Leaving Hedges

by Theresa Konwinski

Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3, 4

part 1

“There’s a giant in the woods! I saw his cabin! And his clothes, they were huge!”

With those words on a lovely spring day in 1943, Billy Pettigrew put events in motion that would change how I felt about my hometown: Hedges, Iowa

Aptly named, the hamlet of Hedges was divided into neat plots by thick, well-manicured boxwood privets that grew about six feet tall. Lush greenery lined every residential sidewalk in town, protecting properties from the view of all prying eyes. This was especially important to sparrows who hid within the foliage, avoiding the hawks circling overhead casting about for their next meal. Movement of the birds within the hedges made the plants seem more alive, the flapping of small brown wings constantly rustling the leaves.

Red brick homes, each with immaculate white trim, were visible only by standing at the end of the sidewalk that led to the front door of that particular residence. Every house was the same, and when I was a little girl standing at the end of someone’s sidewalk, I couldn’t be sure if I was looking at the home of the Ames family or the Bennet family or the Duncans or the Fishers, but I could turn to look at the mailbox near the street to reassure myself. There, in bold letters, would be the name of the family whose privacy I was assailing.

Privacy was important in Hedges, Iowa, the town where everybody knew everybody, but no one really knew anyone.

The town council had long ago established an ordinance preserving the hedges and ensuring that each homeowner kept their hedges neat and orderly. Any untrimmed, unmaintained hedges would draw a fine of $5. Any hedge removed would draw a fine of $10, and the guilty party would have to replace it. No one had ever been fined.

Consistency and uniformity were important in Hedges, Iowa.

There was only one church in town, and everyone attended each week unless they were ill. I recall the rituals of Sunday: old men nodding their heads or tipping their hats at each other; women fanning themselves with lace-lined hankies in the summer heat or fussing at their collars in the cold of winter. When everyone had settled into their usual pew, the preacher would begin his sermon, and all eyes focused on the pulpit.

Looking around at the elders, I often saw those eyes glazing over as the minister paced and shouted and prayed. I myself listened only when he dropped his voice to a stage whisper. I knew that at that point, whatever he was saying must be the important stuff.

The general store in the middle of town was a gathering place for residents of Hedges. Men sat in ladder-back chairs, smoking cigars or pipes, catching up on news of the world, their voices burbling like the undercurrent of a muddy stream. I enjoyed sitting on top of the dill pickle barrel on lazy afternoons just to listen to their droning and to watch the ladies of the town come in to pick up flour or a dozen eggs or fabric for new curtains. They sometimes smelled of lavender as they passed by my perch.

Even though the dominant fragrance of smoldering cigars was intoxicating — hickory or maple or, sometimes, cinnamon — I hoped that someday I would smell like lavender. Not that I wanted to ever become a wife needing to buy eggs or flour. All my friends wanted those things. At age twelve, that kind of life seemed boring, and I thought there must be other choices. I wanted no husband. No kids. No curtains. But it would be pleasant to smell like lavender.

Most of the time, I smelled like sweat and freshly cut grass. My brothers and I played “Army” or “Cowboys and Indians” incessantly, often tackling each other and rolling around on the ground, stopping only to catch our breath or to concede victory to the other. When we were done play-killing each other, we would have bologna sandwiches, then head down to the creek to look for turtles or interesting bugs. My brothers always hoped they’d find a snake.

The creek was close to the woods where Dad hunted squirrels. He’d taken each of us there on multiple crisp autumn days. Those were the woods where we’d learned to step toes first, then heels, so as not to scare off the wildlife. It’s where I happily sat among the leaves or on a fallen tree to look up through the canopy of red, gold and orange at the blue, blue Iowa sky.

Those were the woods from which Billy Pettigrew, all of nine years old, came running and screaming into our yard on May 14, 1943.

“There’s a giant in the woods! I saw his cabin! And his clothes, they were huge. They were hanging on limbs way up in the trees! Only a giant could’ve put them up that high!”

“Horse hockey,” my brother said.

“If you don’t believe me, Davey, go see for yourself!”

Billy, still in a state of panic, ran on to the next home, calling out the news. He made me think of Paul Revere.

The first adult to believe Billy Pettigrew was his father, Simon Pettigrew, who also happened to be the mayor. That evening, Mayor Pettigrew came to the house to talk to Dad about joining a posse. Dad was reluctant to be part of such an endeavor and declined.

“Simon, you know there’s no such thing as a giant. Billy may have indeed seen some large clothes hanging in the trees, but I’ve hunted those woods for years and have never seen any cabin or any giants. I think the town constable could easily take a walk back there and just check things out. My guess is that nothing will be found.” The mayor huffed and puffed his way back down our sidewalk, kicking my roller skates into the grass in his exasperation. But he wasn’t about to give up.

Within twenty-four hours, the entire town was in a frenzy about the giant in the woods. People clustered on sidewalks in front of Howard’s Shoes, in front of Fix-It-All Hardware, in front of Evelyn’s Baked Goods. They spoke in muted tones, glancing around as if they were afraid of what might pop out of nowhere. Fearful eyes, wrinkled brows, few smiles.

At the general store, a notice was placed in the window.

TOWN MEETING
MONDAY, MAY 17, 1943
7:00 P.M.
HEDGES CHURCH OF THE REDEEMER

Dad planned to attend, though he seemed unconcerned about the giant. Whenever we brought up the subject, he just smiled a knowing smile. “I suppose that, before long, we’ll find out all there is to know about this giant.”

“Can I go to the meeting with you, Dad? I want to hear about the giant.”

“Why don’t you stay here and help Mother with the boys, Helen? I’ll tell you everything there is to know about the giant. I promise.”

Then he lit his pipe and picked up the newspaper, bringing all conversation about the giant to a halt.

* * *

I stayed up later than usual on May 17. That was Dad’s one concession to my curiosity about the proceedings at the town meeting. I wanted to wait on the front porch, but Mom said it was still too chilly in the evenings for that, so instead, I entertained myself by sitting in the parlor, listening to Groucho Marx on the radio.

When he got home, Dad’s hair hung over his forehead, and he had dark circles under his eyes. His shirt sleeves were rolled up like when he was working on something around the house. He had taken off his tie, stuffed it in his breast pocket, and when he came in the front door, it was still hanging there, a limp flag striped blue and yellow.

He sat in his favorite chair and said nothing, looking back and forth at Mom and me for a minute. I saw his mouth twisting as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. It seemed like forever until he spoke.

“The town is in an uproar. Billy Pettigrew’s story grew a deep root. He did an excellent job of convincing everyone about what he saw, so they’re all certain there’s a giant in the woods. They’re still talking about forming some kind of posse to check it out. At the same time, everyone’s scared of what they might find, so the posse may never develop. Helen, why don’t you go to bed now? There’s nothing else to tell you tonight.”

His eyes shaded over; a curtain had been drawn. He would say nothing else while I was there.

I trudged up the stairs and changed into my pajamas, but I heard my parents’ voices late into the night. For a while, I stood at my bedroom door, leaving it open just a crack so I could listen. At times, Dad was animated, loud, then he would get quiet. I heard him say he thought the whole town had gone crazy. But could a whole town go crazy? I began to think that Billy Pettigrew must’ve found something extraordinary, something convincing enough.

After a day or two and no posse forthcoming, talk about the giant settled down, but wariness clung to everyone like the fragrance of the cigar smoke in the general store. People kept their doors locked and their children away from the playground. No one was allowed to ride their bikes out into the countryside. Even my own mom said we had to do everything in groups, meaning I never got a break from my brothers.

Then, two weeks after the meeting, there was one of those sunshine-bright afternoons that pull you right out of the house and into the fresh air, the kind that makes you feel like you’re in charge of your life. Mom was baking pies. My brothers were playing baseball with their friends in our back yard. Sick of the sense of suffocation, I decided to go for a walk in the woods.

Not often disobedient to my mom’s decrees, I was careful, fully alert, attuned to every twitter of every bird, the humming of early summer mosquitoes, the rustling of small animals in the underbrush. The hair on my arms and the back of my neck tickled, and the air vibrated around me. The woods shimmered, like when you hold a crystal up to the sun. I felt something close by, as close as jade moss on rotting bark. I knew I had to find it before it captured me.

In nervous anticipation of the something, I stepped off our normal well-beaten path and picked my way through the trees, painstakingly pushing aside whatever got in my way: branches, brambles, brushy scrubs. I trod as carefully as if I were hunting squirrels myself until I came upon a clearing we had never seen on past visits.

In the middle of the clearing sat an old cabin, the sun illuminating shards of broken glass in the windows, the door barely hanging by its hinges. Huge plaid flannel shirts and tattered blue jeans hung over high tree branches. Socks big enough for an elephant waved in the breeze. I realized whoever wore those had to be abnormally large.

Billy’s giant.

Near the front door was a fire ring with a black, cast-iron pot hanging over a low flame. I could see steam rising out of the pot, and from inside the cabin, I heard singing, a deep, rich, practiced baritone:

“Did you ever hear tell of sweet Betsy from Pike,
Who crossed the wide mountains with her lover Ike?
With two yoke of oxen, a large yellow dog,
A tall Shanghai rooster and one spotted hog.
Singing too-ra-li-oo-ra-li-oo-ra-li-ay!”

I tried to remain motionless, but my heart was pounding in my throat, and my breath was coming faster with each too-ra-li that floated on the air towards me. I felt weak and turned to leave, stealthy as possible despite my shaking.

When I made it back to our regular path, I sprinted for home, occasionally looking behind me. I couldn’t be sure if the extra sounds I heard were the footfalls of another or the echo of my own feet thumping the ground. On one backward glance, I tripped over a knotted tree root, fell, and skinned my right knee. Warm crimson streaks gilding my shin, I quickly made it home, burst in the front door, and flopped onto the imitation Persian rug in the parlor, calling for my mom. Hearing panic in my voice, she appeared in seconds, kneeling beside me to evaluate my wounds.

“Billy Pettigrew was right! There is a giant in the woods! I heard him singing!”

“Hold still,” Mom said, spitting into the hem of her apron and wiping away blood from my knee.

“Now,” she said, when the damage assessment was complete, “tell me about your giant. Did you see him?”

“No, but—”

Mom leaned back, closed one eye, and focused on me with the one she left open. “Did you hit your head when you fell?”

“No, Mom.”

“Are you sure?”

Suddenly, I wasn’t sure. “I don’t know. Maybe. But I’m not wrong about the giant. I know what I heard. A big voice booming out of an old cabin back there.”

Mom shook her head, skeptical. “It’s almost dinner time. Your dad will be home soon. After dinner, we’re going to first have a chat about your trip into the woods, and then you can talk to him about what you heard. Maybe the two of you can go out there together next time he goes hunting.”

It wasn’t hunting season, and I didn’t want to wait. I knew my dad wouldn’t wait either. He was afraid of nothing. He and I would go to the woods and find that giant. In the meantime, I was in trouble. I offered to help get dinner on the table, hoping to pre-pay my penance.

* * *

Dinner that evening was quiet except for the clinking of silverware against china and the chatter of my brothers. Davey was mad because he had to eat green beans and issued intermittent complaints throughout the meal. Joey chirped non-stop about the big ant hill he had found in the yard and how many millions of ants occupied the thing.

Mom and Dad ate without saying much, nodding their heads once in a while just to acknowledge Joey or Davey. I caught only the occasional sideways glance. When the boys made their escape from the table, Dad said, “Helen, help your mother clear the dishes, and then why don’t you come out to the front porch with me?”

As anxious as I was to talk to Dad about my discovery, I also felt some trepidation about what punishment might be meted out for disobeying my parents’ rule about going to the woods alone. I’ll put it this way: Mom washed the dishes much more quickly than I dried them.

I pushed the screen door open. It was getting dark, but the orange glow from Dad’s pipe guided my footsteps to where he sat in a wicker rocker. I took a seat on the porch swing.

“Helen,” he said, removing the pipe from his mouth, “whatever possessed you to go out to the woods without me or your mom? You’re twelve, old enough to know better.”

I pushed the swing back and forth with my foot for a minute. “I don’t know, Dad. I know you’ve both told us not to do that, and I’m sorry — honest, I am — but I just had to see if there’s really a giant out there.”

“And you believe you’ve found him?”

“Well, Billy was right about the cabin. It’s not in the part of the woods we usually go to. And the big clothes! I saw them myself. And I heard a man singing. His voice sounded really loud.”

“Did you actually see the man?”

“No, sir.”

“Then we still can’t say there’s a giant. Right?”

“I guess so.”

He put his pipe back into his mouth and took a puff. Then holding the pipe between his teeth, he spoke again. “Tell you what, Helen. Tomorrow is Saturday. Why don’t you and I go for a walk in the woods together? You can show me the place you found, and we can talk to the fellow who lives there. Then maybe you and I can get this town back to normal.”

“Okay, Dad.”

“Go take your bath and get ready for bed. I’ll be up in a little while for prayers.”

Right then, I decided my prayer would be that we could meet the giant.

* * *

Proceed to part 2...

Copyright © 2023 by Theresa Konwinski

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