Old man Rush was dissheveled, dressed like a hobo, slipped the clutch on that '50 model Merc something awful, and he was a known miser. But he was a well respected gentleman about town, for all that. The reason was, he had accumulated more treasure than anybody else.
Not that there was any ostentation about wealth in our community. Quite the contrary. The wisdom was "Real money don't show," and the supposition was, if you had to flaunt it, you were insecure about it.
Take the rancher who was brought to town by his young wife to shop for the season's wardrobe at Grant Vogue. The costumes were a bit revealing, and the salestaffer cautioustly asked his opinion, to which he replied.
"It's just like money in the bank; I don't have to see it if I know it's there."
The Golf Club was where the swells dwelled in our neighborhood in the evenings, on the weekends. It was unassuming, but the elite were there in force. Come one Saturday afternoon the lovely Miss Georgia, who was a peach and did not mind you knowing it, 'cause she was sure showing it. Mr Biggers strode right up to her at poolside, looked down where the bathing suit top struggled to retain her, said, "Georgia, I'm not wired for 220!"
(In those days, household wattage was 110, and the new air conditioning units just coming in required twice that.)
"He said, `Why doncha leave them carts in the shed and hike over that golf course? Git some exercise!' and I say, `Why doncha sell them two hunnert horse Evinerudes and getcha pair o' oars; that'll be some good exercise!"
That was the furniture dealer on the putting green. Someone told a tale about another who had made a basic error in the flow of water, and the furniture guy nodded, a resigned frown, "Master plumber...master plumber..."
Our town was a bathysphere; all of value it contained was homegrown, as far as we could see or hear. Gossip (which is, after all, only stories, same as cartoons, novels, movies, opera) involved local celebrities. (Those from afar, they just were not very interesting. We might read in Silver Screen or Photoplay about studly heroes like Rock Hudson and Cary Grant or heroines such as Liz and Marilyn, but it was all just fluff unless you knew the backstory, and such was not told openly back then.) We preferred to talk about the grocer who took an inordinate amount of time on his deliveries, until his wife came along to ride shotgun. Somehow it really cut the time on the route, even though she only sat in the panel truck.
The preachers running away with the choir sisters. Someone marrying too soon. We tell ourselves stories in order to live.
Then came the long pipes.
The men gathered in the ceremonial last barn raising, although we didn't know it then. The pipe came in twenty foot sections, and you'd afix three of them together and then raise high the bars with the funny aluminam heading on top, using guy wires. Now we were hooked up to the world.
Then came Uncle Miltie, and Lucy and Ralph Kramden, and Winky Dink and Red Skelton and Spanky and Our Gang, and Saturday morning cartoons.
Old Rush, he had invented a method to crank fuel from a large tank into one on an automobile, that's how he made his wealth. And Southwest Pump down on Center built that item for years. And there was an invention of a Briggs/Stratton on little wheels to mow your lawn called Whipper-Clipper, and there was a clothier for military uniforms and a factory for mobile homes and a cotton mill, and you had your groceries from Dilly's, or Clayton's, or Elkin's, each a name you knew from a family with which you were familiar. There were hardware and clothing stores, locally owned, operated by citizens of our town.
That all started to go away, slowly, then quicker. It's all gone now, all the local enterprise. Instead, we have that signature gloss on a failed community, a prison. Actually, two of them. And all the franchised quick food joints have come to town, and we've become a haven for those who would escape the clanking smelly Metroplex for a remote bedroom community.
Mrs Ballew pulled up in front of our house one fine evening early in the electronic season, called out, "Morris Lynn, come on! He's gonna answer the sixty four thousand dollar question!"
Games came hard in our sparse neighborhoods, and here was one jettisoned for teevee. I knew it was over then.