“Rally for Reilly” by Hillary Kirking
My brother-in-law once said that Edgerton reminds him of Hobbiton. Like Bilbo and Frodo’s Brandywine, Saunders Creek meanders across town through backyards and past swing sets and charcoal grills. The crick curves around the high school baseball and football fields. The banks are rimmed with hardwood trees, and both hedge in the adjacent elementary school playground. School traffic is heavy on the small footbridge over the water; students linger looking at lily pads and drop pebbles and sticks into their version of the mighty Nile. Cars line up on the street side of the bridge, and the kids emerge in a haze from their childhood oasis. The crossing guard returns them to their waiting, time-crunched parents. A few streets over on a shaded corner is a tiny brick house with Underhill stenciled on the letterbox.
As a child, Brent left home whenever he crossed the bridge. With every new school year he traveled less until the rickety planks and old logs became solid, sturdy concrete bordered by cold metal railings. He no longer lingered but hurried across after his baseball games upstream.
On the day we met, he told me about the bridge and his hometown. I was an energetic college graduate six months into a position with child protective services, and my job led to a joint case with the Sheriff’s Office. That day I strode into the building intent on making an impression and controlling the twist in my stomach. Despite my anxiety, I noticed the detective-in-training also assigned to the case. At a later meeting when his partner turned wingman asked for my number on his behalf, I happily gave it out.
One night when we were newly dating, I parked my truck at Brent’s house about half a block from the bridge. Early in the evening in between flips of hibachi paddles, he received a text from his teenage brother—“Looks like your girlfriend is over :-).” The next morning, shaded in sun glasses and my head wrapped in a wool scarf, I shuffled through the snow, conscious that my orange Ford Ranger stood out like a hunter in November. I fumbled with my keys. Across the street, the large picture window in his parents’ livingroom peered like a telescope, tearing through the walls into the private moments of the prior evening. I glanced up at the second floor of Brent’s house, panicked there was a gap in the curtains. Slightly reassured, I looked back across the street, terrified that the front door would open and I would be invited in for breakfast.
A week later I met his parents. I was over again, this time for a lazy afternoon watching movies and vegging out on the couch. Brent received a text: his family-- parents, brothers, and sister-- wanted to meet me. Cautiously, he asked if they could stop over. He glanced optimistically through his front window to theirs and back to me. I said yes.
Eight months later, I moved in.
Quickly, I learned that Edgerton is a place where you not only know your neighbors’ names but their dogs’ names too. Small chat on the street starts with how much your puppy has grown and transitions to updates on family, home improvement projects, and recent crimes that are uncharacteristic of the town. Conversations start and end several times before someone finally has to go home to check on the pizza.
Deep roots and shared lifetimes make everyone genealogists who can name their third cousins and yours too. Brent’s parents were in high school when they had him; people still tell him the date they guessed he would be born and who won the money from his baby pool. People are categorized by family and high school graduation year. Adults recognize the composite faces of classmates and know by sight who children’s parents are. Local bartenders ask for my ID not because I look underage but because my face does not trigger a flicker of recognition.
Sometimes Brent is mistaken for his father. Both are a slender 5’9”. Closely trimmed beards cover their angular jaws, and they both rib friends good-naturedly. It is toughest to distinguish them from a distance, but David moves slower and with more effort. Twenty years after he survived cancer, David copes with a left ventricle irrevocably damaged by life saving chemotherapy, and he waits for a new heart. Now at 46 with congestive heart failure, he is weak and unable to work. Over the summer, family and friends approached him about organizing a fundraiser on his family’s behalf. A private person, he initially opposed the idea. But the would-be planners persisted, and a September date was set.
For two months every Wednesday, the crew-- David’s siblings, in-laws, nieces and nephews, and life-long friends--converged at his sister’s home to strategize and divide tasks. Cars overflowed from the driveway into the street, and from outside it looked like a mid-week house party. Inside people filled every chair and stool, and the rest stood. Meeting agendas and Excel spreadsheets covered the kitchen table, and the living room became a temporary playpen and changing station. The attendees varied slightly from week to week, but David’s three sisters were constants at every meeting. Two were always there in person. A handwritten message on the chalkboard overlooking the kitchen read: “Through the hands of my sisters, I will always be present.”
A game plan emerged, and a strategy of divide and conquer developed. The to-do lists were long, but for every assignment five cousins stepped up. A banker and an accountant handled the finances, and a cancer advocate and agribusiness rep managed the marketing. Regardless of what was needed, someone knew someone. Soon a billboard sprang up along the highway, staff at the Piggly Wiggly stuffed fliers into grocery bags, an article appeared in the local newspaper, and businesses and strangers donated auction items. After a fire destroyed the original venue, a golf resort volunteered the use of its newly constructed pavilion. RSVP’s and donations flooded in.
The day of the benefit, the pavilion filled with tables, chairs, and auction items in one morning like a fair appears overnight, the Ferris wheel and merry-go-round rising with the sun. The bare expanse of concrete transformed into a precisely organized midway and flea market. Ten numbered tables heavy with raffle and silent auction items stretched in parallel rows across the width of the building. Facing inward from opposite sides, the bar and registration area ran along the sides of the pavilion. The organ donor registration and payment tables filled the back wall, and the band and live auction items sprawled across the front third of the pavilion.
Edgerton mobilized. At first a few and then hundreds of familiar faces cycled through the aisles past vintage duck decoys; a Keurig coffee maker; antique John Wayne dolls; gift certificates for photography sessions, tax preparation, and tree cutting; a tree stand; an IPad Mini; golf and football memorabilia signed by home-town athletes Steve Stricker and Derek Carrier; local art; and a Badger tailgate basket. People camped out near their chosen items and pounced each time someone upped their bids. Dots of orange, volunteers hustling to hand out bid numbers and make change, weaved in and out of the crowd and tables. The lines at the bar were four deep, and college kids in golf carts shuttled replacement cases of beer from the main building. Conversation and general bustle drowned out the band. Brent’s parents, overwhelmed by the outpouring of support, stood in the center surrounded by their neighbors, acquaintances, and people they did not know. When it was too loud to yell and, their hugs said thank you.
After the band played and the silent auction closed, Brent’s uncle Danny, a farmer by day and a musician and entertainer by night, took over the microphone. His verbal machine gun fire pelted the crowd and bounced off the wooden trusses. The crowd’s energy surged forward in response, and the bidding erupted.
A signed Reggie White football, Badger and Packer football tickets, 100 bales of alfalfa, emerald earrings, and a golf club membership flew off the auction block. Good-natured bidding wars erupted; a guided hunting package and a toddler-sized John Deere Gator stirred drama in the crowd. A volunteer caught in the spirit of the night spontaneously donated an entire processed pig (for delivery at a later date), and it was auctioned off on the spot. Near the end of the evening, unsuccessful buyers went head-to-head with a mix of resolve and generosity, determined not to leave empty-handed, and a basket of pumpkins sold for $200.
Late in the night, two volunteers walked across the staging area stretching a red quilt between them. The knotted fringe fluttered and waved at the crowd. From the warm fleece Bucky searched for a home, ready to spend game days and chilly nights with a special someone. His eyes followed each person like a woman’s stare from a Renaissance painting.
Danny cleared his throat.
“Now folks, this here is a limited edition item-- made by my 90-year-old mother. Now, I hope she makes many more but she might not. Let’s make her day and start it at $200!”
Numbers flashed. At every “YEP!” from the auctioneer, arms reached high and bids went higher. In lightning increments of $10 and $25, the going price past $350. The dispersing crowd condensed and formed a tight ring around the auction floor. At $400 a few would-be buyers dropped out. The price crept up to $500 and then $550. Onlookers stood shoulder to shoulder, breath bated in suspense. The quilt remained raised, and it rippled like a flag calling each spectator home.
From the front row, a woman in her mid-thirties wearing jeans, a black sweatshirt, and worn tennis shoes watched the scene. Her sunglasses were pushed up into her hair, and her earlobes were double pierced with pearl studs and silver hoops. She glanced sideways at her remaining three competitors. One raised his number out of his breast pocket and nodded at the auctioneer. $600. The woman extended her arm to its full height, held her number high, and never lowered it.
“Last call for $750! Last call for $750?? SOLD!”
The woman approached the stage, collected her quilt, and laid it over her arm. She turned around and scanned the crowd. She found David and walked towards him, picking her way past chairs and people and stepping on crushed soda cans. No one knew her name, but her broad nose and high cheekbones were familiar. When she hugged him, her arms reached all the way around his thin frame and for a second he was draped in the soft red fabric.
As a child, Brent left home whenever he crossed the bridge. With every new school year he traveled less until the rickety planks and old logs became solid, sturdy concrete bordered by cold metal railings. He no longer lingered but hurried across after his baseball games upstream.
On the day we met, he told me about the bridge and his hometown. I was an energetic college graduate six months into a position with child protective services, and my job led to a joint case with the Sheriff’s Office. That day I strode into the building intent on making an impression and controlling the twist in my stomach. Despite my anxiety, I noticed the detective-in-training also assigned to the case. At a later meeting when his partner turned wingman asked for my number on his behalf, I happily gave it out.
One night when we were newly dating, I parked my truck at Brent’s house about half a block from the bridge. Early in the evening in between flips of hibachi paddles, he received a text from his teenage brother—“Looks like your girlfriend is over :-).” The next morning, shaded in sun glasses and my head wrapped in a wool scarf, I shuffled through the snow, conscious that my orange Ford Ranger stood out like a hunter in November. I fumbled with my keys. Across the street, the large picture window in his parents’ livingroom peered like a telescope, tearing through the walls into the private moments of the prior evening. I glanced up at the second floor of Brent’s house, panicked there was a gap in the curtains. Slightly reassured, I looked back across the street, terrified that the front door would open and I would be invited in for breakfast.
A week later I met his parents. I was over again, this time for a lazy afternoon watching movies and vegging out on the couch. Brent received a text: his family-- parents, brothers, and sister-- wanted to meet me. Cautiously, he asked if they could stop over. He glanced optimistically through his front window to theirs and back to me. I said yes.
Eight months later, I moved in.
Quickly, I learned that Edgerton is a place where you not only know your neighbors’ names but their dogs’ names too. Small chat on the street starts with how much your puppy has grown and transitions to updates on family, home improvement projects, and recent crimes that are uncharacteristic of the town. Conversations start and end several times before someone finally has to go home to check on the pizza.
Deep roots and shared lifetimes make everyone genealogists who can name their third cousins and yours too. Brent’s parents were in high school when they had him; people still tell him the date they guessed he would be born and who won the money from his baby pool. People are categorized by family and high school graduation year. Adults recognize the composite faces of classmates and know by sight who children’s parents are. Local bartenders ask for my ID not because I look underage but because my face does not trigger a flicker of recognition.
Sometimes Brent is mistaken for his father. Both are a slender 5’9”. Closely trimmed beards cover their angular jaws, and they both rib friends good-naturedly. It is toughest to distinguish them from a distance, but David moves slower and with more effort. Twenty years after he survived cancer, David copes with a left ventricle irrevocably damaged by life saving chemotherapy, and he waits for a new heart. Now at 46 with congestive heart failure, he is weak and unable to work. Over the summer, family and friends approached him about organizing a fundraiser on his family’s behalf. A private person, he initially opposed the idea. But the would-be planners persisted, and a September date was set.
For two months every Wednesday, the crew-- David’s siblings, in-laws, nieces and nephews, and life-long friends--converged at his sister’s home to strategize and divide tasks. Cars overflowed from the driveway into the street, and from outside it looked like a mid-week house party. Inside people filled every chair and stool, and the rest stood. Meeting agendas and Excel spreadsheets covered the kitchen table, and the living room became a temporary playpen and changing station. The attendees varied slightly from week to week, but David’s three sisters were constants at every meeting. Two were always there in person. A handwritten message on the chalkboard overlooking the kitchen read: “Through the hands of my sisters, I will always be present.”
A game plan emerged, and a strategy of divide and conquer developed. The to-do lists were long, but for every assignment five cousins stepped up. A banker and an accountant handled the finances, and a cancer advocate and agribusiness rep managed the marketing. Regardless of what was needed, someone knew someone. Soon a billboard sprang up along the highway, staff at the Piggly Wiggly stuffed fliers into grocery bags, an article appeared in the local newspaper, and businesses and strangers donated auction items. After a fire destroyed the original venue, a golf resort volunteered the use of its newly constructed pavilion. RSVP’s and donations flooded in.
The day of the benefit, the pavilion filled with tables, chairs, and auction items in one morning like a fair appears overnight, the Ferris wheel and merry-go-round rising with the sun. The bare expanse of concrete transformed into a precisely organized midway and flea market. Ten numbered tables heavy with raffle and silent auction items stretched in parallel rows across the width of the building. Facing inward from opposite sides, the bar and registration area ran along the sides of the pavilion. The organ donor registration and payment tables filled the back wall, and the band and live auction items sprawled across the front third of the pavilion.
Edgerton mobilized. At first a few and then hundreds of familiar faces cycled through the aisles past vintage duck decoys; a Keurig coffee maker; antique John Wayne dolls; gift certificates for photography sessions, tax preparation, and tree cutting; a tree stand; an IPad Mini; golf and football memorabilia signed by home-town athletes Steve Stricker and Derek Carrier; local art; and a Badger tailgate basket. People camped out near their chosen items and pounced each time someone upped their bids. Dots of orange, volunteers hustling to hand out bid numbers and make change, weaved in and out of the crowd and tables. The lines at the bar were four deep, and college kids in golf carts shuttled replacement cases of beer from the main building. Conversation and general bustle drowned out the band. Brent’s parents, overwhelmed by the outpouring of support, stood in the center surrounded by their neighbors, acquaintances, and people they did not know. When it was too loud to yell and, their hugs said thank you.
After the band played and the silent auction closed, Brent’s uncle Danny, a farmer by day and a musician and entertainer by night, took over the microphone. His verbal machine gun fire pelted the crowd and bounced off the wooden trusses. The crowd’s energy surged forward in response, and the bidding erupted.
A signed Reggie White football, Badger and Packer football tickets, 100 bales of alfalfa, emerald earrings, and a golf club membership flew off the auction block. Good-natured bidding wars erupted; a guided hunting package and a toddler-sized John Deere Gator stirred drama in the crowd. A volunteer caught in the spirit of the night spontaneously donated an entire processed pig (for delivery at a later date), and it was auctioned off on the spot. Near the end of the evening, unsuccessful buyers went head-to-head with a mix of resolve and generosity, determined not to leave empty-handed, and a basket of pumpkins sold for $200.
Late in the night, two volunteers walked across the staging area stretching a red quilt between them. The knotted fringe fluttered and waved at the crowd. From the warm fleece Bucky searched for a home, ready to spend game days and chilly nights with a special someone. His eyes followed each person like a woman’s stare from a Renaissance painting.
Danny cleared his throat.
“Now folks, this here is a limited edition item-- made by my 90-year-old mother. Now, I hope she makes many more but she might not. Let’s make her day and start it at $200!”
Numbers flashed. At every “YEP!” from the auctioneer, arms reached high and bids went higher. In lightning increments of $10 and $25, the going price past $350. The dispersing crowd condensed and formed a tight ring around the auction floor. At $400 a few would-be buyers dropped out. The price crept up to $500 and then $550. Onlookers stood shoulder to shoulder, breath bated in suspense. The quilt remained raised, and it rippled like a flag calling each spectator home.
From the front row, a woman in her mid-thirties wearing jeans, a black sweatshirt, and worn tennis shoes watched the scene. Her sunglasses were pushed up into her hair, and her earlobes were double pierced with pearl studs and silver hoops. She glanced sideways at her remaining three competitors. One raised his number out of his breast pocket and nodded at the auctioneer. $600. The woman extended her arm to its full height, held her number high, and never lowered it.
“Last call for $750! Last call for $750?? SOLD!”
The woman approached the stage, collected her quilt, and laid it over her arm. She turned around and scanned the crowd. She found David and walked towards him, picking her way past chairs and people and stepping on crushed soda cans. No one knew her name, but her broad nose and high cheekbones were familiar. When she hugged him, her arms reached all the way around his thin frame and for a second he was draped in the soft red fabric.
