The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

“Attaboy, Alvin!” Mr. Tombull boomed. “And that’s ’xactly why scrip is the answer.” He laid the wet, chewed butt of his cigar on the glass ashtray so he could gesture with his fat white hands. “We can call it Darlin’ Dollars. Every soul in town will understand that the scrip comes d’rectly from the payroll of our local merchants, like Musgrove’s Hardware and the diner and the Old Alabama Hotel and the Academy. And the county, too, o’course.” He nodded at Verna. “You got that, Miz Tidwell? You follow me?”


And suddenly, for Verna, it all made sense. Myra May’s initial misunderstanding of what she had overheard had sent them both down the wrong road. This wasn’t a counterfeit scheme. Mr. Duffy and Mr. Tombull were talking about creating an alternative currency, the way it had been done over in Atlanta, and out in Clear Lake, Iowa. And down in Key West, Florida, too, where retailers had organized a “home dollar” campaign, reminding their customers that when they bought from local businesses, they were creating local prosperity, and the money they spent in their hometown improved conditions for everybody. “The dollar you spend at home stays at home and works at home,” they’d said, and most people understood and agreed—except for a few holdouts, like Jed, who didn’t like the idea of being told where they could spend their money.

“I do follow you, Mr. Tombull,” Verna said. “You’re talking about issuing scrip in anticipation of the county’s prospective tax receipts. Is that it?”

“That’s it.” Mr. Tombull beamed proudly. “That’s my girl. I knew you’d climb on board with us.” He scowled at Jed. “You hear that, Mr. Mayor? Miz Tidwell sees the picture. She’s got horse sense.”

Mr. Duffy chuckled approvingly. “Good for you, Mrs. Tidwell. I’m glad you understand the importance of this.” His glance at Jed Snow suggested that it was time Snow got on board, too.

But Jed wasn’t so eager. “Let’s see if I got this right.” He sat forward in his chair, clasping his hands between his knees. “On Monday morning, Hiram Epworth pays me in scrip for the laying pellets he buys to feed Mrs. Epworth’s flock of leghorn chickens. And on Saturday, Mrs. Epworth sells her eggs to Mrs. Hancock and gets a pocketful of scrip in return.”

“You got it,” Mr. Tombull said with satisfaction. “And then Mrs. Epworth goes over to the Five and Dime and gives Mr. Dunlap some scrip for a spool of thread and a yard of cotton dry goods. It goes around and it comes around. Ain’t that a beautiful thing?” He appealed to Jed. “Ain’t that a beautiful thing, Mayor?”

“Yeah, but that ain’t all,” Jed said gravely. “Purina Mills won’t take scrip for that sack of laying pellets I sold to Hiram Epworth, and the company that supplies that thread and yard goods to Mr. Dunlap is gonna laugh like crazy when he sends ’em some of your Darling Dollars. And the railroad—you think the good old L&N is gonna take scrip to haul in our freight?” He shook his head from side to side. “Not very damned likely.”

“That’s a problem,” Mr. Tombull agreed amiably. “But if you’re plannin’ to stay in business, you’ll have to take that risk. I’ve got creditors myself.” Mr. Tombull owned Tombull’s Real Estate and had a fifty-fifty share in Lem Bixler’s gravel pit, as well as several other local ventures. “I’ll be frank with you, Mayor Snow. I don’t like to do this, but I am fixin’ to ask my creditors to hold off awhile, until we see this thing through to better days. Which they’ll do, because they want to stay in business, too. I’ll bet Purina Mills will see it the same way, when you tell ’em what the alternatives are. And anyway, you can use that scrip to pay your property tax, so when you do get your hands on some cash, you can send it to Purina.” He chewed on his cigar. “If we do it this way—and if we all of us hang together on this—we’ll still be in business when this bad patch is over. If we don’t, Snow’s Farm Supply will be history. And we might as well kiss Darlin’ good-bye.”

Verna thought of the deserted streets around the square. For once, Mr. Tombull was right. Many days without money and Darling would be a ghost town. But there was still a lingering question that had to be answered. She turned to look at Mr. Moseley.

“Is it legal?” she asked.