Bob Read
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Table of Contents

Saturday Night

The village of Franklin sprawled on the flat, loam, Illinois prairie, transfixed by the C.B.& Q. Railroad and a Main Street that drifted as though it couldn’t find its way through town. Franklin was often said to have been discovered by the road that became Main Street. A village park edged one end of Main. The park, squared by a hitch rail for visiting horses and anchored in the center by a bandstand offered pleasant summer shade. In the busy corner of the park stood a hard-water well and an ample concrete watering trough ready for a thirsty horse. On the four corners across the intersection from the pump stood the Methodist Church, the post office and a grocery operated by Dad’s Uncle Ory. Behind the post office Heck Tulpin operated a harness shop and on down Main were located Armstrong’s Barber Shop, The Franklin Bank, Blazz Jones’ Card Room, the ruins of a burned out building, Schaff’s Dry Goods, and the "Franklin Times" office. Beside the grocery Lawrence and Della McNeely had a breakfast and lunch place. Pete Ebrey's Standard Station completed the Main Street strip, however Alva Hart, another distant relative sold groceries from a store facing another side of the park. Roofed porches and hitch rails fronted the stores. That was Franklin downtown in the late 1930s and through the 40s. More than a half-century later, Franklin has become a "bed-room" community for folks who work and shop at the county seat only fourteen miles away. But in days gone by Franklin was a busy shopping center.

Summer Saturday nights in downtown Franklin were special for Brother Jim and me. Dad and Mom often helped Uncle Ory and Cousin Wayne at their grocery on busy Saturdays so Jim and I could loaf in front of the store, perched on the Lucky Boy Bread Company bread box where we could see all the excitement, and plenty did we see.

For two boys fresh from their Saturday night baths memorable dramas were played out as we pulled our knees to our chests and backed against the lighted store window.

Farmers and hired hands streamed into town as the sun sank. Some in old trucks, some in cars, many in buggies or box wagons all raising a trail of dust on unpaved country roads. They came on Saturday night in those days, not on Friday as they might today. Saturday was everywhere a working day. If planting or harvesting were in progress, it would be well after sundown before a farmer or hand would leave the fields and wash up for the trip to town. And they came to Franklin in those days because they had not the time or transportation for regular trips to the county seat where larger stores and movie houses beckoned.

Jim and I made a contest of knowing the names of arrivals as they rounded the park or slipped around the corner, it was a private game of whispering. We were proud that we could name the vehicles with our eyes shut. There was the sewing machine whirring of an Essex, the peculiar clatter of Mr. Ryan’s air-cooled Franklin, and the unmistakable sound of the occasional V8 Ford.

Work hardened and sun darkened women slid out of dusty truck or buggy with heavy baskets of eggs, butter and garden produce brought to trade for sugar and flour, and perhaps sewing supplies. Men might disappear around the back of the store with live chickens to sell. Dad would kill and dress these for Uncle Ory’s meat case. Occasionally we would hear the loud "squawk" of an unfortunate victim. The familiar aroma of hen house, horses, and dust blended with the smell of the homemade lye-soap with which Mom insisted we scrub before venturing down town. The smell and the sounds of greetings exchanged amid animal noises and screen doors squeaking comforted.

It was time to trade and shop, but it was also a time to visit and gossip. Some of the men gossiped, some headed for the card room and stayed until impatient wives would ask a boy to go and fetch them out. There were other men, sad men, who caught our eyes. In turned up denim bib overalls and wearing worn felt hats, without a word to passing neighbors, the sad men trudged to the Card Room and quickly reappeared. Each would drag himself to his favorite porch post and lean with one rough, swollen hand in his pocket and the other under the bib of his overalls.

Jim and I watched these men carefully, some evenings it seemed that there was one for every porch post in town. As we watched, the secret held by the hand under the bib would appear. First there would be a quick glance to see who might be watching, the hand with a pint of whiskey would bring the bottle to the lips and back under the bib in a fluid motion. Jim and I were quiet, and ignored as we watched to see who would slip down the post, who would stagger to their truck, who would be the target of sharp, whispered disappointments from wives. I forgot to mention that Franklin was a "dry" town. The sale of whiskey in Franklin was not legal. The only drinking Jim and I saw was done in secret, quiet desperation by beaten men with illegal whiskey.

Well, that’s not quite true. Once upon a time Paul Haire and Shorty Michaels toted a "gunnysack" of long neck bottles of beer right on to the front lawn of the Methodist Church. The loud "whist, whist" of two bottles coming open made ears pick right up, Jim and I included. And there they were, Paul and Shorty, with those bottles up-ended and draining down their gullets. Everybody looked at everybody else to see who would call to task these two scamps who were performing a forbidden act right on the lawn of the most prohibitionist church in town. Well, wouldn’t you know that the pillar of prohibition, Wesley Bland, just happened to draw his box wagon right up to the church at that moment. He didn’t hear the bottles open, but he followed the eyes of the crowd across the street, and he spotted that pair with beer bottles chugging.

Down off his wagon came Wesley with teeth clenched and face ablaze. And right there Wesley made a huge tactical mistake. He didn’t go after those fellows for trespass or for illegal drinking or even for shameful behavior. No he didn’t. He hit upon the idea of sweet reason and gave that pair, and all the gathering crowd, a lecture on the terrible damage that beer or any kind of booze would do to the body, to God’s temple. He gave such a vigorous sermon on the subject, that two or three drunks pulled themselves up on their porch posts to give better attention. Jim and I scooted to the edge of the breadbox. Gossip came to a stop. Save for Wesley’s exhortation, it was quiet.

Finally, Wesley came to a dead halt and looked hard at the miscreants expectantly.

They were struck dumb for a moment, but Paul was rarely without words. He waved the stump of his left arm, the hand had been sacrificed to a farm machine, and allowed that beer was actually a healthy drink. Wesley’s response was derisive and loud.

"Wes, I’ll just bet I can prove that this here beer is better for a person than the water from that town well".

"Now, Paul you just can’t prove any such thing cause it just ain’t so". Besides, how could you prove it."

Now right here Wesley Bland made a big mistake because old Paul was setting a trap for him.

"Wesley, I’ll bet you I can drink more of this beer than you can drink of that well water in the rest of the evening. More’n that, I‘ll bet that water is more likely to make you sick than the beer is likely to make me sick".

With his thumbs in his braces Wesley looked around the crowd with a grin, and shaking his head he growled, "Now I can show you all the evils of strong drink".

Jim and I noticed a few of the men winking and grinning, but it was only later that we learned what they were winking about.

The match proceeded with Wesley and Paul drinking their respective drinks slowly, taking their time and smiling occasionally at the crowd. It didn’t seem long before Paul Haire, with exaggerated courtesy asked to be excused for a minute while he retired to the dark behind the church. They drank some more. Paul was excused a second time. A third time. Wesley had not left his perch.

After Paul’s fourth retreat into the dark, Wesley’s intense pain and Paul’s very, relaxed appearance were obvious. Even Jim and I could see the reason although we didn’t understand why Paul could eliminate beer so regularly against the back of the church while Wesley’s well water just sloshed around in his insides. Wesley climbed tearfully and shame-faced into his wagon and drove off. Paul looked at the silent gathering and wisely decided not to boast. He and Shorty stole away. Those who at first snickered at Wes Bland were too ashamed to look at each other.

It wasn’t long before Mom and Dad beckoned Jim and I from our breadbox "bleachers" and tugged us off in the dark for home. They were very quiet about the evening’s entertainment. 

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