Free The Fence My Father Built by Linda S. Clare Page A

“And pray it don’t rain.”
    “But we all agreed that Linc's is the only place big enough,” Lutie said.
    Gladys broke in, straightening her long legs out into the middle of the room. “That's it right there, LaDonna,” she said. “The church is just too crowded, and out in the yard everything is at the mercy of the weather and the dust. We need that hall.”
    “Suppose we took up a collection beforehand?” A woman named Velma said with a smirk. “Make the menfolk pull their weight.” Velma was heavier than La Donna but a lot less cheerful.
    The more I listened, the more I was convinced that they were as courageous and fulfilled in their own way as any liberated city woman. The thing that nagged at me was their silence when it came to Linc. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how he managed to run the town and keep these fiercely independent folks in line. Even here, where my outspoken aunt held her own brand of influence, the ladies refused to speak of him except as pertained to the meeting hall they needed.
    When the conversation finally sounded more casual—talk of the weather and which animals were doing what, who was attending the county fair this month—I took a chance and asked a question of the group. “I’m curious,” I said, suddenly feeling as shy as Frieda. “Why would Linc charge a bunch of church ladies to set up their bazaar in his place?” All the women stared at me as if I’d asked why God made air.
    Frieda said, “Linc's only got that way since he's been back.” She reached for a cookie and tore a big bite from its side. “He's done so much for all of us. You’d think certain people would be grateful.”
    Lutie's eyes blazed. “Frieda, if I told you once I told you twice, Linc is up to more than getting his rights back.”
    Frieda sniffed. “I only meant there are a lot of us who are beholden to him. He never charged us a fee before all this came up with your brother.”
    I volunteered. “What's the difference between the two venues? Couldn’t we just use the church?”
    LaDonna chimed in. “At least someone has a decent head on her shoulders.”
    “It's too small, LaDonna.” Lutie looked exasperated.
    LaDonna rolled her eyes. “It just burns me up to pay to hold a bazaar.”
    Lutie shrugged. “I know, I know.” She sighed. “But how else will we raise enough money for our own hall?”
    After a few moments, Frieda spoke in a whisper. “Jesus said to render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's,” she said and looked at the floor once again. The others set their mouths into thin hard lines, and LaDonna's blouse whooshed as she folded her arms over her chest.
    Lutie struggled out of the recliner and stood before the group. She looked thinner than usual. “I’ll get Muri here straightened out on this later,” she said. “Now are we readyfor a vote? The hall or the churchyard? A roof over our heads or do we take our chances on the weather?”
    “I guess we have no choice,” Frieda said with a huff.
    “My Dresden Plate quilt was all but ruined two years ago out in the yard,” Gladys complained.
    “At least the hall's got ceiling fans,” LaDonna said, and she fanned herself with her notepad.
    “Well, I guess that's it then,” Lutie said. “Frieda? What do you say?”
    “God is bigger than Linc,” she murmured. “Pay the tax and watch what He can do.”
     
    A fter the last Tabernacle Lady said good-bye, Nova stuck her head around the corner and said she was starving. She scavenged the leftover snacks while Aunt Lutie tried to engage her in conversation.
    “You’re plenty old enough to take part in the bazaar,” Lutie said. “Here. Let me fix you up a plate.” She piled food on a paper plate, and Nova took it. I nodded at my daughter, and she understood my hint.
    “Thanks,” she said and pulled a chair from the living room over to the dinette.
    “You’ve got such a way with your outfits,” Lutie said, and pointed at the blouse Nova wore, the