October 28, 1964
Jocie Brooke here reporting from Main Street, Hollyhill.
As you can see in the photo here, not much going on Main Street on a Tuesday afternoon. There are days when I go out and stomp on the sidewalk just to see if I can wake up anybody in the town. But nobody ever rushes out of the stores to see what's going on. The street just sits there empty as ever. Empty might be good if Dad would let me bring my rollerskates to town, but he won't. Now, doesn't that look like the best place to skate you've ever seen, but Dad thinks I might run somebody over. I know how to stop. Now. That time I barreled into Mrs. Jeffries in front of newspaper office, well, she should have seen me coming. She could step to the side easier than I could. I was only beginning to learn to skate then. Besides, my scrapes were lots worse than hers. She hardly bled at all, and Dad made me break into my piggy bank to give her money to buy a new pair of hose.
Did you ever rollerskate on the sidewalk? I bet you ran over somebody now and again too, didn't you? I sure do wish they'd let us take rollerskates to school. Then it would be easier to make it between classes. Can you imagine everybody on rollerskates? Even the teachers. Mrs. Watson would have to give up those spike heels. She'd probably wobble less on the skates.
But back to running over things, that Mr. Whitlow is back to coming to sweet talk Zella. Good thing he never stays long or Zella would never get the ads typed up for the paper to come out. She hardly knows her name when he's around. But there's something about him. Something weird - something even more than him acting like he's struck on Zella. And that's weird enough.
He kicked Cat. He did. I saw him. Cat was being halfway friendly. Either that or Cat thought Mr. Whitlow might have a cat treat in his pants cuff. I'd go for the cat treat. Could be Mr. Whitlow had a tuna fish sandwich for lunch and dropped a bit of it in his cuff. Cats have good noses. And they do not like to be kicked! What kind of man kicks a cat just because said Cat is sniffing his pant cuffs and shoes? It's not like he couldn't move around Cat. Cat's very small. Poor thing's been up on the top of the fence ever since. Wes says he'll come down when he gets hungry. Unless he catches a bird. See what that Mr. Whitlow set in motion. I'm thinking he's ready to set something else in motion, but I have no idea what. But it can't be good. Just ask Cat.
So I'm back on the detective trail again. Maybe something will show up on Halloween night. That's when the goblins and ghosts come out, isn't it? Mr. Whitlow is some kind of strange for sure.
Do you think Zella saw him kick Cat? She gets sort of blinded when that man is around. What would you do if you saw someone kicking your cat?
, .
August 19, 1964
Jocie Brooke here reporting from Hollyhill Main Street. Well, actually I'm not on Main. I'm out on Barton Road where we live. Cleaning my room. Not by choice! But Aunt Love says it has to be done. She says I'm a pack rat. That's not true. Not exactly true anyway. I simply like to save my books and papers. But she says some of it needs to go before the new school year starts and I begin collecting a new year's worth of papers. I don't save them all. Hardly ever the math ones, but always the English ones. I love diagramming sentences, don't you? Figuring out which phrase goes where. It all makes so much more sense then.
And why would anybody ever want to get rid of books? Books can be read over and over. So, she's right. I probably will never read my Hardy Boy mysteries again, but just looking at them makes me remember all the great fun I had reading about Joe and Frank and their sleuthing.
Sleuth - see there's a great word. If it's a noun, the dictionary says it's a detective. If it's a verb, then it's more fun. Verbs are, you know. More fun. Anyway then it means "to act as a detective." I used to wish a mystery would pop up in front of me when I was reading all about their exciting adventures. I could do some sleuthing. But it's a fact that nothing exciting happens in Hollyhill. Even if Wes does say that the whole town in full of strange characters. Strangely ordinary and hardly mysterious. He's the most mysterious guy I know since he says he's from Jupiter. The planet. The Hardy boys and I know that's not exactly true, but Wes hasn't ever said where he is from. It drives Zella crazy. She has to know everything about everybody in Hollyhill.
Of course, now that Mr. Whitlow is driving her crazy too. She can't figure him out. He told her he was from some little town up close to Chicago. So what does Zella do? She calls a newspaper up there and talks this woman who answered the phone into looking in the phone book for a Whitlow listing. None. Not one. And the woman said she'd never heard the name.
Now, how could that happen in a little town something like Hollyhill, Zella asked the air in front of her desk. She wasn't talking to me. Didn't hardly seem aware I was even standing there. So I didn't answer. I just let her keep talking to herself. Thought I might hear something interesting about Mr. Whitlow. Something that might be mysterious enough to call for some sleuthing.
Wouldn't it be funny if Zella and I teamed up to do some puzzle solving like Joe and Frank Hardy? Zella and Jocie. That wouldn't just be funny. That would be insane! And not apt to happen unless the world starts spinning backwards or something.
But no way am I throwing away my Hardy Boy books. I might have to read them again to get some pointers in this sleuthing stuff. Maybe I can part with a few history papers instead. Aunt Love will be happy if she sees me toting out a box full of junk. She won't look to see what's in it. So a few history papers, a few worn out pairs of underwear, those kiddie magazines Mrs. Wilson keeps bringing to church to give me after her grandkids read them. Dad says I can't say no. That I have to smile and act like I can't wait to read some bunny rabbit story so Mrs. Wilson will feel good. Even if it is for babies! But nobody said I had to keep them forever and with them gone, I'll have more room for real books.
August 19, 1964
Jocie
Brooke here reporting from Hollyhill Main Street. Well, actually I'm
not on Main. I'm out on Barton Road where we live. Cleaning my room. Not
be choice! But Aunt Love says it has to be done. She says I'm a pack
rat. That's not true. Not exactly true anyway. I simply like to save my
books and papers. But she says some of it needs to go before the new
school year starts and I begin collecting a new year's worth of papers. I
don't save them all. Hardly ever the math ones, but always the English
ones. I love diagramming sentences, don't you? Figuring out which phrase
goes where. It all makes so much more sense then.
And
why would anybody ever want to get rid of books? Books can be read over
and over. So, I probably will never read my Hardy Boy mysteries again,
but just looking at them makes me remember all the great fun I had
reading about Joe and Frank and their sleuthing.
Sleuth - see there's a great word. If it's a noun, the dictionary says it's a detective. If it's a verb, then it's more fun. Verbs are, you know. More fun. Anyway then it means "to act as a detective." I used to wish a mystery would pop up in front of me when I was reading all about their exciting adventures. I could do some sleuthing.
But it's a fact that nothing that exciting happens in Hollyhill. Even if
Wes does say that the whole town in full of strange characters. Strangely ordinary and hardly mysterious. He's the most mysterious guy I know since he says he's from Jupiter. The planet. The Hardy boys and I know that's not exactly true, but Wes hasn't ever said where he is from. It drives Zella crazy. She has to know everything about everybody in Hollyhill.
Of
course, now that Mr. Whitlow is driving her crazy too. She can't figure
him out. He told her he was from some little town up close to Chicago.
So what does Zella do? She calls a newspaper up there and talks this
woman who answered the phone into looking in the phone book for a
Whitlow listing. None. Not one. And the woman said she'd never heard the
name.
Now,
how could that happen in a little town something like Hollyhill, Zella
asked the air in front of her desk. She wasn't talking to me. Didn't
hardly seem aware I was even standing there. So I didn't answer. I just
let her keep talking to herself. Thought I might hear something
interesting about Mr. Whitlow. Something that might be mysterious enough
to set my mind to sleuthing.
Wouldn't
it be funny if Zella and I teamed up to do some puzzle solving like Joe
and Frank Hardy? Zella and Jocie. That wouldn't just be funny. That
would be insane! And not apt to happen unless the world starts spinning
backwards or something.
But
no way am I throwing away my Hardy Boy books. I might have to read them
again to get some pointers in this sleuthing stuff. Maybe I can part
with a few history papers instead. Aunt Love will be happy if she sees
my toting out a bag full of junk. She won't look to see what's in it. So
a few history papers, a few worn out pairs of underwear, that kiddie
magazine Mrs. Wilson keeps bringing to church to give me after her
grandkids read it. Dad says I can't say no. That I have to smile and act
like I can't wait to read it so Mrs. Wilson will feel good. But nobody
said I had to keep them forever and with them gone I'll have more room
for books.
Do
you love books? Did you read the Hardy Boy mysteries when you were a
kid? Did you wish you could solve a mystery like them?
August 6, 1964
Jocie Brooke here reporting from Main Street, Hollyhill.
Boring! Boring! Bo-o-oring! I guess you can guess where I am. No, not school. That's not for a few more weeks and usually not so awful boring until at least the middle of September. That is, if you don't have Mr. Smith for history. Then it's boring from the second you slide into your desk in his room. That man could make the Battle of the Alamo boring. You walk in his room and it's like all the life has been sucked out of the air. Dry names and dates are all that's left. Dad says history is exciting. I tell him to tell Mr. Smith that.
Dad also says history is in the making where I am right now. At the courthouse at the magistrates' meeting. Holly County history. Not exactly anything that's going to make the history books, but once a week, these men from all around Holly County get together with the judge and decide who gets first crack at the tax money. They spend a lot of time arguing about which roads have the worst potholes. Yawn!
The meetings are open to the public, but the public would rather stay home and go to sleep in their own chairs instead of these hard old chairs in the courtroom. So only a half dozen people show up who don't have to be there. Dad has to be there to write it all down in the paper and put more people to sleep reading about it. I'm the only kid. It's not exactly a place you're going to find the in crowd from school. Vanessa wouldn't be caught dead here - even if her father is one of the magistrates. But the thing is, she has a mother at home instead of a crazy old Aunt Love who wants a certain kid out of her hair as much as possible. So here I am - stuck in this hot old courtroom with dust motes floating in the air.
Don't get me wrong. I like being with Dad, but that doesn't keep me from needing toothpicks to prop open my eyes as Judge Goodman drones on and on about how the county only has so much money and they need to figure out a way to divide it fairly among the districts to fill up those potholes. I want to stand up and say who cares about potholes. Why don't they talk about spending the money on something everybody can enjoy like a park with new baseball fields? Dad would tell me I'm at the wrong meeting. That's the City Council. Double yawn! I'll probably have to go to that meeting next week.
But then when the meeting finally breaks up after nobody decided anything, I look around and who's there in the back row but Mr. Whitlow himself. Whatever is he doing here? He doesn't even own property in Holly County. Or does he? He must have sneaked into the courtroom the way he sneaked back into town last week.
He hasn't come around the newspaper office yet to see Zella. Might be safer for him that way. She's been going around looking like she's sucking on a lemon. Wes says we'll be smart to keep our distance from her for a while. Maybe forever! But somebody is sure to tell her Mr. Whitlow's back in town. What is that man up to? If even Zella couldn't find out, then I'm not sure anybody can.
Did you ever go to a meeting of your local government? Bet if you did, you were hiding some yawns too. Or maybe you were one of the elected officials in your town. If so, I'm sure you weren't as boring as our Holly County guys.
July 29, 1964
Jocie Brooke here reporting from Hollyhill, Kentucky. Can you believe it's almost August? We go back to school in August. Groan. We used to wait until after Labor Day, but then it snowed quite a bit one winter and we were still going to school in June. The powers that be decided it would be better to go to school the hottest time of the year, the end of August, instead of the maybe not so bad first of June. June can be a sweet month without the kind of humidity that melts down even beauty queen Vanessa's curls. Vanessa has been known to call her mother and pretend she's sick to keep from being at school with her hair less than perfect.
Not that the boys care the least bit about one of her blonde hairs maybe being out of place. The boys, and I mean ALL, the boys at school run into the lockers after they land their eyes on her. I haven't figured out what's all that pretty about her, especially with wild curls springing out around her face and that frown on her face at any boy except the captain of the football team.
But I'm not reporting on Vanessa. You'd be bored silly. I'm hoping almost August isn't too early to dream about Christmas. Do you see that bike in the Sears catalog? Wow! I could go places if I had a bike like that. (I'm sure Vanessa already does.) But I could ride to Miss Sally's and go fishing maybe. I could ride to school. Groan. I wasn't ready to think about that again yet. I could almost maybe, well, not quite, keep up with Wes on his motorcycle.
A new bike would be the neatest Christmas present. The very neatest! A bike of my own and not a hand-me-down rusty bike that's been buried under a ton of hay for years in some old farmer's hayloft. Maybe if I start talking now I can talk Dad into it by Christmas. It never hurts to ask, does it? Except Dad is always thinking about how we don't have a lot but we have what we need and some of the people in town don't have what they need, not even a rusty old bike, and how it's our Christian duty to share our blessings. I'm all for that. But I could use that bike. I might even be able to keep an eye on Mr. Whitlow if I had that bike! Well, I could have last week.
Oh, I didn't tell you, did I? He's disappeared. Well, I can't say for sure that he disappeared, but he's left town. Didn't check out. Bill Jackson says his room is paid up to the end of September. Says his clothes or at least some of them are still in his room. When somebody asked him how he knew that, Bill said it was his responsibility to check the room after the man didn't show up at the grill for breakfast two days in a row. The man might be sick or even, God forbid, dead. And wouldn't that cause a stink?! It didn't matter that his car was gone too. A person never knows and it's good to know. I think I like the way Bill thinks.
Zella doesn't know where he is. She doesn't want to talk about it either. She's worse than Cat before Wes feeds her. Snarling at the first word about anything. And she couldn't care less if that man was in town or out of town. Just ask her, if you dare, and she'll tell you.
But oh, that bike. Did you ever have a brand new bike? Did it have a new bike smell? Or was there something else you wanted so bad that you started wishing for it in August?
June 17, 1964
Jocie Brooke reporting from Hollyhill, Kentucky.
How about this neat ad I found in an old comic book? The very thing I need if I'm going to keep an eye on what's going on. The ad says you can see up to eighteen miles. I guess that's if no buildings or trees get in the way. But for sure I might be able to see across the street to the bank or the barber shop. Maybe even up to the hotel where that Mr. Whitlow is staying. The comic book is an old one that I found when Aunt Love made me clean out my closet. I doubt I could still order the binoculars, but I could send fifty cents and see. That wouldn't be much to lose.
Of course, Aunt Love would tell me that fifty cents is fifty cents and a person shouldn't be ready to throw money away after naught but foolishness. But binoculars that can help you see eighteen miles? That would have to be useful for the newspaper business.
I could see what everybody in Hollyhill was doing - including that Mr. Whitlow. Lately I might not need binoculars for that. The man keeps showing up here at the newspaper. So I came up with a way to snap a picture of him today when he came in. Zella was practically preening when I suggested a photo of the two of them together.
Obviously, their Saturday night date was a big success. At least Zella showed up at the office Monday morning with a smile all the way across her face. She didn't even fuss about Cat, I mean Red Spot, leaving a dead mouse on the floor beside her desk. She just said good kitty and then hollered at Wes to come get rid of the mouse remains.
Wes took his sweet time coming in from the press room. He wasn't all that busy. I'd just been out there with him and he was settled down reading what we wrote for news last week and drinking coffee. But Wes never gets in a hurry to do whatever Zella wants. That sometimes makes Zella want to pull our her hair or at least, uncurl some of those sausage curls. If they uncurl. I've never seen them so much as shift. When I was a little girl, I used to try to come up with reasons to touch Zella's hair to see if it was real or not. But even after I touched it, I wasn't sure. I'm still not sure. Every curl stays exactly the same all day long. Exactly.
Anyway, Mr. Whitlow came in the office before Wes made his way in to take care of the mouse. Suddenly Zella was almost fainting at the sight of the mouse where a minute before it wasn't causing her a minute's concern. Mr. Whitlow grabbed a paper off the counter and scooted the mouse up on it. Red snarled at him from his perch on the shelves behind Zella's desk, but Mr. Whitlow didn't seem to notice as he carried the mouse out to the trashcan on the street. He threw the paper away with it. I kept waiting for Zella to tell him he owed us twenty cents for the paper, but she just oohed and aahed and acted like the man had killed a tiger or something. I thought I was going to be sick and looked around for the nearest trashcan without a dead mouse in it.
But a good investigative reporter takes advantage of the opportunities given her. So that's when I figured it would be a great time to get a picture of the man. A photo record might come in handy someday. While I was focusing in on them and Zella's smile was getting bigger every second, I sneaked in a few questions for Mr. Whitlow.
"What brings you to Hollyhill?" Not exactly subtle, but direct is sometimes the best way.
"It seemed so peaceful when I was driving through that I decide to stop and tarry a while," Mr. Whitlow said.
Tarry! Who says tarry? Nobody from around Hollyhill, for sure.
"Where are you from?" I looked at him over the camera. "Just in case Dad decides to run your picture for whatever reason, we can put where you're from."
It sounded reasonable except Dad wouldn't put a picture of the man and Zella in the paper. Now if I'd thought quickly enough, I could have got him carrying out the mouse. On a slow week here in Hollyhill, that might have made the front page.
The man smiled. Showed way too many teeth. "I'm from here and there. Been all around. But this little town of Hollyhill, there's something extra nice about it. Got some really friendly people."
I pushed the shutter button and the flashbulb popped. After that, I stayed a minute to eavesdrop on them, but they weren't saying anything that sounded the least bit interesting.
It dawned on me that the man might have a twofold purpose in sweet talking Zella. I don't know what the first reason would be, but the second one would be that instead of Zella finding out about him, he had probably found out about everybody in Hollyhill.
So you see, if I just had those binoculars, I could watch the man and tell the sheriff if he started doing anything the least bit suspicious.
Well, binoculars or no binoculars, I'm watching him. But eighteen miles. That would be like seeing almost to Frankfort. Wes laughed when I showed him the ad. He said they'd have to be Jupiter space-age binoculars to work that good. So guess I'll save my fifty cents.
June 10, 1964
Jocie Brooke here reporting from Main Street, Hollyhill. This sign is awful. I took a picture of it to try to convince Dad to start a campaign in the Banner for new street signs. What will people passing through think of a town that has a rusty sign for Main Street? Most of the folks here don't pay any attention to the street signs. It's not like you can miss Main Street or get lost anywhere in Hollyhill for that matter. If you've seen Main Street, you've seen Hollyhill.
But we do occasionally have a tourist or stranger come through. Take Mr. Whitlow. He's a stranger come to stay, or so it seems. I haven't been spying on him as much. Dad laid down the law to me after I got caught eavesdropping on Mr. Whitlow and Zella.
Can you believe that the man has asked Zella out to dinner? A real date and everything. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't heard it with my own ears. I heard that much of what they said before Red, the cat, gave me away by mewing loudly as he slid through the crack I'd left in the press room door after Zella told me to get lost.
Of course, she told Dad I was spying on her. What hasn't she told him about me? Anyway, Dad said I was being way too nosy and ordered me to leave Mr. Whitlow and Zella alone. So I have to, but I still say there's something fishy about that man. And much as Zella irritates me I don't want her going out with an ax murderer. Okay, so I've never seen the man carrying around an ax. Okay, so I've never seen the man even carrying around a big stick. So maybe I am wrong. I guess we'll find out all about him next Monday after Zella goes out with him on Saturday. If she comes to work...
So since then, Dad has been keeping me too busy taking photos of the peewee league baseball games to eavesdrop on anybody except parents talking about their kids being the next Babe Ruth. But Dad knows what he doing. You get a good picture of a kid that age and put it in the newspaper, you're practically guaranteed to sell some extra issues. Put several baseball kid pictures in there and you might sell all your issues.
But I'd rather be in Australia taking pictures. Now that would be neat, wouldn't it? And especially neat today with the partial solar eclipse they're seeing there. The scientists say we'll be able to see one here in July. I can't wait. They say to protect your eyes you should look through old negatives. We should be able to find plenty of those.
The other thing that happened in the big town news was that finally the southern senators ended their filibuster on the Civil Rights bill. At last they're going to be voting on it. Or at least I guess they will. Don't know much about politics. Daddy says if I keep working on newspapers, I will have to keep up with politicians and what they're doing.
Maybe that's Mr. Whitlow's secret. Maybe he's an undercover politician. But I don't guess politicians are undercover. They want everybody to know them and hear them too. That's the way the mayor is anyway. I can't imagine having to listen to him spout about everything at the city council meetings and then have to write about it. I'd rather write about solar eclipses. Or space launches. Or even new flavors of ice cream at the Grill.
Yumm! Ice cream. Maybe I'll head up Main Street and have a shake. What's your favorite flavor? I go chocolate all the way.
May 20, 1964
Jocie Brooke here reporting from Main Street, Hollyhill, Kentucky.
A stranger checked into the Hollyhill hotel last week. So what's so strange about that? The only person to check into that hotel in my lifetime is Bill Jackson who moved into one of the rooms ten years ago after his mother died. Bill's neck is too long for his head and he must have had polio or something because he sort of drags one of his feet. I know he can't help how he looks, but the man could star in a scary movie except that he knows everybody in town and is the nicest guy.
He didn't rent but one room but Mr. Hastings, who owns the hotel and prefers Florida to Hollyhill, lets him have the run of the rest of the hotel as long as he keeps it clean. I guess he also has the job of desk clerk if any passer-throughs see the hotel sign and stop for the night since it turns out that it wasn't that you couldn't rent rooms there. It was that nobody wanted to rent a room there. People go to a fancy hotel in the next town or rent a room at the little motel out on the outskirts of Hollyhill.
Nobody knows why Mr. Whitlow is here. Not even Bill Jackson, but Bill's the kind of fellow who doesn't ask questions. He says if somebody wants you to know something, they'll tell you. But the stranger has been eating down at the Grill so Lorraine there will be knowing everything about him in nothing flat. She's already told people he puts ketchup on his scrambled eggs and likes his toast lightly browned, no jelly. When I bought a shake there Saturday, Lorraine went on and on about how nice looking Mr. Whitlow is. Compared to Bill Jackson maybe, I told her, but she just said I'm too young to know what I'm talking about. So I took a closer look next time I saw Mr. Whitlow. He's old, at least forty. He wears his hat pulled down low over his face like he doesn't want anybody looking too close. You think he might be hiding out here in Hollyhill? Maybe he's running from the law. I decided that the next time I was at the Post Office I'd check the wanted posters there. You never know.
But if he's trying to hide out here, he doesn't know much about small towns. Folks here have got their eyes on him. And guess whose eyes are on him biggest of all? Zella's. I caught her the other day standing inside the front window peering through an old pair of binoculars up the street. She got all flustered when I asked what she was looking at. She sputtered something about Red being missing. We had to shorten Cat's name to Red. Red Spot is a great Jupiter name, but too hard to say. Red, what Wes says is Cat's first name anyway, works fine. He's a Red kind of cat.
But Zella wasn't looking for Red any more than I was. She just said the first thing that popped into her head even though she's always onto me if I even try to pull the truth out into a more interesting shape. She just let out a little huff when Red came out from under her desk and began winding around her legs. Turns out Red must think Zella wears catnip for perfume. He's always hanging around her desk and Zella definitely wasn't looking for him through those binoculars. She was watching Mr. Whitlow. I peered around her out the window and saw him headed up the street to the Post Office. Probably to check the wanted posters there and figure a way to get rid of any with his picture on them. I should have been quicker checking them out.
Wes tells me to stop letting my imagination go wild. That folks looked at him the same way when he first came to Hollyhill from Jupiter and that Mr. Whitlow is probably just from Venus or Mars. Nothing at all to worry about. But there's something odd about the man. I'll be watching him. Between Zella, Lorraine and me, we'll know what he's up to soon enough.
Why do you think he's come to Hollyhill?
