The Resurrection Letter Press
Part 3
Dennis continued his story, “One day Matt walked into class with a big stack of paper in his arms. He plopped it down on his desk and said, ‘I’m proud of your stories. They deserve to be read. With this paper you can begin printing you own newspaper.’
We called the paper Our Story. Quickly we sold over 600 subscriptions, That’s twice Story’s population. But owing to all the relation who’d moved away for work but were a miss’n Story, it was easy. With the money we made from subscriptions, Matt took us on a week-long field trip every year to Washington D.C. We took the train out of Salem. We stayed at real hotels and ate at fancy restaurants. We took in the sights and conducted interviews with representatives to put in the paper. I even got to shake Jackie Kennedy’s hand on a tour of the White House. We had several truly wonderful years.
But in Welbourne, the county seat where all the politicians, banker, lawyers, doctors, judges, sheriff, administrators, and important people live, their kids were not winning spelling bees. What’s mor3e, their kids had to sell candy door to door to raise enough money to ride a bus to D.C. and back in the same day. They thought they were better that everyone else, especially us. They called us half-breeds.
They had a secret County Commission meeting and drew up a document. The next morning, the sheriff, with a carload of toughs, drove out to Story with their piece of paper.
Class was in session when we heard hammering. The sheriff nailed a condemnation notice to the door of our school. He then stepped inside, informing us we were all to leave the building. It caught us totally by surprise and we didn’t know what to do but stare at the sheriff in disbelief. He got mad and grabbed Bobby, who was near at hand, by his arm and dragged him out the door. Matt quickly organized an orderly evacuation so no other children would be hurt.
After we were out. The sheriff waved the toughs in. They filed past us, sneering and laughing as they dragged their sledgehammers and wrecking bars along. We tried to cover our eyes and ears to shut out what no child should ever have to see or hear, but it was no use. We all felt that horrible thumping and crashing reverberate through our bones as they set to work breaking every blackboard, desk, and window. While this was going on, the sheriff stepped out with a couple toughs and went around the side of the school where the entrance to the basement is. Matt turned to me and said, ‘Dennis, you’re the oldest. You’re in charge of the rest of the kids. No matter what you may hear or see, keep everyone together in the yard until I, or Zedic come get you. Is that clear, Dennis?’
‘Yes sir.’ I told him and then he turned and followed the Sheriff into the basement. Toughs began coming out of the school looking like crazed mad men. Some of them went into the basement too. When they came out, they all piled into the sheriff’s car and sped off down the road, kicking up a cloud of dust. They almost ran over Zedic and Jake, who were hiking up the hill. Zedic came to make sure we OK while Jake went into the basement. No one ever heard Jake cry before, but Zedic had us all look toward the bridge as he led us down the hill.
After that we all were bussed to school in Welbourne, where our lives were made miserable. The teachers there turned a blind eye to all the harassment, beatings, and bullying we had to endure. It changed some of us, and not in good ways.
Later, some fool came to town from Ohio looking for old presses. Zedic said there was one in the basement of our old school. He told him it had been worked over, the flywheel, platen and treadle all broke, but he still wanted to see it for scrap. Anyway, Zedic let him take if off for $100.”
I never told Dennis the press was resurrected … better left a ghost, I thought. In the twelve years I lived in Story, this was the only time I heard this tale, because it was so painful.
Previously, I was told Story had a paper… even shown an issue but wasn’t allowed to copy or touch the precious document.
I didn’t have the heart to ask Jake what he saw…and I never learned who was laying flowers at the base of that broken flywheel arcing skyward, behind the church at the top to the hiss in that West Virginia backwater.