Ghost Town (15 page)

I bought all forty acres of it.

I also bought the Baldersons' house in Paisley. Then I arranged with Happy Turtle House Movers of Pittsburg, Kansas (down here, there is no
h
in Pittsburg), to have it moved to my land in Kansas City, where it was carefully situated on a pretty, partially wooded half-acre lot next door to the Baldersons' new house.

A little brass plaque on the front door read
HAPPY BIRTHDAY SWEET SIXTEEN
.

Mrs. Balderson was thrilled. Not only did she now have enough room to put away all the stuff she'd been buying at the stores in Kansas City, but she knew exactly where it all would fit.

Maureen Balderson was speechless, but her tears of joy said it all.

"Oh, Spencer," she finally murmured.

Her father put his arm around me and tormented me briefly with a half bear hug while Tim went tearing down the street after a rabbit that had been flushed from the bushes by all the activity.

As dramatic as this gesture was, however, it was only the beginning.

Within two months the entire town of Paisley, Kansas, had been rolled two hundred and fifty miles down the highway and planted like winter wheat in the fertile land of Kansas City's newest upscale subdivision, Paisley Paradise.

In the center of the development, in a beautifully proportioned red-brick Georgian building reminiscent of the College of William and Mary in Williamsburg, Virginia, stood the Louise Franks Memorial Free Library of Paisley, Kansas.

Surrounding it were Mr. Heath's general merchandise store, the Honesty Gallery of Contemporary Art, Baskin-Robbins, Pizza Hut, PetSmart, OfficeMax, Subway, and Bed Bath & Beyond.

(Give me a break! Every real estate developer has to make a
few
compromises!)

I MOVED THE WHOLE TOWN
of Paisley, Kansas, to Maureen Balderson's new subdivision in Kansas City, but to my credit, I hope you realize, I did not move the plastics factory.

Neither, for that matter, did I bother to erect a statue to the town's founder and first mayor, the vagabond bandit Colonel Daschell Potts.

Instead, I commissioned a bigger-than-life bronze reproduction of an Indian chief leaning against a tree and whittling a talisman. My only regret is that through some hugely embarrassing mix-up, it got installed on a marble pedestal in front of the cigar store.

The hardest part in all of this was saying goodbye to the subject of the statue.

Chief Leopard Frog had not stood by me through thick and thin, but he'd certainly been with me through thin, which was when I'd needed him the most.

Without his native strength, his optimism, his wisdom, his creative gifts, his presence, and his confidence in me, I surely would have withered away like the once doomed town of Paisley.

We all owe so much to the native peoples who have gone before us.

"Won't you come with me?" I asked him as we stood side by side in a blustery wind on the vacant ground of Old Paisley.

"You know I can't," he replied. "You're merely being considerate of my feelings."

"Is that bad?" I asked. "Being considerate, I mean."

But already he was gone.

My mother somehow managed to keep her job delivering mail to the residents of Paisley now reestablished in its new location.

Who can fathom the collective bureaucratic mind of the United States government? Do they even have a clue? If so, does anybody care?

Today Paisley is filled with young couples and little kids and packs of odd-size, strange-behaving pedigreed dogs, teenagers with brand-new used cars, and a few slow strolling people in their twilight years who wear big smiles and wave to everyone whether they know them or not, some using canes and aluminum walkers.

Every year when the weather turns cold, I send a special pumpkin to Milton Swartzman. The last one looked just like President Franklin D. Roosevelt, glasses and all, I swear.

Oh, and guess who, at the tender age of nineteen, wound up becoming the fourth wife of Milton's brother Howard, the rich genius Palm Beach lawyer?

If you were about to say Merilee Rowling, you'd be absolutely right. But I wouldn't worry about him. He can afford her. The question is, how long can he stand her?

To my way of thinking, what Howard should have done is gotten himself a dog, like I did: a little chestnut-colored miniature dachshund with short legs and a bobbed tail, full of frolic and kisses.

I named him Chief. We go everywhere together.

Richard W. Jennings
www.richardwjennings.com

He is the "master of middle-American whimsy" according to
Kirkus Reviews.
The
Horn Book
explains, "He writes about children who are witty, intelligent, articulate, and likeable," and adds, "His novels are laced with droll tongue-in-cheek observations, philosophical musings, and slight hints of absurdity." The author says his work "celebrates the custodians of optimism—kids—and is dedicated to every kid who ever felt different."

Jennings's debut novel,
Orwells Luck,
was launched to widespread critical acclaim in 2000, published in France as
La chance de ma vie
in 2001, and released through Houghton Mifflin and Scholastic Books as a trade paperback in 2006.

This success was followed at roughly annual intervals by
The Great Whale of Kansas
(2001),
My Life of Crime
(2002),
Mystery in Mt. Mole
(2003),
Scribble
(2004),
Stink City
(2006),
Ferret Island
(2007), and
The Pirates of Turtle Rock
(2008), praised by the professional media, and found in schools and libraries throughout the United States.

Several of Jennings's books have been excerpted or serialized in the
Kansas City Star,
including
Orwells Luck, Scribble, Stink City, Ferret Island, The Pirates of Turtle Rock,
and his latest work,
Ghost Town.

He shares his Overland Park, Kansas, home with three dachshunds—a bad one, a fat one, and a baby—where he writes full-time.