The Dandelion Garden

By Barbara McLain

The year 1965 in Wakely, a small county seat in southeastern Kansas, is one filled with mystery, secrets, and discoveries. Eleven-year-old Becky Raines and her family have lived in this commuinty for three and a half years. A pastor’s family, she and her three siblings are expected to be good examples for other people.

As Becky experiences everyday life in a small town, other issues make their appearance, from the Shadow Woman who scurries the alleys at night, to Mrs. McAdoo who continues to take advice from her long-deceased husband, to the racial tension, the Vietnam War, and the space race of that year.

In The Dandelion Garden, a historical fiction novel, colorless, grainy television news reports transfer into the school yard, the sanctuary, and even into a little girl’s vision of a dandelion garden until shadows disappear and nothing seems black and white anymore.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: May 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9781665758079

Barbara McLain

Barbara McLain grew up in Wichita, Kansas, during the 1960s alongside her three siblings. An ordained elder in the United Methodist Church, she pastored churches in many Kansas towns. McLain captured the attention of congregations and clergy peers when she wrapped her sermons around stories of a small, fictitious Kansas town. Retired, she teaches public speaking at the local high school. She and her husband, a retired physician, live with their dog in western Kansas.

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Copyright © 2024 Barbara McLain.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Revised Standard Version of the Bible, copyright © 1946, 1952, and 1971 the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-5806-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-5808-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-5807-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2024904885

Archway Publishing rev. date: 04/10/2024

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

To Bob and June Snell.

As parents, you taught through love and example.

You never questioned an opportunity to

welcome

the mystery, the color, the beauty, and the

endless surprises in all God’s children.

If dandelions were hard to grow, they would

be most welcome on any lawn.

—Andrew V. Mason, And Or Love

Introduction

My child once asked me what it was like to live in the black-and-white days. I explained that the world had always been in color but that photographs and television used to be in black and white. As I thought about the concept of a colorless world, I recalled my childhood in Wakely, Kansas.

The year was 1965, and I was eleven years old. My dad was the Methodist minister, so we lived in the parsonage, where all the walls were white. My childhood shoes were black-and-white saddle shoes, black shoes with white bobby socks, or black patent leather for church. My brothers wore white shirts and black pants and ties to church. The boxy black-and-white TV occupied a corner of the living room. A few programs boasted of being brought to you in living color—but not in our house. Every evening, while supper was cooking, my parents watched the news through grainy, colorless images of war, riots, and rocket launches.

And that’s the way it is on January 15, 1965, Walter Cronkite would say to close the broadcast.

In 1965, all that we believed was black and white, right and wrong, or as it always should have been crept out from the shadows and burst forth into clashing colors.

Chapter 1

The evening air felt crisp and invigorating—the perfect setting for a game of tag. We were released from choir practice by Mrs. Hubble. The children’s choir had been preparing an anthem for Sunday morning worship service. We sang in worship one Sunday each month.

The route home was simple: down the church steps, through the vacant lot, and across the alley to the backyard of the parsonage. It didn’t take long, unless a game broke out.

You’re it! my brother David shouted.

The game began.

David was thirteen and thought he was the boss of the rest of us. His full name was David Warren Joseph Raines. He’d been named after my father, Warren Raines, and both grandfathers. It seemed my parents had feared having only one child; they’d used all the family names on him. David stood taller by the day, and his legs became ganglier. He looked as though he were walking on two long sticks.

Jeff was a year younger than I. He loved adventures, and playing in the dimly lit churchyard was a great adventure at that time in our lives. Jeff was happy to accept a new challenge. The dirtier his clothes were, the more content he felt.

My sister, Robin, was almost eight. She tried to keep up but pouted when she was unable to tag those of us who were faster than she was.

That’s not fair! she protested. I should get a head start. I am always it.

Diane Chapman consoled Robin. It’s OK. I’ll be it.

Diane was in my grade and always had an opinion about any town gossip. I thought she listened to her mother too much, and her mother listened to everyone else, no matter what the person believed.

You can’t do that, said Todd Spencer. You can’t switch its.

Todd thought he knew it all. That irritated me, so I sided with Diane.

If both parties agree to it, you can switch its. It’s a rule, I said. I had never actually heard that rule, but it sounded like a good way to solve the problem.

No, Becky, it’s not a rule, Todd argued.

By the time we took a vote on the switching-it rule, David noticed the streetlights glowing. We need to get home, he said. We’re supposed to be home before the lights come on.

Todd and Diane veered off in another direction while my siblings and I scurried across the vacant lot to the alley. There were no streetlights along the alley, only the dim glow of a back porch light.

What is that? Robin asked. I hear something moving.

David put a finger to his lips. It’s probably a cat, he whispered.

We listened. There was a rustling sound about two houses down. Then, from behind a garbage can in the dark alley, I saw a black figure scurry into the bushes.

That’s not a cat! Jeff exclaimed.

Do you think … I could barely ask the question. The Shadow Woman? I whispered.

Maybe, said David.

I’m scared. Robin trembled.

Hooking arms, we fled across the alley like a human chain and burst through the back door of the parsonage.

We saw her, we announced. We saw the Shadow Woman!

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Wakely was a small county-seat town in southeastern Kansas. The courthouse stood proudly in the middle of the square, surrounded by shops and businesses. The plastics factory, the small hospital, the school district, and the paper company employed most of the population. The Hackberry River curved its way from the northeast to the southwest corner of town. The railroad sliced Wakely into north and south, crossing over the river in the wooded area south of town.

Settlers had built the town seven miles from Fort Wakely along the railroad in the late 1870s. When the all-black units at the fort had been disbanded, many of the Buffalo Soldiers, as they were called, had settled along the east edge of Wakely.

We had lived in Wakely for three and a half years. As the pastor’s family, my mother reminded us, we were to be good examples for other people.

Some kids might run wild in town, but we don’t do that, she would say.

In the mind of Joanne Raines, Robin and I were to act like ladies, while David and Jeff were to be polite gentlemen. Mom, like most mothers at that time, stayed at home to cook and clean. She curled her soft brown hair with rollers and pin curls and often dressed in shirt dresses or slacks at home, but in public, she always wore a dress or skirt. Her cat-eyed glasses gave her a hint of style.

When my dad first had been appointed to the Wakely Methodist Church, we had been told that people in Wakely were the salt of the earth. Not sure what that meant, I’d asked my dad.

It means they are very good people, he’d explained.

Like any town, Wakely had its legends and traditions. The most fascinating legend was the story of the Shadow Woman, who’d haunted the town in the 1940s. A variety of theories floated around town regarding her identity. The most widespread belief was that the Shadow Woman was the ghost of Agnes Chatsworth. She had spent her entire life in Wakely. She never had married but had cared for her father into his old age. Agnes had died in 1939 in the only house she had ever lived in. Off and on for several years after her death, people had claimed to hear her calling after her father. Some had seen flashes of her roaming the streets at night. If anything had gone missing, people had blamed the Shadow Woman. When a sudden storm had wreaked havoc on Wakely, it had been the angry power of the Shadow Woman. Another theory was that the Shadow Woman was a figment of Wakely imaginations.

Shadow Woman activity gradually had quieted. For twenty-five years, no one had claimed a sighting, but in 1965, people began to spot her shadow again creeping around corners and hiding in dark places.

Traditions in Wakely included the Memorial Day picnic, which followed a gathering at the cemetery. The community Christmas parade was on the Saturday after Thanksgiving, and every spring, we celebrated Annie Day.

In 1932, George and Lois Hubble, who lived on a farm outside Wakely, had had a baby named Annie. After almost dying when she was born, Annie had lived to be only two years old. Diane’s mom had told me that one day, while Mrs. Hubble was hanging laundry outside, little Annie had crawled away and fallen into the Hackberry River, which ran through the Hubbles’ property. Annie had drowned, and her body had been buried quietly on the Hubble farm.

Every year since then, the Hubbles had invited Wakely folks to gather at their farm in remembrance of Annie. On Annie Day, they served a picnic, sang songs, and always launched a balloon in memory of their baby.

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We saw her! we shouted as we burst through the back door.

We saw the Shadow Woman, Jeff said.

Hush, said Dad. I’m trying to watch the evening news.

Dad sat in his easy chair, facing the television. He had short-cropped brown hair with a hint of red and always wore his horn-rimmed glasses.

Mom wiped her hands on the dish towel draped over her shoulder. What did you see?

We saw the Shadow Woman, I said.

At least they think it was her. David interrupted.

You thought it was her too, Jeff said. If it wasn’t the Shadow Woman, then what was it?

It was scary. Robin leaned against Mom.

Dad sat up with a twinge of interest. Tell me what you saw.

As we all talked at the same time, Dad held up a hand for silence. David, what did you see?

David flopped his slender body onto the couch. We heard something in the alley. They think it was the Shadow Woman.

I saw her. I interjected. She looked like a sweeping black figure that disappeared into the bushes down behind the Raffertys’ house.

Our parents exchanged glances.

Most people don’t even believe the Shadow Woman ever existed, Dad said. Just a figment of folks’ imaginations.

I believe she does now, Jeff said.

Whatever it was, I’m glad you stayed away from it, Mom said.

We ran! shouted Robin.

When we gathered around the kitchen table for one of Mom’s spaghetti-and-meatball dinners, Dad said a quick prayer before we all dug in.

Hey, Becky, David said, that plate of spaghetti looks just like your face.

Because my hair was dark red, rather than the strawberry blond of the others, and freckles covered my face, my brother had decided I looked like a plate of spaghetti.

Don’t you guys think Becky has a spaghetti face? David attempted to gather support.

Jeff laughed, and Robin slowly slurped in a long noodle that ended up smacking her nose. Everybody laughed.

My dad was a quiet man with deep convictions. He believed that to preach the gospel, it was important to relate it to events in real life. He liked to quote a theologian named Karl Barth, who’d said preachers should preach with the Bible in one hand and the newspaper in the other. He’d meant that preaching should align the truth of scripture with a relevancy to the culture. For that purpose, Dad read the newspaper every morning and watched the news on TV every evening.

What did they report on the news tonight? Mom asked.

Dad shook his head and wiped his mouth. Martin Luther King and hundreds of demonstrators were arrested in Selma, Alabama.

Who’s Martin Luther King? Jeff asked.

He’s a preacher, Dad told us.

Like you, Dad?

Our father nodded. He’s a Negro and is working to get his people the same rights as everybody else. They were marching for equal voting rights.

In 1965, the common term for black people was Negro. Some folks called them colored people.

Aren’t Negros allowed to vote? David asked.

Some places make it very hard for them to vote, Dad said.

But why were they put in jail? I asked.

Because people are blind to the plights of others. They can’t see beyond differences, and that scares them. My dad was about to launch into a spontaneous sermon over his plate of spaghetti.

Warren. Our mother spoke quietly. She shook her head. Not now, please.

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By Sunday morning, Dad’s sermon had been carefully tailored. People filed into church, wearing what they usually wore, and sat where they usually sat. Todd Spencer came with his parents, Bill and Maxine, who sat in the fourth pew from the back. We called it the Spencer Pew. Mr. Spencer was the bank president in Wakely. Mrs. Spencer always looked glamorous. She did not wear the same outfit each week, and her blonde hair was always piled high on top of her head. The hairstyle was called a beehive bubble. Mrs. Markle, who taught fifth grade, had a similar style. I wondered how she could bend over to pick up a piece of chalk without the hair tilting.

Dale Rafferty, the head usher, greeted people with a bulletin as they entered the sanctuary. He wore his hair in a flattop, making the hair look as if it were standing straight up. We referred to him as the Funny Man. He always had a funny joke to tell or a magic trick to show us. He could make a dime appear from behind Jeff’s ear and sometimes wore a tie with Bugs Bunny on it. Mr. Rafferty sang in a loud voice that kept everyone else on key. His wife, Ruth Rafferty, worked as the church secretary.