89
March, 1945
You have known people like this. You have h e a r d their folksy talk and have seen into their hearts. Therefore it will m e a n something to you to spend . . •
Easter at Willard Junction By KEN ANDERSON
Alf didn’t laugh. He said, “It’s the most a man can do for the boys these days—goin’ to the Lord’s house regu lar, I mean. Our Clinton always asks us to keep on prayin’ when he writes.” “Now listen, Alf.” “I’m serious.” “I know you are.” John chuckled again. -“But I reckon I’ll be open for business as usual. It’d be the f i r s t Good Friday in twenty-three years of business, if I wasn’t. What’d my boy think down there in the South Pa cific, if he knew his Dad . . . ?” “He’d be mighty proud of you, John. These boys ’re thinkin’ serious these days—about their souls. Clinton writes about that a lot.” “Oh, maybe a few are gettin’ re ligious—scared into it, probably. But the boys are still buyin’ lots of beer, an’ I’m havin’ a time keepin’ my to bacco shelf stocked.” He winked. “They ain’t all saved!” “Your boy’s in danger, an’ you owe it to him to give the Lord your heart an’ be a prayin’ father.”
“Yep,” the farmer said, “you’ve got a nice business here. Johnny’s got a right dandy postwar job, like the radio men say, waitin’ for him.” John stood in the doorway as his customer inspected the tires of h is trailer, and made sure the sacks of chicken feed purchased at John Craw ford’s General Store wouldn’t topple off on the way home. Then he got into his car and drove away. John was alone in the store but for a moment, when the door opened and Alf Barkley, the depot agent, entered. “I hurried over before you’d closed,” he said. “We’ll need some things be fore tomorrow.” “You could’ve picked ’em up this afternoon,” John replied. “You’re closin’ up for the Good Fri day services, aren't^ you? They’re at 2:30. Reverend Jackson’ll have a good sermon—mighty good.” “Now, Alf,” John chuckled, “I didn’t give that a second thought. You don’t reckon I’m gettin’ religious, do you— in my old age?” >
ERE, John, let me give you a hand.” John Crawford hoisted a one- hundred-pound sack onto his frail shoulders. His face, lined by fifty-five hard years on the dry Nebraska prai ries, contorted from the strain. Bu t with only a slight extra effort he said, “I’ll make it all right, Ed. Folks been increasin’ their egg business these days, so I’m gettin’ used to totin’ sacks of feed.” “It’s been like starting in business air over again, hasn’t it, John? You almost retired before your Johnny left.” “That’s about right,” John said. A confident twinkle lighted the store keeper’s blue eyes as he said, “My boy’s loaned to the government, you know. He’ll be back in a year or so. Before that, like as not. Then I’ll retire for good an’ let him take over the busi ness. He was learnin’ fast before the Army got him. An’ he likes Willard Junction—takes well with folks, too."
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