't have any pressing engagements and, besides, it would give me a chance to get to know Paul. We pulled our coats a little tighter and took chairs on the porch. He had a small outdoor stove going, so we leaned in to warm our hands and he started to brew some coffee in a dented blue coffeepot on the cooktop. He broke open the brownies and offered one to Sarah, who was more than happy to eat it. Then he carefully loaded his pipe, lit it, leaned back in his rocker, took a deep draw, and blew a tight little smoke ring into the cool, autumn afternoon.

“Do it again!” Sarah exclaimed.

He sat quiet for a while, puffing on his pipe and blowing smoke rings. Then he turned an eye to me and said, “Preacher, you're new to small-town life, sure as I'm sitting here. Has anyone told you about Boomtown's history?”

“No, I don't know much about it. My wife and I wanted to move the kids out of California, so we applied to several small churches here in Washington. When Boomtown Church called, it was just what we were looking for—a small town, rural area, down-to-earth people—a way for us to stay in the ministry but get away from the big city. So here we are. I probably should have done more homework; then maybe I wouldn't have been so surprised.”

“Oh? Surprised by what?”

“Everything! Like the name Boomtown. I thought it was like one of those towns that spring up all of a sudden; you know, a town that grows really fast. I never took it
literally
—a town that's always blowing stuff up. BOOMtown? Who'd have guessed it?”

Mr. Beedle smiled as he leaned over to pour two mugs of coffee from the freshly brewed pot and handed one of them to me. “Well, son, you really shoulda done your research, 'cause how Boomtown got its name is an interestin' tale if there ever was one. If you've got some time on yer hands, I'll tell it to you. Maybe by then Corine will poke her head out and say boo.”

I sat back to nurse my coffee and listen to Paul's account of Boomtown history. What follows is my recollection of his story, as best I can remember:

“Boomtown wasn't always called by that name. It used to be a spot situated between nowhere and someplace else. It was a hodgepodge of tents and shacks thrown up way back in the days of the railroad. There was the main stretch of railroad that reached from coast to coast, but with more folks coming out West, they started adding branch lines north and south. This was back when the northwestern United States was still mostly Indians, buffalo, and a few brave pioneers.

“One day, a Chinese man named Chang showed up in the area. Like his countrymen, he worked his way across the United States as an explosives expert for the railroad. He had learned how to work gunpowder from his father, Bang, and his grandfather, Zang. His talent was in great demand by the railroad companies. He could take the smallest pinch of his homemade gun-powder and blow the spots off a ladybug without killing it, that's what they say. He was the best in the business.

“The building of the transcontinental railroad was sparked by the California Gold Rush in 1848. By 1850, the gold started to peter out, but there were still plenty of prospectors infected with gold fever, and they weren't ready to give up so easily. So they abandoned California and disappeared into the wilderness, seeking their fortune in the hills and mountains of Nevada, Oregon, Montana, Washington, and the Yukon. Once Chang reached the West Coast, he quit the railroad and followed the fortune hunters north and supplied them with gunpowder.

“'Round here, there was a certain prospector who struck a mighty vein of gold—right up yonder over there on Rocket Ridge—you can see it from here. Word spread quickly until every hillside was covered with mining operations. Chang was right in the thick of it. He was the main supplier of high-grade black powder for opening mines and blasting tunnels. The Washington gold rush turned Chang into a very popular and wealthy man.

“A small town sprung up—shops, grocers, a black-smith, a school, a church. People came and stayed. Soon there was the prettiest little town you ever saw, nestled on the top of a hill with Chang as one of its richest citizens. To celebrate his good fortune, Chang threw a huge party every Fourth of July and invited everyone from miles around. They would come to see his magnificent fireworks and rockets and firecrackers. The future was looking bright for everybody.

“But Chang wasn't satisfied. He was always itching for new ways to use his gunpowder. He was the one who invented the exploding welcome mat—maybe you've heard of it—Chang's Ding-Dong-So-Long, available from Martin's Mercantile in the main square. Only $4.95 plus tax. An elegant way to scare off those pesky traveling salesmen.

“Chang was also the one who came up with the handy, easy-to-use Chang's Drain Gun. No more clogged drains. Just put the rubber flange against the sink opening and pull the trigger.

“Then he came up with the Tree Magician, a combination drill and plug kit. ‘Removes Trees Like Magic,' or so the package claims. Drill a few holes, stuff four to five bomb packets into the root mass, light the fuse, and stand back. Guaranteed to relocate the tree or your money back.

“Next came Chang's TNT Tea Bags, in convenient two-ounce packets. Steep one teabag in a gallon of rubbing alcohol for one hour, pour, and light. Useful for starting campfires (or burning down barns if you aren't careful).

“Chang also experimented with mixing gunpowder with fertilizer to put in his garden. From the beginning, he met with mixed results: zucchinis that exploded on impact, pumpkins that popped, apples that blew holes in the ground when they fell off the tree. But through trial and error, Chang managed to work out a stable formula that eventually produced remarkable results.

“Soon he was selling Chang's Popcorn (every kernel guaranteed to pop), Chang's Firecrackers (gunpowder-laced wheat crackers that'll cure the most stubborn case of constipation), and Chang's Hotcakes (pancakes that explode when stepped on). It's a great way for getting gophers to relocate—and they taste pretty good with maple syrup (the
pancakes
, I mean, not the gophers).

“But probably his most
famous
invention happened entirely by accident. Some of his POPcorn got mixed in with the regular feed he gave to his chickens. One afternoon, one of the chickens tripped in the hen house and
boom
! Scrambled eggs and fried chicken.

“Chang was absolutely mortified. He
loved
that chicken. But it gave him a crazy idea. Nobody knows how he did it—it's still a carefully guarded Fireworks Factory secret—but somehow he came up with a way to turn regular chicken eggs into
exploding
chicken eggs.

“It took some trial and error. At one point, he must have used too much gunpowder because he blew the roof off his lab and knocked over his neighbor's fence. Scared the fur off his dog too. But after some more tinkering, Chang got the mixture just right. The eggs were golden yellow with gray speckles and had an extra thick shell. If you were careful and handled them correctly, they were more or less safe. He decided to call them Hen Grenades.

“He contacted the U.S. Army and was soon doing a brisk business supplying the military with the little egg bombs. Very few people know this, but them eggs were an important secret weapon during the first World War. The Allies in France were able to sneak ammunition through enemy lines disguised as break-fast, a dozen Hen Grenades at a time.