The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

The machine wasn’t difficult to learn and Zipper had offered to teach him, but Charlie knew that wasn’t the answer. He was in way over his head already, what with the job printing business he was still learning and that old Babcock flatbed cylinder press that broke down every few weeks. He’d been trained as a reporter, for Pete’s sake, not as a publisher, pressman, press repairman, job printer, advertising salesman, and subscription manager. There was no way he was going to add Linotype operator to his already long list of responsibilities. But finding somebody in Darling who could type and correct copy when necessary, who could learn the Linotype and come to work on time and do it all for less than fifteen dollars a week—that wasn’t going to be easy.

Charlie was fretting about this and worrying about what he was going to do when Zipper’s two-week notice period was over and he was without a Linotype operator, when the bell over the door tinkled and Ophelia Snow walked in. She was wearing a practical-looking white V-necked blouse and dark skirt, and her brown hair was drawn back away from her face.

“Good mornin’, Miz Snow,” Charlie said, switching off the job press and going to the counter. “What can I do for you today? Want some printin’ for the feed store, maybe?” In addition to being the mayor of Darling, Ophelia’s husband Jed owned Snow’s Farm Supply a block west on Franklin. Jed sometimes sent his wife with orders for printed signs, posters, and the like. Charlie was always glad to get the work. The job printing didn’t bring in much and he hated to run the noisy old Prouty, but it was extra income and he needed it.

“Well, no,” Mrs. Snow said hesitantly. Her forehead was furrowed and her brown eyes were troubled. “Not today, anyway. I’d like to place an ad. A classified ad.”

“Good enough.” Charlie took out the ad form he had printed up. “Classified is two cents a word if you want to run it just once. You get a discount for multiples. What category? Help Wanted? Is it for the feed store?”

“No, not for the feed store,” Mrs. Snow said quickly. She thought a moment. “Work Wanted, I guess. Or Job Wanted.”

“That would be Situation Wanted,” Charlie said, and picked up his pencil. “Okay. You give it to me and I’ll write it down.”

Mrs. Snow bit her lip. “Well, I guess maybe, Fast typist, takes shorthand, seeks full-time work. Phone 1422.”

Charlie wrote this down, then frowned. “We don’t usually put a telephone number in for something like this. Crank calls, you know.”

“Well, then, how—”

“I’ll put in a box number and Care of Dispatch. The replies will come here. And you don’t get charged for those words.” He looked back at the ad. “Most people would also put in something like experienced, will provide references,” he said. “Want to include that?”

“I’m . . . not experienced,” Mrs. Snow confessed, “except as a housewife and mother.” She brushed a strand of flyaway brown hair out of her face. “And I don’t have references—at least, from an employer. But I’m very anxious to work,” she added quickly. “Maybe we could say that? Something like eager and willing? No,” she corrected herself. “Don’t put in the and. It’s another two cents.”

Charlie looked at her, surprised. “This is for you? You’re looking for work?”

Mrs. Snow pulled herself up. “Yes. Yes, it’s for me. But I wish . . .” She bit her lip again. “I haven’t told my husband yet. So I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention it until I’ve had a chance to talk to him.” She took a breath. “Tonight. I’ll tell him tonight.” She said it as if she were steeling herself to something very difficult.

Charlie put his pencil down, an idea beginning to form. “You say you’re a fast typist,” he said, peering at her. She had always struck him as a competent woman, although there was an air of uncertainty about her. Lack of confidence, he thought. “How fast?”

“Sixty words a minute, when I was in high school,” Mrs. Snow replied proudly. “And no errors. Of course, that was a while ago and I’m a little out of practice. But I’m sure I’ll pick it up again.” She smiled engagingly. “Typing is like riding a bicycle. Once you’ve learned, you don’t forget.”

No errors. Accuracy was more important than speed, for what he had in mind. In fact, speed was out of the question on that machine. It was one letter at a time. “And you’ve never worked before?”

She frowned. “I work all the time. I’ve worked for years. But not for money.” She sighed. “I’m sure that’s a strike against me.”

“Tell you what, Miz Snow,” he said, coming to a sudden decision. “I’ve got a position here at the Dispatch that you might be able to fill. You’d have to show you could do it, though.”

“A job . . . here?” she gasped incredulously. “As . . . as a reporter?”

Well, now that you mention it, Charlie thought. But he said, “No, as a Linotype operator. Mr. Haydon—you probably know him—has to quit, for health reasons. He’ll be here in the morning. Maybe you could come in and take a little aptitude test on the machine.”

The Linotype machine was thought to be too hard for women to operate, but Charlie had known a couple of female Linotype operators in other small newspapers. If Ophelia Snow could type and had enough strength to operate the levers, she’d do okay. She’d need help in handling the type cases—lead was heavy. But he had to give Zipper a hand, so there’d be no difference there. If she could do the work . . .

“What time tomorrow?” she asked eagerly.