New Kind of Thread Idea: Your Vintage Life

[LizzieMaine]

She heard the squeaking of the springs on the old iron-framed bed as Ernie got up and stumbled into the bathroom. His cough didn't sound quite so wracking this morning, and that was always a good sign. She opened her eyes and saw the morning sunlight filtering in over Orient Street, thru the panes of the bedroom window. It had been a warm night, and they had the window propped open, just enough to let in the fresh air. Sometimes on hot, close nights she'd wake up early, before dawn, and listen to the milkman's wagon rumbling slowly up the street, the horse's hooves making a gentle clatter on the cobblestone pavement, and would then fall back into a gentle sleep.

But now she heard the sounds of morning, as the neighborhood stirred to life. She heard Mrs. Erickson's screen door bang as she brought in the milk. She heard Mr. Pelkey start up his rattling old Ford and head off to his shift at Snow Marine. She heard the reassuring *thunk* of the Bangor paper, landing on every doorstep in turn, as Wally Trowbridge rode his bicycle down the street, never missing a toss. She heard the squeak of Alice Philbrook's pulley line as she brought in the sheets she'd left to air out overnight.

It was time for her to get up and get breakfast started, but first she peeked into Maggie's tiny bedroom. Her daughter was still fast asleep beneath her sheet, clutching her stuffed panda, having kicked off the thin grey blanket overnight. She could sleep a little longer if she wanted, she didn't need to be up and underfoot.

Frances crept quietly down the stairs, avoiding the fourth step from the top because of that god-awful squeak. Hank the Cat was already prowling around the kitchen waiting for his cream, and sat staring at her as she reached outside and brought in two quarts of milk, knowing she'd pour a bit of the cream in his bowl. His patience was rewarded, and she continued with her morning routine. She opened the kerosene valve, lit a scrap of paper with a big kitchen match, and dropped it thru the stovelid, waiting to see the blue ring of flame erupt. She'd just filled the percolator basket and set it on the stove to heat when Ernie stepped into the kitchen, hitching up his pants. He gave her a squeeze and kissed the back of her neck, their little morning ritual for the entire four and a half years of their marriage.

She smiled, and made a contented little moan.

"Frances!" came an unfamiliar voice. "Frances, wake up -- it's eight thirty."

She opened her eyes to see Veronica Lake bending over her bed. "What the hell?"
she murmured. "Oh -- oh, Megan -- I'm sorry, I was -- dreamin'."

Megan smiled. "That's certainly what it sounded like."

Frances hitched herself up in bed. She still felt stiffness in her injured shoulder, especially first thing in the morning, but it was certainly better than it was. She looked at Megan, who was already dressed and sipping a cup of coffee. "Give me a cup of that," she murmured. "Last night was fun, but I think we overdid it. I'm not used to staying up late."

Megan surpressed a chuckle. "Midnight isn't late," she replied.

"It is where I come from," said Frances, as she pulled on a robe. "I get home from my block rounds at about 11, and I'm in bed and asleep at 11:30 without fail. Before the war, I was in bed every night by ten."

"Block rounds? What's that?"

"I'm an air raid warden," she explained. "Block warden, in fact -- means I'm in charge of our block, Orient to Union to Oak to Main. I do my rounds personally four nights a week, from eight to eleven, and the other three nights I'm on duty at the post."

"A warden? You mean with a helmet and a flashlight and "Put out that light!" and all that? I didn't know women did that -- you never hear about that today."

"There's a lot you don't hear about today," replied Frances with a smile. "Some of the stuff some of the men around here say makes me laugh, they figure because I'm a woman from 1942 I'm some kind of helpless, delicate flower. Hell, I got out of school in 1931, in the teeth of a damn depression, and no sooner do we get done with that then we got a war on our hands. I don't know too many delicate flowers could survive all we've had to deal with."

Megan thought about it. "That makes sense. We learned about Rosie the Riveter in school, but I have to admit I was surprised when I read in your file that you'd had a job long before the war."

"Of course I did," said Frances, sitting on the bed. "I had a sick husband. What the hell was I supposed to do, wrap myself up in a shawl and sell posies on the corner? I worked right up until I had Maggie, and when Ernie got sick again and couldn't work for two months, I was lucky enough to get my old job back. We agreed I should keep it, an' I've been at it ever since. I know a lot of married women who work -- you go down to the canneries and that's about all you see. They like women there because we got quick hands, you know, can cut the heads and tails off the fish faster than men can. Young girls don't like to do that kind of work but married women ain't so particular..."

She trailed off, thinking of that missing fingertip on Maggie's left hand.

"Anyway, don't believe everything you read about my time," she resumed. "I guess people like to remember things a certain way, an' that's what gets put in the history books. Anyways, let's go get some breakfast, this is gonna be a busy day. Maybe tomorrow morning when I wake up, it won't all be a dream."

 

[LizzieMaine]

Instead of the same old corn flakes, Frances selected a hot breakfast -- eggs, a couple of sausage links, some toast, and a glass of juice. This was going to be her last breakfast in the twenty-first century, so she might as well make it a hearty one. Megan decided to follow her example, and the two took seats at the closest table.

"Must be nice to have a big breakfast," commented Megan. "I mean, with all the shortages you have in 1942 and all."

"Well, things aren't so bad at the moment," Frances commented between mouthfuls. "We got sugar rationing, and coffee's getting hard to find, and of course gas and tires -- but you don't eat those."

"Oh," Megan replied, a bit puzzled. "I thought meat was rationed and all sorts of other things too."

"Well, not yet," said Frances. "I hear talk that coffee might go on the ration pretty soon, and maybe some other stuff, but not till after the first of the year. My cousin is on the ration board, so we'll hear about it if it's gonna happen." She paused, thinking of an incident that had happened just before she -- left home. "There's this woman in town, Addie Belcher, she's a widow, her husband had an insurance company, left her a pretty nice pile when he went. And's she's the biggest pain in town, always complaining when she comes into the store -- her maid quit to work at the pants factory when the war started, and she's had to do her own shopping ever since. She comes into the store and starts yelling about her sugar ration. She wants to buy two pounds of brown sugar, and is trying to tell Evey, the girl at the cash register, that brown sugar don't count against the ration. Raises all kinds of hell over it, gets the poor kid all worked up, an' I had to go out and straighten her out about it. And then she tried to give us loose sugar stamps when she knows you got to hand over the whole book. God only knows how somebody like that is gonna act when they start rationing other stuff."

"It can't be easy for any of you," commented Megan.

"Well, no, but like I said, most of us never had it easy to begin with. We're used to havin' to scrape to get by -- most of us, anyway. People like Addie Belcher make it harder on the rest of us, but fortunately there ain't all that many like her."

Frances bit off the corner of a piece of toast and looked around the room. The tables had started to fill up.

"You know, that makes me think of something," she began. "You say you've got a war on now, so why aren't all these men around here in uniform? I went to those stores the other day with Dr. Wilcox there, and everything looked like it was stocked right to the gills -- nobody was short of anything, people spendin' money like it's goin' out of style. You'd never guess there was any kind of a war on -- so who's doing the fighting? Who else is making the sacrifices like you've made?"

"It's hard to explain," said Megan, looking at her plate. "People don't look at military service like they did in your time, it's not a -- general obligation, and a lot of people think of it as something people do who don't have any other options. And then there's a lot of people nowadays who talk a good war -- the internet is full of them -- but if you actually told them they had to pick up a rifle and go fight one, well..."

Frances looked thoughtful. "Well, you know, when they started up the draft a couple years ago -- back home, I mean -- a lot of people complained about it, but most of us understood. "Preparedness," is what Mr. Roosevelt called it. Charlie Erickson got drafted then, this boy from down the street, went in the service for a year -- and he done his year and you know when he got sent home? The 5th of last December. Pearl Harbor come that Sunday, and Monday morning he went right back down and reenlisted. And -- now he won't be coming home again. He wasn't one to talk about war, he didn't give a damn for politics or any of that. He didn't pay much attention to none of it -- he worked as a sternman on a a lobster boat, used to play third base on the town team, the Pilots, he used to drive around in this old car with funny sayin's painted on the side, he used to just gaum around town, you know? Just a regular kid. But when they told him he had a different kind of a job to do, he didn't say 'let them other guys do it,' he went an' done it himself."

"I often wonder where that all went," said Megan, thinking of her husband. "There's still people like that today. But I wish there were more."

Frances looked at her. "Well, as long as there's some, that's hope for somethin'."

Megan offered a sad smile. "I hope they can get you home tonight, Frances," she said. "But I'll miss you when they do."

 

[plain old dave]

Special Agent Reading made his way through the line at the cafeteria. Got his usual breakfast: Oatmeal with brown sugar, coffee, orange juice and a banana. Simple, fast to eat, nutritious and you could get it anywhere in the world. He saw Meg and Frances having breakfast and decided to join them.

"May I join you all?"

"Have a seat."

"Thanks. Frances, you mentioned something about sacrifice. I have something to show you." Reading fished out his wallet, which had a funny blue, gray, and black printed pattern on it. In a cellophane covered pocket in the outside, it had one of the playing cards like Dr. Wilcox's. Only Special Agent Reading's said "Uniformed Services- Navy" instead of "US Department of Energy."

Frances' raised her eyebrows. "Why aren't you in uniform? They recalled ALL the Reservists to active duty back in December, and the National Guard too."

"Frances, this is a different kind of war. Doesn't require the millions in uniform that WW2 did. While I hold a reserve commission in the Intelligence Corps, I got back from a year in Afghanistan a couple years ago so I perform my drill weekends and won't be subject to deployment for another year or so."

"Sure doesn't seem like much of a war... Nothing personal, Meg."

"No worries," said Megan.

"This war is considerably different. We're not fighting a country, like the Third Reich or Imperial Japan. We're fighting terrorist organizations, and that takes people that.... know things." He smiled that half-smile of his.

"Don't it take soldiers to fight a war anymore? You people can do nearly anything with these little stenographer pads, but don't you have to shoot people or something at SOME point?"

"Yes, we do. And it was... enlightening, when I got to Bagram and saw just how many National Guardsmen and Reservists there were there. Agent Lodge was right in that there are a lot of people to whom that this war is just something on the news. However, the National Guardsmen and Reservists that are fighting the thing, to US it is a diffrent story. A lot of us have deployed 3,4, and some 5 or more times to the combat zone. Once we're there, there ARE no rear areas. The entire THEATER is the front line. Suicide bombers, snipers, mines in roads. The only time you're safe is when you're on the way home."

"Jeezus!"

"Indeed. And even at home, being in the Guard or Reserves is not something you can accomplish in 16 hours a month. Instead of the odd week nights you're probably familiar with the Maine National Guard holding "meetings" on over the month, now we accomplish all our training over an entire weekend, once a month. On an average drill weekend, I get to work by 7 and don't leave the drill site til 5-6 or later. Usually, I'm doing administrative things for my Sailors during the month, as well. Last night, I was up til 1, finalizing annual performance reviews for my Reserve unit."

"Being a Reservist sounds like a second job."

"Yes, it really is. While there are a lot of people that oppose the war, I like to think the dedication those of us that currently serve bring to the fight offset that. There is civilian support for the warfighters, too. I am aware of one Marine Reservist from Madisonville, Tennessee which is not far from here that gave the last full measure of devotion during a recent deployment. Over 30 police agencies participated in the funeral procession, and it took about 20 minutes to pass any one point. I understand, too, that once on US-411 the path was completely lined with people paying their respects to this forever-young Marine."

"That's incredible," said Frances.

"I thought so, too. While the War on Terror is not WW2, Americans are still Americans and are still good people."

Morris finished his coffee, and fished his telephone out of its holster on his belt, frowning slightly. "Frances, I'm sorry, but Agent Lodge and I have to check in. We'll catch back up with you shortly."

 

[LizzieMaine]

Dr. Wallace Wilcox peered intently into the monitor screen, his eyes focused on the image. He'd been sitting for hours, checking, double-checking, triple-checking the calculations. There was no margin for error, this time there could be no mistake. Every minute Frances Dellings spent in the twenty-first century extended the risk of an intelligence leak, the risk that what they were doing might come to the attention of agencies and organizations more competent in their operations than those Russian thugs. He stared at the screen, intently focused, oblivious to anyone around him. Then, he grinned, a broad, enthusiastic grin, and began to laugh.

The cat video ended, and he settled back in his chair. "Cats fighting to the 'Kirk Fighting Music' from Star Trek," he chortled to himself. "That's just a work of genius, a work of genius."

He'd needed that. He'd needed a bit of relief, something to clear his mind after a long morning of work, something to give him a bit of relaxation before the preparations for tonight. He was just about to replay the video when he heard a knock at the door. "Come," he called.

A uniformed guard peeked in. "Doctor, Margaret Hutchins is here to see you. I told her you weren't accepting visitors, but she -- um -- insisted."

"I bet she did," Wilcox chuckled, still in a jovial mood. "Mrs. Hutchins can be a very insistent woman when she's of a mind to be. Very good then, have her come in."

The guard stepped out, Wilcox heard whispers in the corridor, and Margaret Hutchins was standing before his desk.

"They tell me you're the one that's gonna send my mother back where she come from," she began in her blunt raspy voice. "I want to know how you can be sure it's gonna work."

"Well, ah, Mrs. Hutchins, as I said to your mother yesterday, that's not an easy question to answer." He stepped around the desk and sat on its corner. Mrs. Hutchins didn't move, her arms folded in front of her. "The science is extremely complex, and much of what we're doing here is unexplored territory. We've run many theoretical models, and while we have a reasonable belief it'll work, there's really no way to be one hundred percent certain."

"So, when you put her in the car again and turn on that thing with the lights, you don't really know what's gonna happen, do you?"

"Well, again, Mrs Hutchins.."

"Yes or no, do you know or do you not know?"

"Well, no, we can't be one hundred percent sure. But, again, the modelings..."

"Then I don't want you to do it."

Wilcox took off his glasses. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hutchins, you don't want us to do it?"

"You heard me, I don't want you to do it. Keep her here."

"Mrs. Hutchins, she doesn't belong here. You, of all people..."

"Don't give me any of that," she retorted. "She's alive, and that's what counts, right? If you put her in that thing down there -- what might happen if it doesn't work? Tell me that."

"Well, any number of things," Wilcox began, putting his glasses back on. "It could be that nothing happens it all, as was the case with the attempt you saw the other day. Or, she could arrive -- somewhere other than the point in time that she left. Or in another place. Or both."

"In other words, she could end up in the middle of the ocean. Or back in -- back in caveman times. Or in -- what -- outer space, even?"

"Well -- well, I suppose, but..."

"I don't want you to take that chance, Professor," Margaret insisted, her hands on her hips. "She can stay with me, come back to live with me. We'll make out all right."

"Mrs. Hutchins, I'm sorry, but we don't have any choice. This matter involves more than you and your mother. It's potentially a national security issue, and our hands are tied here. We have to do everything in our power to send your mother back to her own times. And that means we have to -- accept the risks involved."

"I'll be damned if I'm gonna stand around and let you -- kill my mother again, not after all she's been thru, not after all -- I've been thru."

"Mrs. Hutchins..."

"You can't keep me here, you know. I got my rights. I'll get out of here and I'll talk to the police, the papers, anybody I can find. And I'll take my mother with me."

"Mrs. Hutchins, I'm very very sorry. I know this whole matter has been -- upsetting to you. But I'm going to have to ask you to go back to your room and just relax. Your mother is in good hands, and everything that's going to happen is for her own good, your own good, and all of our own good." Wilcox took a deep breath. He was a scientist, not some hard-ball cop like these NSA characters, and he wasn't comfortable trying to play the heavy, especially not with an agitated old woman. "Now, Mrs. Hutchins, I want you to go outside and wait with the soldier in the corridor. A man will be along shortly and take you back to your room."

"You ain't heard the last of this, Professor," Margaret growled. "I guarantee that." She slammed the door behind her.

Wilcox took off his glasses again and clutched the bridge of his nose to intercept an impending headache. He reached for the intercom, punched in a number. "Wilcox here. I want protective custody for Margaret Hutchins until further notice. Send Reading down to talk to her, keep her busy until at least 1900 hours. She's in the corridor outside my office now. No, don't tell her anything, just keep her occupied."

Wilcox sank back down into his chair and replayed the cat video. The next seven hours were going to be hell.

 

[scottyrocks]

Margaret doesn't want her to go back. I hadn't anticipated that. The plot thickens.

 

[plain old dave]

Agents Reading and Lodge were walking down a corridor along with Frances. They had just finished up a leisurely cup of coffee and were going to check in on Dr. Wilcox to see how things were going along with the next attempt to generate a sustainable singularity. They heard a loud and acrimonious argument just around a corner, and to their surprise they came up on Margaret Hutchins struggling with 2 of the security guards in green fatigues.

"LET ME GO! I'LL CALL THE COPS! I'LL CALL MY CONGRESSMAN! YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME!"

Then, Margaret saw the three. "MA! We gotta get outa here! Reading, you gotta help us! Do to these goons what ya did to them three out back of the airport!"

Reading stood, surprised, as did Lodge. Frances, though... Frances knew what to do. In what a later generation would call the Mom Voice, she authoritatively said, "Margaret Dellings, you stop this this instant!"

She stopped wrestling with the guards. "But Ma, that doc, he said they ain't got no idea what'll happen!"

They then saw Margaret Dellings do something she hadn't done in nearly 70 years: Become vulnerable. Her voice wavered. "He said you might.... die."

"Maybe. But since I got here to Oak Ridge, I read up on how this place came to be. These people are pros at the impossible. They do it all day, every day. They invented a bomb here that could destroy a whole city with just one of them. Took them 3 1/2 years to do it, and even when they set the first one off, some of them thought it would blow the whole world up. Others thought it would burn the people testing the thing up. If they didn't try, it was a sure thing we would have to invade Japan.

"Sweetie, you were too young to remember but I will remember Mrs. Fredrickson's howling til the day I die, when the Navy chaplain came to tell her Mr. Fredrickson wasn't ever coming home. The whole block heard her. They tell me there's a war on NOW, too. And there's women losing their men in this war too.

"But Ma...."

"Hush. Dr. Wilcox tells me this... thing could get soldiers to where this Al Kaada or whatever has people at in the wink of an eye. It could save even more lives than the Bomb they made here, and who knows what else? The radiation that that bomb made, they tell me they use it for electricity and they can even cure some kinds of cancer with it. Who knows what they might be able to do with this gadget?

"Ma....?"

"Now I'm your Ma and always will be, no matter what. I've loved you since the day you was born and always will, no matter what. But we've GOT to do this."

In a tiny, almost imperceptible, voice, Margaret Dellings said three words she had not said in decades:

"I love you."

The two women hugged each other for a long time.

 

[scottyrocks]

"And if there's even a chance that I will get back to where I am supposed to be, and our lives will continue with each other, uninterrupted, instead of you having your world changed the way it has been by the disappearance of your mother, then I will risk oblivion, if it means that my daughter can grow up and live a better life than she has.

"No one ever gets a second chance. We have the impossible second chance, and I will risk everything for you."

 

[LizzieMaine]

Dr. Wilcox heard the commotion in the corridor and rushed out to see what was happening. "It's all right, Professor, it's all right," said Margaret, her eyes wet. "It's -- all right."

Wilcox took another deep breath. He couldn't take much more of this drama. "Frances, will you step into my office please? Agent Reading, Agent Lodge, will you please escort Mrs. Hutchins back to her room and see that she remains -- comfortable. Come inside, Frances, we have a lot to talk about."

Frances stepped inside and Wilcox closed the door behind them. "We've got a little less than seven hours, and then we'll have to wait another day before we can try this again," said Wilcox, settling back into his chair. "I need to know if you are -- ready."

"What? I've been ready since I got here."

"That's not what I mean," said Wilcox, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. He'd slept maybe two hours in the last forty eight, and he was nearing the limit of his endurance. "I just had a conversation with your daughter, and it got me thinking. We really haven't talked to you about the -- possibilities here."

"I either get home or I stay here, right? I mean, it didn't work the first time, but we can keep trying until we get it right, can't we?"

"Frances, I regret I've had to keep some things from you. Part of it's because -- well, the science is very complex here, and I didn't want to overwhelm you with ideas, concepts that might be -- beyond your comprehension."

"Thanks a lot, Doctor," she snapped. "God forbid the little small-town bookkeeper might get a headache or something."

"No, it's not that, Frances. Please. I just didn't want you to get frustrated over the -- complexity of it all, to get overwhelmed by the -- infinity -- at the concept of what we're trying to do. We're trying to open a hole in space and time here, which could, if it works, revolutionize the way we view the very universe. Or we could cause a disaster of unparallelled proportions. Or -- we could drop you and your car into the middle of the ocean, or into the middle of an ice floe, or a hundred thousand years in the past -- or ten thousand years further into the future. We *just don't know.*"

"Ah. Well, I guess you did hold a few things back, didn't you?"

"It's not as random as it sounds," continued Wilcox. "We've documented the singularity that brought you here -- and our theory is that duplicating that singularity precisely and sending you back thru it in the opposite direction at the right moment will cancel out its effects and send you back where you came from. But -- well, we've never dealt with anything like this before, and the bald truth of matter is, we're just -- guessing -- that it's even possible to send you back."

"Guessing."

"It's educated guessing," insisted Wilcox. "We're not just picking data out of a hat or throwing darts at the wall. But in the end, yes, it's -- guesswork as much as it is hard science. I've been experimenting and speculating and researching this sort of thing for a long time, and I've been working with this apparatus we have out in the hangar for several years now -- and the truth of the matter is, we think those -- experiments may have been responsible for triggering the event that brought you here in the first place."

Frances drew in a breath. "You never said that before."

"Well, again, I apologize that we felt the need to -- keep certain facts from you. And the truth is, we just don't know if duplicating that event will have the desired effect." He threw out his hands, and shrugged. "There's no guidebook for this type of thing, there's no instruction manual, there are no precedents or case studies we can fall back on. We're just -- assuming -- that sending you back thru the other way will work because -- well, it makes sense."

Frances closed her eyes. She had put all her faith in Wilcox and his electrical doodads, and he was just *guessing* all the while. "So, what you're saying is there might not be any way to get me home at all, and even if it does work there's no guarantee it'll send me to the right time, and it might end up killing me. Gee. It's great to have choices."

"I'm sorry, Frances, I really am." Wilcox lowered his eyes. "We've gotten to know you in the time you've been here. When you first arrived you were -- a novelty, an oddity, the Woman From The Past, but -- we've gotten to know you. I've gotten to know you. And -- well, if knowing what I've just told you worries you, makes you want to reconsider, well -- I can't force you to do it. Oh, Reading will raise holy hell, but *I* cannot and will not *force* you to do this. If you choose not to do it, well, I'll stand behind you as best I can. The choice, however, is yours."

Frances leaned back in the uncomfortable metal chair and looked up at the light fixture. She could see a cluster of dead bugs collected in the bottom of the plastic diffuser, trapped just as surely as she was.

"I want to go home, Doctor," she said slowly and evenly. "That woman out there, my daughter, deserves to have a decent life. I don't know for sure that my going back will give her that life, but I do know that if I'm back there where I belong at least she'll have a *chance.* And if there's a chance this -- this Tilt-A-Whirl of yours will work -- any chance in the world, then it's the chance I have to take."

"You're a brave woman, Frances."

"I have to be, Doctor. I have to be."

Wilcox stepped to the door. "Change into your own clothes, Frances, and report back here at 1800 hours -- 6pm sharp. We're going to try to send you home."

 

[plain old dave]

"Frances, will you step into my office please? Agent Reading, Agent Lodge, will you please escort Mrs. Hutchins back to her room and see that she remains -- comfortable. Come inside, Frances, we have a lot to talk about."

The three stood in the hall as Frances and Dr. Wilcox stepped into the office, and closed the door. Finally, Margaret looked at Agent Reading. "You keep sayin' they pay ya to know things. What's YOUR take? Will this work?"

"They pay me to know things, yes. While nobody can know the future, I can say this: This place really HAS been doing the impossible every day for DECADES. If there's any group of scientists on the planet that can break the Unified Field Theory, they're right here."

"Does she understand this gadget might or might NOT do what you all hope it will?"

Reading smiled his half smile. "Who do you think told her about the scientists that thought Trinity at Los Alamos might start a uncontrollable chain reaction? She knows. Margaret, your mother is the bravest person I have ever known. I have known Company people that wouldn't do what she's getting ready to."

"What about you, 'Veronica?'" You think this'll work?"

As they started walking toward the Guest Quarters, Agent Lodge got a curiously distant look on her face. "You see this brooch I'm wearing?"

Margaret got completely silent as she looked at the Gold Star. "Oh, Honey.... I...."

"That's all right. You've got a LOT on your mind. I have missed my Darren every day for the last 10 years. Every day. If this.... thing could save one life we need to try. I love the Golden Age, the Depression and WW2 era. I used to think the term "Greatest Generation" was just so romantic, and when Darren left for Afghanistan the first time, I thought in some way I had some kinship with people like your Mother that kept the home front going while the troops went to war. Now, I see how just a singular generation the WW2 generation was. Watching how she faces a complete unknown as calmly as I would face going to the grocery store made me understand the caliber of people that started the Labs here when they were part of the Manhattan Engineer District, and that are still here today. I can't think of anybody better suited to run the... thing, or anybody better suited to drive a 70 year old car through it."

Margaret inhaled deeply, and sighed. "Yeah. Well, the two of ya saved my life last night, and....," her voice wavered, "Ya gave me my Ma back, and I can't thank ya enough. We got a few hours to kill, so why don't ya come in and keep an old lady company? I'll make us some coffee or somethin'."

 

[LizzieMaine]

Hurry up and wait.

That seemed to be the way they did business here, thought Frances. Get everything into a crazy bustle of tension and excitement, and then leave you sitting there, just sitting and waiting. She'd read an article one time in the Liberty magazine about a man waiting to go to the electric chair, and her mind kept flashing back to it as she sat alone in Dr. Wilcox's office.

She looked at her watch. It was almost half past six.

She could hear rumblings and groans and clattering down in the hangar, and a couple of times the lights had actually dimmed a bit as they tested the equipment. Electric chair indeed.

"At least they gave him a last meal," she muttered as she heard her stomach growl. They hadn't let her have any supper, since she hadn't yet eaten when she went thru the whatsit the first time. That was a real disappointment, she'd hoped to get one more shot at one of those big hamburgers, at least, before she left.

The door opened, and Megan Lodge slipped into the office. "Hey," she whispered.

"A last visitor," said Frances. "Thanks for dropping by, sorry I can't offer you a cup of tea..."

Megan pulled up a chair and sat down. "I just wanted to see you one last time before you go," she said. "You know, Dr. Wilcox briefed us about everything this afternoon, told us that if it does work, we won't remember any of this -- won't remember you. It won't even have happened."

"Funny, ain't it? There's a lot of things in my life I'd like to forget, and until the last couple days I'd have put this whole mess right at the top of the list. Oh, don't get me wrong, I'm willing to do anything to get home, to get back to where I belong, to see my family and my friends and my -- world again. But I've made a few friends here, too, and -- well, if I wasn't gonna forget all about you, I'd miss you."

"Yeah," said Megan. "Me too."

Another knock at the door, and Reading popped his head in. "Frances, it's time."

"Well, okey then," she replied, taking a deep breath and throwing her pocketbook's strap across her shoulder. "We won't bother with last words."

With Lodge and Reading flanking her, Frances walked calmly and slowly down the narrow corridor to the hangar. Reading looked into the little viewer thing on the wall next to the door, and the heavy steel panel slid open. The equipment was already rumbling, and Frances saw Dr. Wilcox coming towards her, an urgent look in his eye. "Ah, good, you're here, we're almost ready," he chattered as he took her arm. "We're almost ready. Are *you* ready?"

Frances craned her neck around, scanning the knot of people in the control room. "Doctor, where's Margaret? Can I see her one more time before -- I go?"

"Well, to be honest, we were worried about -- exposing her to this again, after what happened this afternoon, so..."

"Doctor, please. I want to see her."

Wilcox looked at Frances for a long moment. "All right," he agreed. "I'll have her brought down."

It took several minutes for Reading to bring Margaret down to the hangar, minutes that seemed like years to Frances as she stood next to the Plymouth. Nobody seemed to be paying much attention to her, she actually felt a bit lonely off to the side of the wild bustle of activity going on at the other end of the vast, dank room. She sat on the running board, thinking of the day she and Ernie had gotten the car -- they'd traded in Ernie's blocky old Essex for it, along with a $25 down payment, and they'd only finished paying it off last summer. Margaret loved to sit behind the wheel, pretending to drive, and Ernie had horrfied Frances that time coming home from the lake when he'd sat the child in his lap and actually let her steer.

She looked at her watch again. It was almost quarter of seven.

"Here she is, Frances," said Dr. Wilcox, leading Margaret by the arm. "I don't want to rush you, but please -- make it fast."

Margaret's eyes widened as she examined the car. She hadn't seen it up close before, and hadn't really understood what was going on. But now, here it was, another tangible link to a past she'd long since buried. "My god," she murmured. "It's all true, it's really true." She embraced her mother, leaning her head against the green wool coat.

"The next time I see you," said Frances, "you'll be four years old."

"The Professor says I won't remember any of this," replied Margaret. "Not any of this that's happened here, not anything that's happened since you -- went away. I ain't been a very happy woman in my life, and I just as soon forget most of what's happened. But if I *could* remember anything, I think I'd want to remember right now."

"I'll see you soon, Maggie. I'll see you soon."

They clasped hands, and Wilcox turned her over to a uniformed soldier, pointing them back to the control area. He handed Frances the key ring. "Well, here we go again," he said. "Thank you for giving me a chance to know you, even if it was just for a -- short time."

"Thanks for everything, Doctor. Thanks for everything."

"You remember the procedure, then? Same as last time."

"I remember," she said. "I remember."

She climbed into the Plymouth and brought the engine to life. Wilcox trotted across the floor to the control room, and when he reached the glass-walled partition he pointed to the treadmill pad. She released the hand brake and rolled into position. Her eyes flicked to her left wrist. It was thirteen minutes to seven.

The equipment whined and the spheres took on a yellow glow. Frances could feel her heart pounding.

In the control room, Margaret stood next to Wilcox and that big marshal with the moustache, and Frances could see her lips moving silently, her eyes closed. She felt her own eyes moisten.

She felt the treadmill move, and shifted the car into first gear. Ten miles per hour. Second gear. Twenty miles per hour. High gear. Thirty-five miles per hour. She slammed her palm down on the horn button. BEEEEEEEEEEEP! She saw Wilcox give his arm signal, she heard the whine turn into a scream, and the brilliant light from the spheres blotted out her last view of her daughter. Her eyes were moist.

The fog coalesced around the car. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel.

She hoped Megan Lodge would be happy again someday.

 

[plain old dave]

Deputy Marshal Lyndon Thibidoux had spent most of the day just doing... nothing at the National Security Directorate. He had a client that was ostensibly in the Witness Protection Program, but the NSA people were doing the majority of the leg work. He never had really cared for the Intel spooks. They had this smug attitude that the entire Law Enforcement community was Sheriff Taylor and Barney Fife off The Andy Griffith Show. Thibidoux had been a Deputy Marshal for 25 years, and knew a few things, though. He'd told Reading they needed to lay low. That physicist, too. But noooooo, they just HAD to go to the mall. Might as well put the whole Gadget on Facebook.

All that was done and over now. When he was briefed that this Dellings woman was in Maine, he got a copy of Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain's The Passing Of The Armies to read. A Civil War memoir of one of Maine's most famous heroes, he hoped it might give him something to talk about with the subjects. No such luck, as these were all plain people. To them, the Civil War was just something that bridges, towns and schools were named after. He was engrossed in the book, when his phone buzzed. "Time." was all the message said.

Earlier tht day, Dr. Wilcox had said he would text him when they got ready to try and send Mrs. Dellings back, and here it was. He slowly took his long legs off the table and stretched out before he stood. Hope they got some more coffee in that room, he thought as he adjusted his sixgun and stood up. The revolver had belonged to his Great-Uncle Frank, and the Hamer side of the family had given it to him when he graduated the Academy. A nickel-plated, ornately engraved Smith and Wesson Triple Lock .44 Special, the legend was that his great-uncle Frank Hamer had carried this sixgun the day they got Bonnie and Clyde. True or not, it was a beautiful revolver, what they called back in East Texas a "Barbeque Gun", one a man would wear to a barbeque as an item of dress. A little heavy and bulky for everyday carry, he had worn it at Dr. Wilcox's request. "It will help her to see as much as she might be familiar with from 1942 as we can get," he said. So the Marshal had sorted through his closet and was dressed much like he had seen pictures of Uncle Frank. Stetson Open Road hat, tie only halfway down his chest in a garish pattern, pleated front slacks, and his favorite old pair of wingtip Tony Llama cowboy boots completed the look. The sixgun was in a vintage Tom Threepersons-style holster and he had three matching speedloaders in leather pouches.

Presently, he came to the garage where the Gadget was. Reading and his partner were there, as was that Hutchins woman. Apparently Reading had made some impact, as the Hutchins woman semed a LOT more.... subdued. He was amazed to see her hug Dellings for a good long while before the three of them walked back to the control booth where he was standing. They stood off a little bit, and Dr. Wilcox gave Dellings some last second instructions. Wilcox came back to the control room, and she started the old Plymouth. It reminded him of the decrepit 1950 Dodge he drove in high school, and he idly wondered if that old wreck would even GO 88 miles an hour.

The lights slightly dimmed as the Plymouth's engine picked up speed. He could barely hear the old Hutchins woman whispering,

Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee....

He looked over just in time to see her finish making the sign of the Cross as an unnatural light filled the room. He saw her slowly vanish and would have sworn she looked 10 years younger just before she completely disappeared. As she faded, he couldn't help but notice a second pin appeared on Agent Lodge's lapel. It was a heart, half red, half camoflage. He had seen them before and knew it read, "Half My Heart Is Overseas."

He said in his usual nonchalant tone, "I think she made it."

 

[LizzieMaine]

The light was blinding, even worse than the arc welder Ernie used down to the garage. But she kept her hands straight on the steering wheel, just like Dr. Wilcox told her to do. And when the flash faded, all she could see around the car was the fog, that thick soupy fog that reflected her headlights back at her in a diffused glare. Instinctively her foot tapped the dimmer switch, but then she remembered Ernie had disconnected the brights because of the blackout rules so they couldn't be on anyway. She let up on the accelerator, letting the engine slow the car, still having no idea where she was going, and praying that whatver they had set up would work.

And then, she noticed another glare approaching from the opposite direction -- another pair of headlights coming on fast, their upper halves masked out just like her own. She bit her lip and kept her hands firm on the steering wheel. The rumbling of the wheels felt different, like she was on actual pavement again. The headlights were coming up fast now, faster, faster. And just for an instant she glimpsed the other car, a green Plymouth sedan exactly like her own, and a woman in a green coat and a black hat and rimless glasses at the wheel. For the slightest fraction of a second, their eyes locked.

************

Dr. Wallace Wilcox yawned, shut off his desk lamp, and slipped on his jacket. That report about the energy flux had confounded him for a while, but after careful review of the data, he could see no reason for further concern, and he certainly wasn't going to let it interfere with his plans for the evening. He peered into the small mirror pegged to the office wall, adjusted his bow tie until it was just so, and set the tan hat on his had at just the right jaunty angle. He enjoyed these staff get-togethers, especially since that new agent, Megan something-or-other, had shown up. They said she was married to a Marine overseas, of course, but you couldn't stop an old man from noticing. He smiled and wondered if anyone had ever told her she looked like Veronica Lake.

**************

As suddenly as it had appeared, the fog seemed to dissolve ahead of her, as the Plymouth rumbled across the Weskeag Bridge. On the car radio, Lowell Thomas was talking about the bombing of Dusseldorf. It was dusk, and the masked beams from her headlights were just high enough to pick out a shield-shaped sign at the end of the bridge, the little embedded glass spheres reflecting back the numeral "1", and above the shield a small rectangular sign reading "NORTH."

Incongruously, an abandoned grocery carriage lay overturned in the weeds at the base of the signpost.

"What the hell?" she thought to herself as she rolled toward the town she thought she'd just left. "I'm going in the wrong direction. I must've gotten turned around in that fog bank or something. If that don't beat all." She pulled the Plymouth off the road, looked carefully out each way, and then pulled out into a broad U-turn, heading the car back toward Weskeag. "Damndest thing I ever seen," she thought to herself. But it had been a long, grueling day at work, and she still had her Block Warden rounds ahead of her tonight, and that would keep her out till after 11. "I need more sleep," she finally concluded. "That's the problem. I don't get enough sleep. It's got me going in circles."

****************

Dr. Mark Gordon took off his jacket and laid his briefcase on the table. Rochelle heard him enter. "You're home early," she said.

"I decided to take the rest of the day off," he said with satisfaction. "My schedule's clear, and I don't have anything pending, so I thought we might go out to eat. Reservations at Primo for seven -- you in?"

"Absolutely," she smiled. "I could get used to this."

****************

It didn't take long to drive to her mother's house off the Pond Road, and she noticed the Philbrooks' old Terraplane already in the driveway. No lights were visible in the house, but that just meant the blackouts were up. She pulled the Plymouth up next to the Terraplane, jumped out of the car and trotted up to the door. As required by the blackout, the inner foyer was draped with a dark curtain, but she'd grown up in this house and didn't need to see where she was going. Toss her coat and hat over the banister to her left, thru the curtain and into the living room...

"Frannie-pannie!" exclaimed Ernie, grabbing her hands and spinning her around into an extravagant dip. "Virgie Bissett run into a deer out in West Rockville the other night, and he sliced us off some steaks! We eat, my sweet, tonight!"

"Oh boy," she enthused. "After the day I had, I could eat a whole herd. Tell Virgie to get the truck warmed up, we're gonna need seconds before this night's over.

"Mumma!" yelled a small voice, and Maggie skittered into the room, grabbing her mother's shins. "Unca Butchie bet me five cents you be late!"

"Butchie Philbrook, you good-for-nothin' bum! I don't want you teachin' my little girl to gamble -- next thing I know you'll be takin' her out to meet all your lowlife poolroom buddies!"

"An' if I do," laughed Butchie, "she'll hustle the lot of 'em. Hiya, Frannie. Alice sends regrets, Mikey's got the croup again."

Frances embraced her husband. "Jeezuz, I'm glad to see you. I had the worst day today, district office wants to audit the books next week, and I'm about eight miles behind, that moth-eaten old bag Addie Belcher come in and started raisin' hell right before closing time, and then on the way out here, I don't know what happened, but comin' over the bridge there was this bank of fog come up out of nowhere, and I must've got confused or something -- I come off the bridge the wrong end, driving back toward town, can you beat that?"

"Sounds like you need to get these glasses adjusted again," laughed Ernie, giving her spectacles a tweak. "Oh, hey -- speakin' of Addie Belcher, get this. She come in the garage today, started bitchin' because the ration board turned her down again for a B card. She says she's entitled because drivin' that bus of hers all the way to Rockville twice a week to get her hair done is essential to keepin' up her morale! Ain't that a ripe load? Ooh, here comes the food! Come on, chillun -- yet's eat!"

 

[LizzieMaine]

*****************

Michael Philbrook smiled as he logged into his e-mail account. The grandkids were helping him get the hang of this thing, and truth be told it was fun keeping up with old friends. Since his retirement he'd had a lot of time on his hands and this was a pleasant way to pass it.

He noticed a new message in the In Box, and clicked it open.

"Hi Mikey,

"Just wanted to thank you for the birthday card -- hard to believe old goats such as us are still kicking, but here's to the future, right?

Drop in if you get down this way -- best from Walter!

Maggie."

"Same old Maggie," he thought. "Always talkin' about 'the future.'

****************

Gran Elwell bustled out of the kitchen with a platter of sizzling meat as the eager diners raced for the table. "Well come on, don't stand around gawkin' at it," she laughed. "Tie 'em on, and let's go! Pa, get in here before it gets cold."

Frances' father, a beaky grey-haired man in a thick brown burn-speckled sweater with holes at the elbows, a collarless flannel shirt, and baggy shiny-seated blue serge pants, shambled in from the back porch, a thick cloud of Half and Half smoke wreathing his head, and flipped his greasy checked cap onto a peg near the door. "For chrissakes, Arthur, don't bring that filthy pipe to the table," said Gran, whacking him across the hip with the back of her hand as he passed. "Like to choke us all to death."

"Sorry mother, sorry," he chuckled as he lifted a lid on the stove and knocked the contents of the pipe into the fire. "Frannie, how the hell are ya," he greeted his daughter. She gave the tail of his sweater an affectionate yank as he took a seat at the table and with a dramatic flourish snapped open a napkin, the better to stuff its corner down the front of his shirt.

"We got to eat quick," said Frances, reaching for a hot yeast roll. "Remember, Erns, you got AWS tonight, I got to do my rounds at eight o'clock. Maggie, you're gonna stay here with Gran and Papa tonight an' go to bed when they tell you, right? And no fussin'."

"Got your tin hat and your gas mask out in the car," laughed Ernie. "You get all the glory, and all I get is a night on Benner Hill with a pair of binoculars. I is regusted."

Frances helped herself to a slice of the venison from the platter, and cut off a smaller portion for Maggie, who was banging her knife and fork on the plate. Ernie and Butchie were pretending to fight over the biggest slice of meat, and Gran rapped both their hands with the flat of a carving knife. "Helots such as you don't deserve nothing more than bones and crusts," she chastised them. "Eat like civilized men, or you don't eat at all."

"Yeah, Daddy," piped Maggie. "Give Unca Butchie the big piece, 'cause he's a big meathead!" She followed her comment with a brisk raspberry in Butchie's direction and like the civilized man that he was, he returned the compliment.

As Frances laughed, she felt an overwhelming sense of -- rightness. This was her family, her whole world. Nobody knew what tomorrow would bring, nobody could predict the future, but right now, they all had each other. It had been a long, long, exhausting day -- a day that somehow felt like a lifetime -- but it was over. It was over, and thank God, she was finally home.

***************

Maggie straightened up and examined her work with satisfaction. The rosebush was small, but she knew it would spread out as it grew. It was a lot like the one Mum had planted behind the little house on Orient Street the year she herself was born, and she'd watched that bush grow up right along side her. And now here she was returning the favor.

Loud voices came from behind her, and she turned to see her two youngest grandchildren capering among the gravestones. "Hey, settle down you two, she called without bothering to put too much of a threat in her tone.
"Be respectful. This isn't a playground."

She packed the last of her gardening tools into the basket and stood up. The marker was holding up well, but maybe next time she'd bring up something to bleach off the lichens that were starting to take hold along the side. The inscription stood out clear and strong, and as she always did before leaving, she ran her fingers across the incised letters.

DELLINGS

ERNEST R. FRANCES W.
1912-1985 1913-1992

"...Faith, hope, and love -- and the greatest of these is love."

 

[plain old dave]

United States Deputy Marshal Lyndon Thibidoux walked down the long steps of the Federal Courthouse with the Special Prosecutor. “You know, Counselor, most of the time this here is just a job. I like catching the bad guys, but we don’t always put ‘em away. But every once in a while, there’s a case where it’s just… satisfyin’.”

“I know what you mean. Seems like lately, I just enjoy prosecuting these human trafficking cases. So, now what? You’ve been on this case for a while.”

“Yeah.” The Marshal grew pensive for a minute. “You know, I have vacation time coming up. Been a while since I went hunting. Think I’ll re-read Joshua Chamberlain’s The Passing of the Armies and go on a guided moose hunt in Maine.”

"Maine?"

"Yeah. Always have admired the 20th Maine. You might say they saved America, up on Little Round Top at Gettysburg. Chamberlain was the CO of the Regiment."

Just then, a gaggle of reporters surrounded the two men, and Thibidoux eased out of the crowd, got back to the rental car and started the engine. He watched the prosecutor puff up as he answered questions. Politicians. He shook his head, shifted the Ford Fusion into gear and drove off to the airport.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Special Agent Megan Lodge arrived in Oak Ridge just after 6 and checked in the Doubletree, the nicest hotel in town. The nicest hotel there is here is only 5 stories tall? Is Andy Taylor the Chief of Police?, Meg thought idly. She made the usual Skype “date” with her husband Darren, who was now a First Sergeant with the 24th Marine Expeditionary Unit, deployed in Afghanistan. A career Marine, Sergeant Lodge would board for Sergeant Major once the MEU got home. The rumor mill said his Navy Cross from Fallujah was being looked at for an upgrade to a Medal of Honor. As Darren was still alive, they both doubted that. Medal of Honor recipients had a habit of having something about having given their life in the award citation.

Shortly, she was relaxing with a picture book relating the history of the “Secret City”, as they called it, and she mulled over the curiously… incomplete brief she got before leaving for Oak Ridge. Her partner, Special Agent Reading, was a Navy Reservist and was doing his annual two weeks. He would join her shortly. The brief had her confused. She was to report to a Dr. Wilcox with the National Security Directorate for "further instruction" and was specifically instructed to not discuss her assignment, not that she had any idea what it might be, or affiliation with NSA with anyone outside the Department of Energy reservation. Curious, she thought, but hopefully things would be clearer in the morning once she got to Y-12.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Commander Morris Reading, Intelligence Corps, US Navy Reserve, pulled into a parking spot at the Navy Gateway Inns and Suites at Anacostia. His orders assigned him to a unit in Washington, DC as Officer In Charge. Checked into the hotel, and arrived early the next morning as was his custom.

He swung through the front door and crossed the quarterdeck. As he cleared it, he started humming Glenn Miller’s “Pennsylvania 6-5000”., and saw an old colleague, Chief Petty Officer Karl Davidson, an enlisted Intelligence Specialist. The Chief addressed him.

“Commander Reading! Long time no see, Sir! Congratulations on the promotion!”

“Thanks. Good to see you too, Chief. I’m your new boss, as you might have guessed.”

“Well, Sir, that works, as I’m the Senior Enlisted Advisor. I thought you liked country music, from our time in Bagram? Getting into the retro thing, Sir?”

Reading thought about the events of the last few weeks, and smiled one of his signature half smiles. “Chief, let’s just say I’ve…. learned to appreciate the classics."

“Roger that, Sir. I have the qualification and delinquent lists to go over with you once you’re ready. We have a good team here.”

“I’m sure we do, Chief. What say we go win a war?”

“Aye, aye, Sir!”

The two men went into a secure office and the Chief briefed Reading on the unit’s mission and status.

After lunch, Reading fired up his NSA secure iPad once he was alone and checked the e-mail. His supervisors asked for a report on the Dellings case. They advised the other principals had no specific recollections of the incident, and that neither the Labs nor DARPA were exactly sure why he DID. He was further instructed that the Incident was classified and was to not be discussed with non-cleared persons. His report advised the Gadget, as the time travel device was referred to in print, was ready for operational testing. A message came back across the iPad shortly that he was to continue with the assignment to the National Security Directorate once his Annual Training concluded.

He reviewed the Dellings records. After the War, Ernest acquired the local Chrysler-Plymouth franchise and Frances went to work as Office Manager for the dealership. While there was no record she specifically recalled the events of September 1942, she left as a bequest a Science and Technology Engineering Major endowment at Bowdoin College after her death. One of the first recipients was one Wallace Wilcox, who earned a Ph.D. in theoretical physics from Bowdoin in 1994.

Briefly, he looked into the status on an award upgrade on one First Sergeant Darren Lodge. It was in the Commandant's office, and the Commandant was inclined to approve it and forward to the Secretary of the Navy for further action, an almost sure guarentee of an award ceremony with the President. Not bad, not bad at all, he thought.

He got back to the administrative work of being the Officer In Charge of a Reserve unit, and wrapped up at well after 6 that evening. Just before he logged off the Navy-Marine Corps Internet terminal, he checked his navy.mil e-mail one last time. There was one from "Reading, Franklin SOC (SEAL/SW/AW)". His brother Frank, a Navy SEAL deployed "somewhere" as the saying went, had sent an e-mail. Morris had the vaguest feeling something might be wrong, but it had been a LONG day and he would just read Frank's message from the room back at Anacostia. He hummed "Moonlight Serenade" by the Glenn Miller Orchestra as he packed up for the evening. The previous OIC had left a motivational poster on the far wall, which Reading read just before he turned the lights off for the evening.

People sleep peacefully in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.

The rough man turned the lights off, and went home for the evening.

THE END.

 

[vitanola]

"Und so kommt zum guten Ende Alles unter einen Hut. Ist das nötige Geld vorhanden. Ist das Ende meistens gut..."

 

[plain old dave]

The Players:

Clark Gregg as Special Agent Morris Reading

Sam Elliott as United States Deputy Marshal Lyndon Thibidoux

Dustin Hoffman as Dr. Wallace Wilcox, Ph.D.

Reese Witherspoon as Special Agent Megan Lodge

 

[LizzieMaine]

I'm kind of at a loss for casting the 1942 side of things -- they're all based on people I actually know, or have known. The attitudes and personalities of the Dellingses are basically those of my grandparents when they were younger, and Ma and Pa Elwell are them much later in life. The elderly Margaret Hutchins is a composite of my mother and one of my aunts. Butchie Philbrook is based largely on my uncle, and the elderly version of Michael Philbrook is a composite of a couple of guys who are regulars at the theatre. The town, of course, is based on my own town, with elements of a couple of other places where I've lived tossed in.

Dr. Gordon is also a composite, of several people who haven't especially impressed me over the years. And Addie Belcher is a composite of every complaining elderly lady who has irritated me in the ticket line.

So it's hard for me to say who should play them in a movie, because I can only see their real faces in my mind, and none of them were glamorous enough to be played by actors. But if anyone has ideas, feel free to contribute!

 

[LizzieMaine]

The real-life Frances and Margaret, fall 1942.

 

[plain old dave]

There are some aspects of my wife and I in my people, too. Mamaw and Papaw, too. Papaw was a Lum and Abner fan.

 

[rjb1]

As much as I like Sam Elliott (a lot), he may be too old for the part of an active-duty Marshal. He's turning 70 years old this year.
However, if we are playing around with time and space, perhaps Sam Elliott from "Tombstone" (20 years ago) might be better.
A younger alternative might be Timothy Olyphant, since he has played very similar parts in "Deadwood" and "Justified".