“You declined an invitation to serve on the panel, so you’ll have to wait, along with the other citizens…. Have some carrot sticks.”
“No thanks.”
“They’re good for you.”
“I know. That’s why I don’t want any.”
Qwilleran’s next stop was the newspaper office, where he handed in his copy to Junior Goodwinter, the young managing editor.
“Is something wrong?” asked the editor. “You’re a day early!” Usually the “Qwill Pen” met its deadline with only minutes to spare. Then Junior said, “Wait till you see today’s edition! On page one the Highland Games are the banner story, with some great shots of the caber cavorting in midair and Campbell getting his gold medal – plus a sidebar on Brodie and the pibroch. On the picture page we have the dancers, fiddlers, pipe-and-drum bands, and a candid of a couple of stalwart Scots in kilts, eating bridies. On page two we congratulate Homer Tibbitt on his ninety-eighth birthday. And on the editorial page we have some interesting letters to the editor.”
“Interesting-good? Or interesting-bad?”
“Wait and see.”
“By the way, junior, do you know anything about an old shack on Chipmunk Road near the Big B minesite? It’s said to be a hangout for kids.”
“Oh, that! It was torn down during the roadside beautification campaign, but there was so much public sentiment attached to it, the county salvaged the boards and auctioned then off. There are plenty of stories about that dump.”
“Do you have time for lunch? I’ll treat at Rennie’s.”
“Can’t. Arch has called an emergency meeting during the lunch hour.”
“What happened?” Qwilleran asked. “Did the water cooler spring a leak? Did somebody cancel a subscription?”
“Goodbye!” Junior barked. “And I’ll see that they misspell your name in tomorrow’s paper.”
Fellow staffers always teased Qwilleran about his personal crusade against typographical errors, and on one occasion they conspired to sprinkle his entire column with typos. Even he had to chuckle over the comic enormity of the April Fool trick.
Now it was Monday, September 14, and he liked to lunch with someone on the first day of the workweek. On the way out of the building he came face to face with a wiry, vigorous man in farmer’s denims and feed cap – Sig Dutcher, the county’s agricultural agent. They met often at the Dimsdale Diner, where farmers gathered for coffee, agritalk, gossip, and a few laughs.
Qwilleran said, “Sig, you mud-devil! What brings you in from the back forty?”
“Just delivering some red-hot ag news to your business editor.”
“Are you free for lunch at the Mackintosh Inn? My treat.”
“Sure. Can I go like this?”
“Of course. We’ll have a burger in the coffee shop.”
It was the agent’s first visit to the refurbished inn, and he was thunderstruck. When he saw Rennie’s with its clean white walls and bright blue and green tables, he said, “It beats the Dimsdale Diner!”
“Anything new at the Diner?” Qwilleran asked after they took seats in the high-backed chairs. “I haven’t been there for a while.”
“Well… Benny broke his leg in a tractor rollover… Calvin had a couple of cows die on him… Doug’s daughter won a blue ribbon at the fair for a black-face ewe… Spencer’s wife needs an operation, and their insurance lapsed… That’s about it… How about you, Qwill? Are you still eating a McIntosh a day to keep the doctor away?”
“Actually, I have nothing against the medical profession, but I do like apples, and my favorite happens to be the McIntosh, if I can’t get Winesaps.”
“We don’t get many Winesaps around here, but we have one of the best McIntosh orchards in the state. And thereby hangs a tale that might steal its way into your column. Did you know there were no so-called eating apples on this continent before the European settlers brought them? Only crab apples. And here’s another interesting fact: The millions of McIntosh trees in the U.S. are all direct descendents of a single seedling found in the Canadian wilderness.”
“How did it get there?” Qwilleran asked.
“That’s the mystery! In 1832 a farmer in Ontario was clearing land when he found this seedling. He transplanted it to his farmyard, and it bore fruit for thirty years. Then his son found out about grafting fruit trees, and the rest is history.”
“It sounds like a ‘Qwill Pen’ story, all right.”
“That’s what I thought, Qwill. If you go to my office in the county building and ask for the McIntosh file, they’ll copy a lot of material for you.”
While waiting for their burgers they discussed the Highland Games, Bixby’s proposal to build a gambling casino, the remarkable Border collie, and the weather.
“Any new jokes at the Diner?” Qwilleran asked.
“Did you hear the one about the two bulls in the –”
He was interrupted by the waitperson’s announcement, “You didn’t say if you wanted fries, so I brought you some anyway. What else can I get for you… gentlemen?”
Dutcher asked for red pepper sauce; Qwilleran wanted horseradish.
“Did you hear that?” the agent asked. “She called us gentlemen!”
