Curtiss Matlock - Chin Up, Honey

“A wonderful cast and a perfect setting make for a gentle and reassuring story.”

—Booklist on Sweet Dreams at the Goodnight Motel

“I have loved every visit I’ve ever made to Valentine. This wonderful place is full of lovable eccentrics who live together in harmony, most of the time, and welcomes newcomers…. Curtiss Ann Matlock’s extraordinary characters are so three-dimensional you embrace them and wish them well, and look forward to seeing them again.”

—Reader to Reader at www.NewAndUsedBooks.com

“Once again, Matlock delivers a gentle, glowing tale that is as sweet and sunny as its small-town setting. Readers will be delighted by this deft mix of romance and…slice-of-life drama.”

—Publishers Weekly on At the Corner of Love and Heartache

“Matlock’s down-to-earth characters and comforting plot will please many.”

—Booklist on Recipes for Easy Living

“This is a delicious read for a lazy summer day. It’s not overly sweet, and it has enough zing to satisfy readers thirsting for an uplifting read.”

—Publishers Weekly on Cold Tea on a Hot Day

“With realistic characters and absorbing dialogue, Matlock crafts a moving story about a woman’s road to self-discovery.”

—Publishers Weekly on Driving Lessons

For my two mothers

Anna Marie Henderson and Frances Kinsey Matlock

and for

Timothy James Matlock

Home Folks

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

Family Album

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

We Are Family

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

1550 AM on the Radio Dial

The Home Folks Show

He put his mouth close to the microphone. “Goood mornnnin’, Valentine-ites! It’s ten-O-five once again in southwest Oklahoma, and time to take a break with Brother Winston and the home folks. That was the legendary Mis-ter Bill Monroe singin’ us in with ‘Bluegrass Stomp.’

“I played that tune for my neighbor Everett Northrupt. His wife, Doris, told me last night that she wants him to get some juice flowin’. So that one’s for you, Everett. If you can keep your feet still to that, you’re dead.”

In his tenth decade—his final decade, as he saw it—Winston Valentine found himself smack in a new career as a radio personality. He was happy as a dog with two tails.

“School’s finally out for the summer, and my little buddy is here with me again. Say hi to the folks, Mr. Willie Lee.” He swung the microphone lower for Willie Lee, who was a little short for his twelve years of age.

“Hel-lo, ev-er-y-bod-y. This is Wil-lie Lee and Mun-ro,” he said in his careful speech that did not come easy.

Munro, paws up on the desk, barked once, then hopped down and followed after the boy, who returned to sit in a nearby chair. Munro laid his chin on the boy’s untied tennis shoe.

Winston continued. “We are brought to you by…uh, Tinsley’s, your hometown IGA grocer, where they’re offerin’ a spectacular special of $3.95 a pound on top-choice Kansas City strip steaks. Great price, but seems a long ways to go just to get a steak.

“Oh, the boy here didn’t appreciate that one. He’s shakin’ his head.”

The boy was twenty-five-year-old Jim Rainwater, who worked the electronics across the room.

“Just so you out there can get the picture, this young man is as full-blood Chickasaw as they come nowadays, with long hair in a ponytail. Girls, he’s handsome and single. But he has a tongue ring, and I don’t know how that works out with kissin’.”

Winston grinned at the blush stealing over the young man’s high cheekbones.

“Let’s see…the weather…well, we got some. Sunny skies and headin’ for a high of ninety-five. Whoo-eee, that’s pretty hot for the end of May. There’s a chance of storms on Friday to cool things off.

“Now, our topic of discussion today is ‘Signs Around Town.’ I’m startin’ off with the sign at the railroad crossing on the north highway. Hasn’t anyone but me ever wondered about it? It says: No Stoppin’ on Tracks Due to Trains.”

He paused a moment. “I ask you—due to what else on a train track?”

Jim Rainwater cast him a grin. Winston was off and running.

“Who would think you are not supposed to stop on the tracks because a dog or a chicken or any-thing other than a train might come along? In fact, why would anyone stop on the track, if he could help it? Just to hang out while dead lice fall off ’im?

“The phone line is open to take your comments. And don’t forget, this is birthday celebration day. We’ll take calls while we listen to some music—big John Cash with the answer for the blues: ‘Get Rhythm!’”

The music started as Winston pushed aside the microphone and mopped his face with a handkerchief. Jim Rainwater gave him a worried eye.

“I’m not expirin’ yet, so relax,” Winston said and winked.

Willie Lee, who had disappeared around the corner, returned with a cold bottle of water and handed it to him.

“Thank you, Little Buddy.” He unscrewed the bottle cap with gnarled hands that he often felt surprised to see as being so aged and upturned the bottle in his mouth. His eye noted a missing tile in the old ceiling.

The low-wattage AM station was located in a small block building at the end of the dirt road behind the car wash. It had long sat abandoned until Tate Holloway, publisher of the Valentine Voice, had bought it last winter and put it back on the air from 6:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. This endeavor had been financed by Holloway, hitting big bucks when his semi-autobiographical novel about a poor boy growing up in East Texas stayed in the top ten of the New York Times best-seller list for eight weeks. At one point the book reached number two, topped only by the ever-popular author Nora Roberts. The station was run by Jim Rainwater, the only paid employee, who oversaw a staff of volunteer disc jockeys putting forth an eclectic format, everything from classic jazz to automotive discussion to French lessons on Fridays.

Each mid-morning, all over town and within a twenty-five-mile radius, radios in kitchens and barns, shops and vehicles were tuned to Brother Winston’s Home Folks Show at 1550 AM on the radio dial. People loved Winston Valentine, and he loved them back.

Over at Blaine’s Drugstore, Vella Blaine was working behind the soda-fountain counter. She called to her niece’s boy, Arlo, who was entertaining three teenage-girl admirers by flexing his immense muscles as he served up ice-cream cones. “Break loose from those girls and turn up the radio,” Vella told him.

She wanted to hear the birthday announcements. Specifically, she wanted to see if Winston remembered that today was her birthday. He was her best friend, mostly by being her oldest friend. They had what could be called tenure, which she felt gave her every right to certain expectations.

It was silly at her age to want to hear a happy birthday on the radio. Sillier still not to tell anyone it was her birthday if she wanted birthday wishes. She thought of all this as she halved lemons for the fresh lemonade—the Wednesday summer special—and kept an ear tuned to the radio, unconsciously swaying her hips to the good old country-western music.