The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star

Aunt Hetty finished filling the lemonade glasses. “Mr. Moseley is doin’ more than just angling,” she observed wryly. “I read in the Dispatch that he’s organizing a group called Darling for FDR.”


“Roger is getting some supporters together to campaign for President Hoover,” Mildred said in an offhanded tone. She was wearing a new white tucked and pleated cotton shirtwaist dress—her golfing costume. The outfit looked very snazzy, Lizzy thought with a quick stab of envy. The Kilgores had plenty of money, and Mildred—who was plump and rather plain—went to New York to buy her clothes. She always looked like something out of Vogue, while the rest of them made do with the out-of-date clothes in their closets. Or, in the case of Verna, a gabardine skirt that was a little shiny in the seat.

“But we’re afraid it’ll be an uphill fight for Mr. Hoover,” Mildred added ruefully. “Here in Darling, anyway.”

That was probably true, Lizzy thought. Mildred and her husband, Roger Kilgore (the owner of the only automobile dealership in town) had cheered when Hoover and his vice president, Charles Curtis, were renominated at the Republican convention in Chicago in June, on a “balanced budget” platform. Back in 1928, the Republicans had coasted into the White House on a wave of economic prosperity and a booming stock market. But that was before Black Tuesday, when the bottom fell out of the market, the banks began to fail, and people lost their jobs. The Crash wasn’t President Hoover’s fault, of course. But in Darling and around the country, his administration was being blamed for not doing anything to ease the miserable situation. People were ready for a change.

“You’re right about that uphill fight, Mildred,” Verna said with an ironic lift to her eyebrow. “People might not know Mr. Roosevelt from Adam’s house cat, but lots of folks are ready to cast their vote for good old A.B.H.”

“A.B.H.?” Aunt Hetty sat down at the table. “Never heard of him. Who’s he?”

“Anybody but Hoover,” Verna replied. “I predict it’ll be Roosevelt in a landslide.”

Aunt Hetty chortled, and even Mildred had to laugh.

But the Dahlias hadn’t given up their evening to discuss politics. Lizzy opened her notebook, picked up her pencil, and cleared her throat.

“Okay, everybody. We’re here to go over the last-minute planning for next weekend’s festival. There’s plenty to do, so let’s get started.”

Darling’s clubs and organizations took turns coordinating the annual Watermelon Festival, which would be held over the coming weekend at the Cypress County Fairgrounds, just outside of town. This year, it was the Dahlias’ turn to coordinate the event and make sure that things ran as smoothly as possible—which was usually not very smoothly, since the unexpected had a way of cropping up, well, unexpectedly.

Take last year, for instance, when the Masonic Lodge was in charge of the festival. A trio of Mr. Burley’s milk goats unexpectedly escaped from their pen in the livestock pavilion and nipped off all the blossoms in the Dahlias’ flower booth. Somebody kicked a tent peg loose and the Ladies Club tent collapsed on the unsuspecting (and newly shampooed and set) head of Voleen Johnson, wife of Mr. George E. Pickett Johnson, the owner of the Darling Savings and Trust Bank. The Eastern Star’s hot dog stand ran out of hot dogs halfway through the event. The Chamber of Commerce popcorn machine caught fire. And Mrs. Peabody fell off the stage in the act of awarding the 1931 Darling Baby award to Mrs. Starks’ little Bluebelle. Bluebelle, whom Mrs. Peabody was holding at the time, was unharmed. Mrs. Peabody broke her nose.

But the worst happened when the motor on the Ferris wheel burned out, leaving a dozen juvenile Darlingians stranded some thirty feet above the ground. This was not a serious problem for the strandees, of course. They were thrilled by every delicious minute of their extended ride, especially since they could look down and see everybody pointing excitedly up at them and yelling at them to be brave.

But their mothers were hysterical, and with good reason, for it took two hours for the Darling Volunteer Fire Department to get their youngsters down from their precarious perch. The Ferris wheel motor turned out to be unfixable. The merry-go-round quit shortly thereafter, so that was the end of the carnival rides. The Darling children, who had been saving their hard-earned pennies for months, were inconsolable.