Read The Queen of Sleepy Eye Online
Authors: Patti Hill
The Queen of Sleepy Eye (34 page)
“I called my father from my first post to tell him the Pontiac had been stolen from the parking lot.” Carl turns his spring-green eyes on me. “Aren't you disappointed that you came all this way to meet a man like me? I'm sure you deserve better.”
Anger is not the emotion I'm expecting, but I work to control my voice. “Let me get this straight, you sent my mother to get an abortion?”
“When Holstad called to say you were in townâ” Carl's voice cracks. He removes his glasses to wipe his eyes. “I thought your mother had gone through with it, that you were dead. All these years ⦠I'm not proud of how I behaved with Francie. I was young, full of myself, and stupid. And she was exotic and so very sweet, but she wasn't of my people. That must sound ⦠I don't know ⦠yes, I do. I sound like a bigot, don't I?”
The universe tilts for a moment while I adjust the picture I've carried of my mother for most of my life. I was always the reasonable one, the one who shifted ballast to keep our little family upright in the water. Growing up was hard work. But hearing this, I know Mom saved me as surely as if she'd carried me from a burning building.
I've gained more than I imagined from meeting Carl. I itch to return to the police station to see Mom.
“Did your mother marry?” he asks.
“Yes, when I was seventeen, in Las Vegas. Chuck is amazing.”
“Was it difficult for the two of you, before she married, I mean?”
I could easily draw blood with a few time-worn memories. “There were difficult times, but most were good. God has been very good to me ⦠to us. Mom and me.”
School has let out and children ride by on bicycles and carry gigantic backpacks. Carl shifts in his seat. He stands and I join him. “It's been real nice meeting you,” he says. “You seem like a good person. I'm very glad you're doing well.”
I hold the car keys out to him again. “Enjoy your car.”
“I don't want it,” he says. “The car would cause more problems than it would solve.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
He shakes his head slowly. “Sell it. Buy yourself something nice.”
I try to memorize the creases of his neck, the burn scar on his hand, how he smells of lemons and tobacco.
He says, “I asked my father for a red Impala convertible, but he held an unwavering loyalty to Pontiacs. Still does.” He motions to the car. “That has to be the ugliest car Detroit ever made.”
I carry a sheath of photographs in my purse to show Carl. Wedding photographs. Christmases. Birthdays. Graduations. My granddaughter Emily Rose. An aerial photograph of the Westmont campus where I work. I even carry a sales catalog from Coastal Orchids and Flowers where my husband works with his family as a wholesale flower grower. His flowers are gorgeous.
“Listen, Amy, if you're hoping for a relationship ⦠that would be difficult. I'm glad your mother didn't follow my instructions, but my wife doesn't know anything about you or your mother. I went to college after the army. That's where I met Jean. We have five kids. Well, they're not kids anymore. None of them live in Sleepy Eye. I was pretty tough on them. We haven't heard from one son in a long, long time. He got mixed up with drugs. He's been in and out of jail so many times ⦠it's been hard on my wife.”
“I perfectly understand. My life is plenty full. This trip was Mom's idea. She wanted to return the car, to make things right.”
Carl hitched up his belt. “I don't have any hard feelings. You can tell your mother that. And tell her I'm sorry. Real sorry.”
I finger the ignition key. “I better get going. I'm burning daylight.” I'm almost to the car when I remember how reading a Bible story had finally dissipated the shame I carried from my relationship with Falcon.
“Carl! Mr. Swenson!” I call, running to where he already sits behind the wheel of an idling truck. I stand on the running board,
and the window slides down. “Don't feel a moment of remorse over your relationship with Mom. That would be a waste of time and of the precious days God has given you.”
“I don't think God cares one way or another how I spend my days. I haven't exactly given him any cause to care about me. I've ruined every relationship that came my way.”
“Are you familiar with the story of the prodigal son?”
“I think so.”
“The son asks for his inheritance, then he spends every last dime on prostitutes and lavish living.”
“My wife will be wondering where I am.”
“You have to hear this.”
He sighs. “Make it fast.”
“The son ends up a slave, feeding hogs the food that's denied him. Have you ever noticed that the son never says he's sorry for the hurt he causes? He returns home because he's starving. The servants in his father's house have more than enough to eat. He goes home to survive, Carl, and he is welcomed by a father who runs to meet him on the road.”
Carl covers his face with his hands, and his shoulders shake.
“Go home, Carl. Go home to enjoy the goodness of your heavenly Father. He loves you just as you are.”
* * *
I DRIVE AROUND the lake until I find a secluded place to shed a fifty-five gallon drum of tears. I cry for all the things Carl missed, but this is too long of a list for a post-menopausal woman to recall, so I cry for the guilt he bore and pray he finds his way home to the Father. And then I cry for all the things I missed growing up without a father. The father-daughter dances. Sitting on his shoulders at
parades. Having him tear up as I walk down the stairs on prom night.
I blow my nose on the last tissue in the box.
“That's enough. Start the car.”
Hiding anything in a town the size of Sleepy Eye is impossible, so I drive up and down streets until I find the Golden Acres nursing home. The building is as monotonous as a freight train, white with a red-shingled roof and shaded by ancient maples and oaks. I ask the woman at the front desk for Mr. Swenson's room number.
She removes her glasses. “Are you a relative, hon?”
“Do I have to be a relative to visit him?”
How surprised would she
be to know I'm his granddaughter?
“No, that's just my curiosity talking.” She reaches behind her for a sheet of paper to lay in front of me, a floor plan of the facility, and draws a red
X
on a room. “We usually know the people who visit our residents.”
“Does Mr. Swenson have a nice view?”
“He can see a field of corn. That's about as good as it gets around here.” Her eyes narrow to slits. “You aren't one of those state auditors, are you?”
“No, I'm like you, just curious.” I study the floor plan. “So he's on the ⦠?”
“South side of the building.”
“The side with the parking lot?”
“Yes, but I don't think that bothers him. He's crazy about cars.”
“Good, well, it's nice to know he's so well taken care of. Thank you.”
I park the Pontiac outside Mr. Swenson's window. I have either made Officer Holstad's life easier or harder, but definitely more interesting. I walk the two blocks to the police station singing.
Oh, for the wonderful love He has promised,
Promised for you and for me!
Though we have sinned, He has mercy and pardon,
Pardon for you and for me.
* * *
BACK AT THE police station, Mom is standing on the break-room table, head erect, shoulders back, wearing the tiara and sash. She spreads her arms wide and says, “When I walked on stage, the audience hummed. Down front, a man asked, âWho is this dark beauty?'”
The whole Sleepy Eye police department sits enraptured by her. I lean against the wall to listen, for the first time appreciating Mom's ability to capture a crowd with a good story.
“I collected pop bottles to buy a secondhand dress and fabric for a sash and petticoat. My friend's mother loaned me a pair of pumps. They were too big. I had to stuff the toes with tissue paper so they would fit.”
“Mom,” I call out, “tell them about your talent.”
Long live the queen of Sleepy Eye!
My name on the cover is a bit misleading. These are the people who made
The Queen of Sleepy Eye
more than an idea buzzing in my head, and my heart sings with gratitude.
Dennis, my sweet husband. Thanks for not mentioning the buildup of dust or the orange ring in the toilet. Your confidence in me is confounding, but I love you all the more for your generous support.
Janet Kobobel Grant, my agent extraordinaire. Thanks for finding
Queen
a “country.” You're the best.
David Webb, my editor at B&H. You urged me into deeper waters with your keen sense of story. Thanks to you and Karen and the whole staff at B&H for making
Queen
a much smoother ride for our treasured readers.
The indomitable women of my critique group. You're more than comma cops to me; you encourage me to new heights and point out my flounderings. Thanks Sharon Bridgewater, Muriel Morley, and Darlia Sawyer. I love you! My hearty appreciation also extends
to special-appearance critique members Tammy Martin and Brenda Evers.
Sherry Opp, my good, good friend. All I needed to know about stained-glass was a phone call and a lunch date away. You made research a delight.
June Fellhauer, my sister in Christ, my prayer warrior, and my window on small-town mortuary life. Keep the light on!
These generous folks provided me a keyhole look at the North Fork Valley: James M. Gall, Bob Lario, Michelle Cumpston, Marsha Jackson, Paul and Carol Millerman, Ricky and Candy Brodel, and Myrna Westerman and her wonderful staff at the Paonia Public Library.
During research trips, Sharon and Carol Oberholtzer opened their family ranch to me. The room over the tack house is truly the penthouse suite of the North Fork Valley. Their ranch foreman, Red Hughes, is a straight-shootin' cowboy who never left me wondering what he thought. I appreciate that, Red.
Deb Pennington, friend, hairdresser, poultry enthusiast. It was your turkey, Pick, who corralled a vigilant rooster while I observed the hens in your big, red barn. Pick, you're my hero. Deb, thanks for sharing your slice of heaven with me.
Tina Darrah sipped coffee with me for two hours, sharing her experiences and wisdomâand she had never met me before! That's faith. Thanks, Tina. All that you so generously gave made
Queen
a better book. Thanks to your husband, Paul, for introducing us.
Angie Doorenbos, thanks for being my navigator and espresso aficionado on our trip through Sleepy Eye.
Kris Trexler, restorer of a gorgeous 1958 Pontiac Bonneville Sport Coupe, Jubilee Edition. Thanks for answering my “girl” questions about your masterpiece.
Michael Blackburn, funeral director and co-owner of Callahan-Edfast Mortuary in Grand Junction, Colorado. He enumerated the blessings and challenges of his work. Mrs. Clancy is based on the lunchroom lady at my elementary school,
not
Michael whose heart is as tender as his wit is sharp.
John Fischer, songwriter and fellow writer extraordinaire. I sang “Have You Seen Jesus My Lord?” with my college roommate until she wearied of my lackluster harmonies. It's still an all-time favorite, John.
To my readers, I extend my warmest regards. Thank you for reading my little story. I pray you consider the time well spent.
And to my Heavenly Father, thank you for filling the daddy-shaped hole in my heart. I love you.
Sleepy Eye
It's the summer of 1975, and Amy Monteiro believes it's high time her mother, Francie, the deposed queen of the 1958 Sleepy Eye Corn Festival, lays aside her tiara and grows up. After all, Amy is California bound with a full-ride college scholarship. Studious and focused, Amy is twilight to Francie's midnight beauty. Francie, gregarious as she is impetuous, can't seem to imagine life without Amy. Determined to detour her daughter's push for independence, Francie packs her beloved Pontiac Bonneville Sport Coupe, Jubilee Edition, and together they hit the open road.
While Amy sleeps in a Dramamine stupor through the Rocky Mountains, Francie follows beguiling road signs to Cordial,
Colorado, a town caught between tradition and ideology, where old-timers long for the past and long-haired hippies shelter themselves from an enigmatic world. A failed transmission exiles mother and daughter in this teetering milieu. Before the sun sets, Francie secures them a position as caretakers of Clancy and Sons Funeral Home in exchange for free rent. However, Francie then takes a job at the hardware store to pay the automotive repair bills, leaving Amy to polish caskets and host viewings. Despite a pinkie pledge with Amy to put her love life on hold, Francie begins dating a coal miner and settles into the life rhythms of Cordial, while Amy is determined to get herself to Californiaâwith or without her mother.
During one unforgettable summer, values clash, belief sparks, myths fade, and a mother and daughter both come of age when they are introduced to the power of grace.
1.
The author lived through the 1970s, but her research led her to fresh discoveries about the people and time. How has the novel compared to your memories of that time? If you are too young to remember the 1970s, what stereotypes did the story challenge for you?
2.
Which of the characters makes the biggest impact on Amy and how?
3.
How do each of the major charactersâAmy, Francie, Feather, H, Mrs. Clancyâchange over the course of the story? Which characters demonstrate little or no growth, and why?
4.
What do we learn about Amy through her relationship and correspondence with Lauren?
5.
What similarities or differences do you recognize from your relationship with your
mother and/or your daughter and the relationship between Amy and Francie? What could you do to strengthen your relationship?
6.
Amy believes she is insulated by her faith from making the same mistakes her mother has. How is that true or untrue? What unmet needs are shared by both Amy and Francie? How does Amy's need make her vulnerable to temptation in the apple orchard?
7.
Father Raymond says to Amy, “There never lived a perfectly good saint, but true saints learn to enjoy the goodness of God in spite of their imperfections. Let him love you as he made you and lavish you with his grace.” How does his counsel correspond with your own view of God?
8.
Why does Pastor Ted refuse to come and pray for Feather? What do you think of his dilemma? If you were Amy's pastor years later, how would you counsel her regarding this experience from her past?
9.
Amy's dreams of college and independence die hard. What is the source of our dreams? When
is it time to let a dream rest in peace? When is it time to resurrect a dream?
10.
Amy tells Carl to rush to the Father just as the prodigal son ran to his. In what ways have you distanced yourself from God?
Enhancing Your Book Club
Experience
If reading
The Queen of Sleepy Eye
piqued your interest about the places Francie and Amy visited, I suggest a “cyber trip” via the image search command on your Internet browser. Try googling a few of these place namesâNorth Fork of the Gunnison River; Paonia, Colorado (the town and vistas that inspired Cordial); Bogan Flats Campground; Yule Marble Quarry; and, of course, Sleepy Eye, Minnesotaâand you'll see why I enjoyed my time in the North Fork Valley and beyond.
I personally found Feather's back-to-the-land family an especially intriguing component in
The Queen of Sleepy Eye
story, especially since the same dissatisfactions that drove mid-1970 families to sustenance farming are now pressing contemporary urbanites toward self-reliance. For a deeper look at family farming in America, I recommend three memoirs. First,
Heathens: Hard Times
and High Spirits on an Iowa Farm During the Depression
by Mildred Armstrong Kalish. Not one bit self-indulgent, this memoir reveals the power of family working the land together.
Back from the Land
by Eleanor Agnew follows the back-to-the-land movement full circle
from dreamy idealism to biting reality. Finally, for a look at a contemporary urban-family-turned-farm-family,
Animal, Vegetable, Miracle
by Barbara Kingsolver may just motivate you to sharpen your hoe.
When it comes time to plan your book club meeting, consider hosting the event around a royalty theme or even a “hippie” theme. Stop by my Web site at www.pattihillauthor.com for table décor ideas, recipes, and activities to make your book club meeting for
The Queen
of Sleepy Eye
your best ever.
Daylight's burning â¦
Patti
Patti, tell us about how you came to write novels.
I really am a most unlikely writer of fiction. During my formative years, reading was limited to the newspaper and
Reader's Digest
until my sixth-grade teacher introduced me to Walter Farley and Marguerite Henry. Horse stories turned me into a voracious reader. If I couldn't own a horse, reading about them was the next best thing. I raced across the desert on the Godolphin Arabian and stretched over the neck of the Black Stallion as he pressed for the finish line. I loved living vicariously through the characters of books.
I first heard I should be a writer from a friend's mother. I was incredulous as I wrote little more than homesick letters from my new hometown. But a college professor seconded the notion, and this felt like a calling to me. I think of Sarah and the birth of Isaacâand this isn't meant to be a disrespectful comparisonâbut it took God a while to fulfill my calling too. Sarah wasn't ready to be a mother until her ninety-ninth birthday, and I wasn't ready to birth a book for several decades either.
When my two amazing sons were older, I went back to college to earn a B.A. in English Literature and Elementary Education. All thoughts about being a writerâalthough I wrote constantly, personally and professionallyâhad been forgotten. And then I got a story idea. I took a hiatus from teaching to write, and, well, the rest is history.
So where were you during the summer of 1975?
I had just finished my sophomore year of college and moved home for the summer to work at Carl's Jr. The French fry cooker made the summer extremely long and hot in my lime-green tunic and brown leotards. I longed to be back in San Luis Obispo with my friends who were taking summer classes and going to the beach to “study.”
Did living through that time prepare you to write
The
Queen of Sleepy Eye
?
Yes and no. Since I was a teen then, a very young adult in the seventies, I was hyperaware of pop culture. And a quick glance at a J. C. Penney catalog from 1975 reawakened my Seventies sense of style, and I do use that phrase advisedly. I spent that decade strumming folk songs and faith choruses on my guitar. My poor family. I would play for hours on end. Flip-flops were my official footwear from March to December, and during a high school interior design class, my creations included macramé plant hangers and open-weaved draperies. On Friday nights I sat glued to the television for
The Rockford Files
. But I was also a part of the Jesus Movement in Southern California. I attended Jesus People concerts and Bible studies under a circus tent, sometimes three nights a week. My friends and I carried huge Bibles to school every day so we could conduct impromptu Bible studies during lunch or witness to fellow students. It was a very exciting time to be a part of God's family.
All in all, I led a rather insular life in a California beach town. My contact with the counterculture was limited to a few “Jesus Freaks” and those I met street witnessing along Pacific Coast Highway. Many of those witnessing encounters involved people under the influence of drugs, so I wasn't very effective in my mission, and sadly, the
experience tainted my perceptions of hippies and long-hairs. I lumped them into one smelly and disoriented group.
During my research for this book, however, I discovered the back-to-nature movement. These people worked extremely hard to provide a safe place for their families to live and grow. The Seventies were a scary time. Fresh-faced boys were being drafted to fight in Vietnam; the Iran hostage crisis made us feel incredibly vulnerable; and the whole Watergate fiasco fostered a distrust of authority. And don't forget acid rainâthe world was dissolving all around us! The back-to-nature folks withdrew to become sustenance farmers, aiming toward a cashless society and developing relevant relationships on their own terms.
Quite frankly, I never would have made it as a back-to-nature woman. They lived in cabins built with their own handsâno indoor plumbing or heating or electricity. I did, however, dress the part of an “earth mama” in collegeâoveralls, Birkenstocks, and bandanas. We drank things like linseed oil in potato water, though I can't remember why. I still eat Ak-Mak crackers but consider carob a sad substitute for chocolate.
Are any of the characters in the book autobiographical?
Simply put, they're all meâor you. Unless the characters of fiction resonate with the truth of our experiences, they're lifeless. For instance, Francie hopes her moment of brilliance as the queen of Sleepy Eye portends greater things ahead. A professor's note at the bottom of an essay convinced me I was writer material. How's that for delusions of grandeur? And I walked the periphery of high school society just like H. Would I do anything to fit in? I was the sole member of senior senate to wear a Greek toga on Triton Day. No one remembered to tell me when the seniors voted not to dress Greek after
allâor was it geek? Long day. And like Amy, I've stuffed a cavernous hole of loneliness with clothes, ambitions, and faulty relationships. All the while, Jesus stood at the ready to be my Prince. I want to leave a legacy of faith like Leoti. In times of loss, I've been coldly efficient like Mrs. Clancy. But it's Feather I most want to be likeâsplayed out in faith, watchful and expectant. Take me, Jesus, I'm yours!
As a parent, I gritted my teeth during several scenes
with Francie. I wanted to shake her. What made you
create a character like her?
I've known women like Francie, and you're right, they're aggravating. Some traumatic eventâlike early motherhood, abuse, or lossâhas stunted them emotionally. They muddle through serial relationships and bear children who end up parenting their mothers, in essence, thereby robbing their children of their childhood. But these women aren't evil. They're wounded and redeemable and loveable. We all are. That's the profound mystery of God's love.
We've talked quite a bit about characters. What came
first for
Queen
, the characters or the story?
I wrote this book completely backwards, because it was the title that came first. My sweet friend Margaret announced with great flourish at my second book launch that she had been the queen of Sleepy Eye. I loved the sound of “The Queen of Sleepy Eye,” so I wrote the potential title on a napkin and thumb-tacked it to my bulletin board. It stayed there until I started mulling over ideas for a fourth project. A writer must never despise inspiration, even when it shows up out of sequence in unexpected places, but I hope to write all future books after coming up with the story premise or characters first.
Amy's encounter with Pastor Ted over Feather's poor
reception at Spruce Street Church is heartbreaking
yet insightful. Was this scene based on personal
experience?
This is the question I've been dreading, but yes, the scene is based on a lifetime of experience in churches of every shape and size. All churchgoers aren't nice, nor are all churchgoers believers, yet these very folks tend to be among our most faithful attendees. The “tares” volunteer to head committees and are elected to elder boards. I have to tell you, I don't get it. Why would anyone situate themselves in this position unless they are completely sold out to Jesus?
I appreciate that Jesus anticipated their presence by sharing the Parable of the Tares (Matt. 13:24â43). The story serves as a warning to judgmental people like me. Jesus is saying, “Yes, I know the weeds drain resources and compete for nutrition, but culling them out only expands their destructive influence. Let the Holy Spirit do His work, and live out your relationship with Me on a lampstand so they can see My love in you. They may yet become what they are notâwheat.”
You're not off the hook yet. Let's talk about Amy's
moral fall. Why didn't she just push Falcon away?
That's exactly what I had intended. In my outline and synopsis, Amy did push Falcon away. But when I wrote the scene, her sudden turnaround didn't ring true, not for how Amy had looked to Falcon to satisfy her loneliness, not for how she despised her mother's behavior, and certainly not for her harsh judgment and withdrawal from Lauren. Amy needed to discover that even an egregious fall doesn't exempt her from God's love and forgiveness, that he is more than willing to receive a repentant child with open arms. In fact, he'll run to
her when she's still a long way off, just like he ran to the prodigal son. I wanted to portray that kind of exuberant redemption in
The Queen
of Sleepy Eye.
It's for all of us.
Besides, it's not enough to face the temptations of this life with one Scripture verse as Amy tried to do. June Fellhauer, a dear and longtime friend, once ministered to unwed mothers on the local and national level. Watching those young mothers struggle to find their one true love broke June's heart. She wanted to equip girls to wait for their prince rather than simply being there to pick up the pieces. Several years ago she started teaching a high school girls' Bible study based on the Song of Solomon. Remember the young maiden of the book who enters a covenantal relationship with her prince? Well, June guides the girls to make the same commitment to Jesus, their true Prince. Participating in her ministry made a huge impact on meâand Amy. For more information, check out June's Web site at www.wakeupministries.com.
Tells us about the car. What part does it play in
The
Queen of Sleepy Eye
?
I didn't set out to create deep symbolism with the Pontiac, but the car's purpose grows with the telling of the story. First and foremost, as long as Francie keeps the car, it ties her to her past. She can't move on. It's a big, gaudy reminder of her grab for meaning but also her most heroic moment. And then the car becomes a sort of albatross, limiting her movement with fear. Selling the car finally allows Francie and Amy to build new lives. Only when they're strong enough does the car reappear to carry them back to Sleepy Eye where they have some issues left to resolve.
The ending wasn't what I expected. I wanted Amy to
find the father she deserved. What's with Carl?
Carl is a sad man because he doesn't grow from the boy we come to know through Francie's memories. All he's accomplished is adding fifty years to his life. To be fair, there is only one Father who never disappoints. I'm so proud of Amy for directing Carl toward the Everlasting Father.
Let's end this on my favorite topic, food. What are
lavadores?
Lavadores are gently sweetened lemon cookies from Portugal. My family loves them, especially during the summer with vanilla ice cream.
Lavadore
means “washboard” in Portuguese, referring to the ridges pressed into the cookies with the tines of a fork. Here's the recipe:
Makes about 4½ to 5 dozen
½ cup butter, softened
1½ cups sugar, divided
4 eggs
Grated peel of 1 lemon
4 cups all-purpose flour, as needed
1 tablespoon baking powder
Preheat oven to 350 degrees F
1.
With an electric mixer on medium-high speed, or by hand, cream the butter and 1 cup of the sugar for about 1 minute. Beat in the eggs, one at a time, blending well after each, until the batter is fluffy and pale yellow, about 2â3 minutes. Stir in the grated lemon peel.
2.
In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour and baking powder, stirring to distribute the ingredients evenly. Using a wooden spoon, fold the flour into the egg batter. Mix well. Gently knead the dough in the bowl for about 5 minutes.
3.
Place the remaining ½ cup of sugar in a shallow dish. Shape pieces of dough into 1½-inch balls. Roll in the sugar and place on parchment-lined or lightly greased cookie sheets, 2 inches apart. Flatten gently with the tines of a fork to make horizontal lines. Bake for 20â25 minutes or until a light golden color.