FullReads

Did I say that we embarked in the restaurant business in thetown of Bidwell, Ohio?I exaggerated a little. The town itself layat the foot of a low hill and on the shore of a small river. Therailroad did not run through the town and the station was a mile awayto the north at a place called Pickleville. There had been a cidermill and pickle factory at the station but before the time of ourcoming they had both gone out of business. In the morning and in theevening busses came down to the station along a road called Turner’sPike from the hotel on the main street of Bidwell. Our going to theout of the way place to embark in the restaurant business was mother’sidea. She talked of it for a year and then one day went off andrented an empty store building opposite the railroad station. It was her idea that the restaurant would be profitable. Travelling men, she said, would be always waiting around to taketrains out of town and town people would come to the station to await incoming trains. They would come to the restaurant to buy pieces ofpie and drink coffee. Now that I am older I know that she had anothermotive in going. She was ambitious for me. She wanted me to rise inthe world, to get into a town school, and become a man of the towns.

At Pickleville father and mother worked hard as they always haddone. At first there was the necessity of putting our place intoshape to be a restaurant. That took a month. Father built a shelf onwhich he put tins of vegetables. He painted a sign on which he puthis name in large red letters. Below his name was the sharpcommand —”Eat Here”—that was so seldom obeyed. A show case wasbought and filled with cigars and tobacco. Mother scrubbed the floorand the walls of the room. I went to school in the town and was gladto be away from the farm and from the presence of the discouraged,sad-looking chickens. Still I was not very joyous. In the evening Iwalked home from school along Turner’s Pike and remembered thechildren I had seen playing in the town school yard. A troop oflittle girls had gone hopping about and singing. I tried that. Downalong the frozen road I went hopping solemnly on one leg.”HippityHop To The Barber Shop,” I sang shrilly. Then I stopped and lookeddoubtfully about. I was afraid of being seen in my gay mood. It musthave seemed to me that I was doing a thing that should not be done byone who, like myself, had been raised on a chicken farm where deathwas a daily visitor.

Mother decided that our restaurant should remain open atnight. At ten in the evening a passenger train went north past ourdoor followed by a local freight. The freight crew had switching todo in Pickleville and when the work was done they came to ourrestaurant for hot coffee and food. Sometimes one of them ordered anegg fried on one side. In the morning at four they returnednorth-bound and again visited us. A little trade began to grow up. Mother slept at night and during the day tended the restaurant and fedour boarders while father slept. He slept in the same bed mother hadoccupied during the night and I went off to the town of Bidwell and toschool. During the long nights, while mother and I slept, fathercooked meats that were to go into sandwiches for the lunch baskets ofour boarders. Then an idea in regard to getting up in the world came into his head. The American spirit took hold ofhim. He also became ambitious.

In the long nights when there was little to do father had timeto think. That was his undoing. He decided that he had in the pastbeen an unsuccessful man because he had not been cheerful enough andthat in the future he would adopt a cheerful outlook on life. In theearly morning he came upstairs and got into bed with mother. She wokeand the two talked. From my bed in the corner I listened.

It was father’s idea that both he and mother should try toentertain the people who came to eat at our restaurant. I cannot nowremember his words but he gave the impression of one about to becomein some obscure way a kind of public entertainer. When people,particularly young people from the town of Bidwell, came into ourplace, as on very rare occasions they did, bright entertainingconversation was to be made. From father’s words I gathered thatsomething of the jolly inn-keeper effect was to be sought after. Mother must have been doubtful from the first but she said nothingdiscouraging. It was father’s notion that a kind of passion for thecompany of himself and mother would spring up in the breasts of theyounger people of the town of Bidwell. In the evening bright happygroups would come singing down Turner’s Pike. They would troopshouting with joy and laughter into our place. There would be songand festivity. I do not mean to give the impression that father spokeso elaborately of the matter. He was as I have said anuncommunicative man.”They want some place to go. I tell you theywant some place to go,” he said over and over. That was as far as hegot. My own imagination has filled in the blanks.