Free Of Windmills and War by Diane H Moody Page B

know that would happen
when hell froze over. I think I put the fear of God in him. Haven’t heard
another peep outta that little jerk.”
    Oh, the wrath of Frank McClain.
    Dad pulled out his pocket watch and opened it. “I’m gonna
head home for dinner. Your mom send you something to eat?” He closed the watch and
slipped it back in his pocket.
    “She sure did. Pot roast, carrots and potatoes, and a piece
of chocolate cake for dessert.”
    “Alrighty then. You take care. Steve’s in the lobby on
concessions, and Katherine’s in the ticket booth. Any problem, give me a call
at the house.”
    “Will do. Bye, Dad.”
    Half an hour later, the theater was almost at capacity.
Danny played the dreaded newsreel, wincing as he watched the troubling war news.
He’d grown to despise the menacing tone of the reporter’s voice as he droned on
and on about one attack after another. When it finally ended, he clicked on the
projector with the first reel of Son of Frankenstein.
    Two hours later, as the patrons returned to their seats following
the intermission between shows, he flipped the switch on the first of eight
reels for Gone With the Wind. As Scarlett O’Hara sashayed her way across
the screen, he settled into his chair and pulled his notebook from his bag. Long
before the melodramatic heroine proclaimed her loyalty to Tara , Danny
would have plenty of time to write Anya another novel-length letter. She hadn’t
complained so he kept writing them.
     
    Dear Anya,
    Once again, Atlanta is
burning, and I have over three hours to kill. Lucky you. Ha ha. If they ever
show “Gone With the Wind” in The Netherlands ,
you’ll know what I’m talking about. I’ve grown to hate watching the newsreels,
especially knowing you’re not far from the action. With all the Allies, I sure
would’ve thought the war would be over by now. I’ll be anxious to hear the
latest news from your side of things.
    It’s been cold here too. We’ve had an awful lot of snow this
year. It’s a good thing Smitty Truesdale wanted my shoveling territory. Working
here doesn’t leave me any time to help neighbors like Mrs. Martello and her
sister. She still calls the house, complaining about Smitty and asking me to
come over and do it right. I’ve tried and tried to tell her I’m no longer
available. Did I tell you Mr. Chaney’s grandson is helping him out at the
grocery store now? I really miss working there, but I figure this is where I’m
supposed to be right now.
    I just saw Son of Frankenstein. It was great! I hope you get
to see it. Course, being a girl and all you’d probably be too scared . . . (I just ducked in case you threw your “klompen” at me. That would hurt!
By the way, why do you all wear wooden shoes anyway? Seems to me they’d be hard
to walk in.)
    Dad was all hot and bothered the other day about the Chicago
Theater. It’s in the heart of downtown Chicago and
boy, is it ritzy. I’ve been there a couple of times. Real fancy. You should see
it. Red velvet seats. Big balcony. Great big stage. Girls in uniforms with
short skirts who go up and down the aisles offering candy and cigarettes during
the intermission.
    But it’s those amazing intermissions that had Dad all riled
up. See, because it’s a top-of-the-line theater, they can book big name talent
for their intermissions—like the Glenn Miller Band, Kay Kyser, Harry James.
Wait—I just realized you won’t know who these bands are. I sure wish you could
hear them. They’re the best. Glenn Miller’s my favorite. He always has Tex Beneke
with him, singing along and cutting up. He’s famous for singing the Glenn
Miller hit, “ Chattanooga Choo
Choo.” Oh, and then there’s Hildegard. First time I saw her play, the whole
theater went pitch black. Then all of a sudden a spotlight appeared right on
her hands on the keyboard of that grand piano! Everyone went wild cheering.
Crazy thing is, she always wears elbow-length gloves when she performs. I guess
the fingers of