The Report from Potter's Point : January

by VernWinterbottom (Christopher J. Richard)

Well, not an awful lot went on in Potter’s Point last month, except for the holiday discussions about who might be running for political office in the spring. Such talk usually arises when there are social gatherings that include both freely flowing intoxicating beverages and large turkeys.

One finds this sort of conversation at VFW Hall on the afternoons after big holiday meals when the old fellas want to escape the company of women. (Women are allowed in VFW Hall, but between the stale tobacco smoke and evaporating alcohol, the atmosphere in there is thick enough to choke a wharf rat, and most women shy away.)

The talk around town lately has been that Taber Spooner will not run for reelection again. Having served on the Board of Selectmen since 1939, running isn’t something Spooner’s actually done in quite some time, but he has been reelected to serve term after term. Some folks, such as Bud Clinkerbilt, say the senior selectman can clearly recall every vote taken in the town meeting of ’39.

Others, Haddie Finnan for example, aren’t so flattering when discussing Spooner’s abilities. “He’s been legally blind since ’74 and legally deaf since ’89,” Haddie said to the other women in Stell’s Styling Shack a couple of Tuesdays ago. “Before I vote for him again I’d want somebody to certify that he’s legally alive.”

With Taber Spooner out of the political picture for the first time in more than 60 years, there are a lot of folks scrambling to take his place at the highest level of town government.

Pop Stokes had only just unlocked the door of VFW Hall when Vern Winterbottom came in and headed for a seat by the liquor cabinet.

“I just come from the Clinkerbilts’ house and Bud says that one o’ them San Miguels is gonna run for Selectman,” Vern said.

“Which one?”

“Bud wasn’t sure. He thought it was either the plumber or the roofer,” said Vern. “Which one drives a big red truck?”

“They all drive big red trucks,” said Pop. “It’s like a family requirement. They all become altar boys, play football, take up a trade, and drive a red truck.”

Roy Hathaway, who had run unsuccessfully for a seat on the Board of Selectmen in every election between 1959 and 2002, walked over to the liquor cabinet and got out his key. “You fellas talking about the San Miguels?”

“Yeah. One of them is going to run for Spooner’s spot.”

“Good luck to him,” said Roy, unlocking the cabinet. “I hear that Madame Yvonne the psychotic is running again.”

“She’s a psychic,” said Pop. “And she hasn’t done too badly on the school committee. She foresaw that the state would cut back on funding.”

“You think that took mystical powers?” asked Frank St. Bernard. “Then I got some for you … I see more cold weather ahead … I see that in the next year a park department guy is going to run a lawn mower into some shrubbery … I see the Red Sox not winning a World Series anytime soon … I see Madame Yvonne won’t have to give up her school committee seat …. ”

Selectman Everett Zurcotte entered and sat at the table where Roy was setting out glasses.

“Everett, have you heard which San Miguel is running?” asked Vern.

“I think it’s Tony,” said Zurcotte.

“That doesn’t tell us anything,” said Pop. “There’s about twelve of ’em named Tony.”

“It’s the one with the big red truck,” said Zurcotte. “The electrician.”

“You’re sure about that?” asked Roy. “If it’s the electrician, that would be Tony J. San Miguel, Jr. He fixed my porch light last month. I wrote out his name on the check.”

“How’s he related to Tony the Third?” asked Frank. “They both seem to be around the same age.”

“They’re some kinda cousins,” said Vern. “Let’s see if I got this right …Tony J. Junior’s grandfather, John the carpenter, and Tony the Third’s grandfather, Tony ‘Antone’ the bricklayer, are brothers. I think. If one of you gives me a ballpoint and a napkin I think I can work it out for you.”

Bud Clinkerbilt came into VFW Hall and sat next to Everett Zurcotte. “You got out just in time, Vern. Mae has got the stereo going with a bunch of Christmas carols sung by dead people. Did you tell the fellas that Tony San Miguel III is running for Selectman?”

“Now wait a minute,” said Pop Stokes. “Everett says it’s Tony J. Junior, the electrician.”

Bud scratched his ear. “Well, yesterday I saw ‘Little Tony’ at Millie’s Market and he told me his son was running. His son, Tony the Third, is the roofing contractor. He drives that big red truck.”

“Could they both be running?” asked Everett. “Wouldn’t that split the St. Christopher’s vote!”

“Maybe I should run again,” said Roy. “If the San Miguels tie up the Catholic vote, and Madame Yvonne grabs the lunatic-conspiracy fringe, there will be a real solid block of Protestants looking for a candidate to support. After all, I am a member of the General Society of Mayflower Descendants.”

“You got a library card, too,” said Vern. “So Mabel and Arlene will vote for you unless you’ve got books overdue.”

Virgil Boggs came in after rigging up a new holiday lighting set-up around the Monument of the Patriotic Quahogger in the town square.

“Virgil, you hear that maybe two of the Tony San Miguels are going to run against each other?”

Virgil held up his hand and shook his head. “I refrain from any political discussion until after the Super Bowl,” he said. “Talking about elections before the end of the pro football season is as bad as playing Christmas carols in October.”

“No, Virg, I beg to differ,” said Everett Turcotte. “Today is a holiday. We have all stuffed ourselves full of rich foods and now we are here, away from the cares of home and the women. Our liquor cabinet is full and the glasses are set out in a line. I even brought some after dinner cigars. There is, in fact, no better time to sit together with friends and discuss the political future of the town.”

Everett snipped the end off a cigar and poured a hefty belt of amber-colored liquid into his glass. “And so gentlemen, I say — ”

At that moment, Haddie Finnan and Mae Clinkerbilt opened the front door without knocking and stuck their heads into the smoky gloom of VFW Hall.

“The pie is on the table at the Worthy residence! There’s pumpkin, squash, mincemeat, apple, and pecan, with lots of Bill and Prudence’s homemade vanilla ice cream!” called Haddie.

“Come and get it,” Mae added.

The fellas sat a minute looking back and forth between the door and Everett Zurcotte.

Pie won over politics.

That’s the Report from Potter’s Point for this month. Hope to see you soon!

EDITOR’S NOTE: The fictional Town of Potter’s Point, population 3,717, is located in the southeastern part of Massachusetts, on the shore of Butler’s Bay. Its primary industries are cranberry growing, boat building and quahogging.

COPYRIGHT 2003 by Christopher J. Richard. All Rights Reserved.