Throughout my career, I have had the privilege of meeting some truly remarkable women. Among them are Betty Evenson and Beverly Harrell, and perhaps one day I’ll share the story of Mabel Kiser.
Today, however, I want to tell you about Helen Myers. I first encountered Helen when she was 60 years old, during a vibrant Fourth of July celebration in Ellisville, Illinois. Nearly the whole town gathered for the day’s festivities, which included various contests, a picnic, a cakewalk, and a parade.
At that time, Ellisville had a population of 140, though it had recently decreased to 135 after the Mahr family moved away. The parade, a lively five-minute event down Main Street, featured a charming ensemble of bicycles, tricycles, baby strollers, wagons, an old pickup truck, and a handful of dedicated volunteers who joined in to round out the procession.
The parade was such a hit that the participants decided to turn around and march back the two blocks, earning even more cheers from the enthusiastic crowd.
Helen Myers was instrumental in organizing these celebrations. Known for her “can-do” spirit, she devoted herself to initiatives that preserved the energy, community spirit, and hope in the small town—one of many in the Heartland grappling with aging populations and dwindling opportunities.
Can-do Helen was one of the festivities’ organizers. She was always into organizing things, trying to preserve energy, community, and hope in one of the Heartland’s many small towns being hollowed out by age and declining opportunities.
On her own, over a quarter-century, she had organized a town library in an empty room of an abandoned building. The gas station donated propane for winter heat. Over time, Helen set aside a few dollars from each of her Social Security checks to fix the roof.
Official hours were 9 to 11 Saturdays, which competed with TV cartoons. But everyone knew her home phone. They might call and she’d shuffle the four blocks to open up for any reader at any hour.
Helen said:
It’s harder for kids to read now. It’s so much easier just to push a button and let the TV do their thinking.
It’s true, you know, if you read, you tend to do your own thinking.
I try to tell parents — carefully, of course — they ought to limit their kids’ TV. But they use it as a babysitter. That’s the way the world’s going.
Because her mother had read to Helen every day, she became an avid reader, indulging in adventures in far-off places she would never see but routinely imagined. She loved “Black Beauty” and “Treasure Island.”
“Oh, and ‘Call of the Wild,’” she exulted. “I’ve read it four times.”
During nearly three decades, Helen had collected more than 2,000 books, mostly used and paperback. Reading is not a top priority in a crumbling, rural village where earning a hardscrabble living seemed more important than wasting time reading a book.
“I look forward to Saturdays so much,” she said, ”I just love being around books.”
Helen also started a story hour. If, as often happened, no one showed up, she’d read by herself til closing time. Some weeks, Helen might have five library customers, which she called “a real good crowd.”
I spent many childhood afternoons squatting on tiny stools in a rural library, reading about American heroes and history. One summer day, the Bookmobile actually came out to our house.
So, I identified with Helen’s love of books and reading and luring others into that activity. “I figure if in all these years I get just one person to read a book, my time’s not wasted,” she said.
I wrote a story about Helen Myers for my newspaper. Readers sent her more than $5,000 and publishers added new books. Helen cried on the phone.
We became regular pen pals, even when Helen was moved into a senior home. I sent her one of the books I wrote and she consumed it in two days.
Then, some time ago, her regular letters stopped. The phone in her room was disconnected. I prefer to remember Helen enthusiastically showing me the homemade shelves and caressing the books in boxes.
I checked the other day. Ellisville’s population dropped to 88 in the 2020 census. This year it’s 85.
I suspect — or hope — at least one of them, maybe a couple, became readers because a long time ago, Helen Myers’ mom read books to her most days.
A long journalism career is filled with thousands of stories and people, random events, many of which never make it into print. I’ve had my share.
As a rookie reporter, I was sent to write a feature about the New York Public Library. I suspect it was a test to see if I could make something out of nothing. I honestly do not remember if I did a story.
As always, I did not begin with officials. I spent a good hour chatting up the nice woman at the information counter. Among other things, I asked her what was the strangest request she had ever received. She laughed.
One rainy day, she said, a woman came in, dripping wet. She asked urgently where she could find Napoleon’s Letters to Josephine. The information woman had never been asked that before, but directed the visitor to that section.
The same day, a man hurried in and asked the exact same question. “What a coincidence!” said the information lady. “A woman asked the same thing earlier.”
“Good!” said the man, “I know her. Years ago, we agreed to meet there this afternoon.” And he rushed off.
And they lived happily ever after?
When Jack Kemp died in 2009, I wrote an online obituary. Family members said they would have the funeral plans by Sunday, and I should call Peggy at a 301 area code number in Maryland.
On Sunday, I dialed the number and asked for Peggy. “Speaking,” she said.
I said I was calling about Jack Kemp’s passing. “My husband and I were just talking about that,” she said. “So sad.”
I agreed and inquired about the funeral arrangements. A long pause. “I don’t know anything about that,” said Peggy.
I’m sorry, I said. The Kemp family told me to call Peggy today at this 301 number.
“I’m in area code 310,” said Peggy.
We laughed. What are the odds of me transposing two digits in a phone number and still getting a Peggy clear across the country who was just talking about Jack Kemp’s death?
I think that blew all my luck for buying lottery tickets.
As a new reporter, I was sent to Macy’s department store in Manhattan, the famous one on the Thanksgiving parade route. An editor had a tip that the Communist head of Rumania was there.
Your reaction was likely the same as mine: Who cares?
But I went.
It wasn’t hard finding Nicolae and Elena Ceaușescu. Not that many Macy’s holiday shoppers have security details of unsmiling men the size of linebackers who cordon off entire clothing sections.
I explained I just wanted to watch the couple shopping. The guard didn’t seem to speak English. But he explained that I should go away. I think that’s what a slit-throat sign meant.
I did appear to leave. But when the short little dictator and his broad-beamed lady left, I swooped back in to interview the sales clerks.
They were almost giddy. They had no idea who the foreigners were, but they’d never had such a huge one-time sales volume. The clerks said the woman bought bags and bags of ladies’ underwear, and the man purchased armloads of socks to take home to their Communist paradise. My editor did not see a worthy story in that.
So, I saved it for today.
At the same holiday time, years later, as often seems to happen in dictatorships, Nicolae Ceaușescu’s term in office expired abruptly. He was shouted down while giving a defiant public speech that turned out to be his farewell address.
After decades of political arrests, torture, and economic hardships, by 1989, Rumanians had enough. They had launched a revolution, still celebrated annually today, and in 2004, the one-time Soviet satellite actually became a NATO member.
The Ceaușescus fled their palace during those Christmas holidays. But after decades of party idolatry and enforced leader worship, it proved impossible for that sour face to hide for long.
They were captured two days later in a provincial city. There was a brief “trial,” so to speak. Accused of corruption and the deaths of more than 60,000 people during their reign, the couple was sentenced to death by firing squad.
Still loudly protesting the outrage of arresting the party’s General Secretary, both Nicolae and Elena were promptly taken to a nearby courtyard and executed against a wall.
I guess I’ll never know if they were wearing that Macy’s underwear.
This is the 38th in an ongoing series of personal memories. Links to all the others are below.
Malcolm’s Memories: The Day Bill Buckley Asked My Help; Small Town Etiquette
Behind Johnny’s Desk, Before Ford Was POTUS, and a Dog Makes Her Rounds
A Hooker in the House, Whistle War, and Ann Landers’ Worst Mistake
More Neat People and a Nuclear Sub I’ve Met Along the Way
Malcolm’s Memories: A Toddler’s First Fourth
Malcolm’s Memories: Train, Streetcars, and Grandma
The True Story of an Unusual Wolf, a Pioneer in the Wild
That Time I Wore $15K in Cash Into a War Zone
I Fell in Love With the South, Despite That One Scary Afternoon
