Our Little Town of Winterset

Here in aptly-named WINTERset, we’re having quite the sporty winter.

Around here, even before the last snowflake hits the ground, guys are out there, “pushing snow.”

Pushing snow is not the same as removing snow from one’s sidewalk with a shovel. It involves a pickup with a blade on the front, and bags of snowmelt and/or sand and a couple of snowblowers in the truck bed. A lot of snow-pushers have additional heavy equipment, like end loaders and trailers and other trucks for hauling snow away.

City of Winterset crews clear the residential streets and commercial area so traffic can move through town. The free-lancers handle the parking lots, driveways, and sidewalks of their customers.

One local snow-pusher is Cody Reed. Cody and I go way back.

Cody’s mom Marla rode the school bus I drove for the Winterset Public School District for one year back in the 1970s when she was in high school. Marla married Steve Reed. Their son Cody was born the same year as Rebecca, my youngest. Cody and Rebecca started Kindergarten the same year and graduated in the WHS Class of 2000.

Cody’s dad Steve is a builder and historic preservationist. Steve built an addition on my home in 1997, oversaw another major remodel in 2010, built the apartment building where my mother spent her final years, and was the contractor for the over $1 million gut-and-rehab of the Iowa Theater in 2016-2017. Cody, carrying on the family business, has been our contractor for projects at our previous home and for major changes at our new residence. He’s a frequent presence in our household and a favorite person of mine. Our dog Scrabble loves him.

During the most recent blizzard, I watched snow fall all day, sometimes gently, at other times with a wind behind it, hoping it would stop at four or five inches—out of concern for Scrabble. She’s a mini golden doodle, which means her fur doesn’t shed but just keeps growing, and her much needed grooming appointment north of town was the next day. If we couldn’t get a car out, we’d miss her appointment, and it might be months before we could get another one.

The next day dawned as it typically does in southern Iowa after a blizzard—with sunshine, achingly blue skies, and a squint-inducing glare on thirteen inches of snow. Around 8:30 a.m., I phoned Cody.

“Hi, Cody.”

“Hi, Marianne.”

“I have a huge favor to ask.”

“Sure.”

“Could you get Scrabble to the groomer this morning?”

“I’ll come by as soon as I finish the HyVee parking lot.”

Later in the day, Mark was out back in our garage when Cody arrived in the alley to scoop out our parking pad. “She’ll be done at 3:00. Have Marianne call and pay by phone, and I’ll swing out and pick her up.”

It’s great to have a friend who knows your dog, takes his own dog to the same groomer, is up early, and drives around with a blade on his truck.

On November 3, 2020, I stepped outside my door at 5:45 a.m. and walked the four-block distance to First United Methodist Church for my election worker debut. (Because of COVID, Winterset Precincts 1 and 2 were combined into a single polling location.) I wore a face mask I stitched myself (two layers of batik with hair-tie ear straps) and carried a plastic face shield given to me by a friend.

Earlier in the year, when I read in the Madisonian (our county newspaper) Madison County was understaffed for poll workers, I decided to sign up. When I phoned the county auditor’s office, I was shocked to find out the standard shift is from 6 a.m. until after the polls close at 9 p.m. I also learned that poll workers have to be equal numbers of Democrats and Republicans. If I could recruit a couple of other Democrats to share my shift, I could get a break in the middle of the day. I phoned two friends.

During training at the Madison County Courthouse Annex in October, I learned that the county’s computer system for elections is internal, not connected to the Internet. I learned how to check registered voters’ photo IDs with their faces and their recorded addresses, how to update addresses if need be, what forms of proof of address are acceptable, how to register a voter that day, and what do do if “convicted felon” popped up on the screen. The training team, led by our county auditor (a Republican,) delivered the clear message: “People want to vote. Our job is to help them.”

As a first-timer, I entered the church basement with trepidation. I did not want to mess anything up. When I was offered the job of sanitizing the twenty or so voter stations (round tables scattered around the large room, two or three fold-out cardboard privacy screens atop each) rather than operating a computer terminal, I jumped at that simple duty, donned my shield and disposable gloves, and picked up the spray bottle. Let the seasoned poll workers run the computers! I was also tasked with directing voters toward the back exit and offering them an “I VOTED” lapel sticker as they left.

For hours, I sprayed and wiped tabletops between each voter. At one point, when I needed to blow my nose, I stepped into the ladies room, removed my shield, my glasses, my mask, and my hairband, used my tissue, and reversed the process. It took a full minute. When my relief came, I walked home, made a sandwich, and put my feet up for a while, then returned to reclaim my cleaning supplies and jump back in. I felt kind of like a restaurant hostess, and I worked that role to lighten the mood, calling out, “Table for one right over here,” asking, “Would you like to see the wine list?” or saying, “I’ll be back later with the dessert tray” as they took their seat. A smattering of voters appreciated my humor.

All went well throughout the day, and I was astounded at the stamina of my fellow workers, many of whom have worked elections for years.* Rarely did a voter wait more than a few minutes for a station. Credentialed members of both parties were allowed in to observe. Tensions rose slightly when our single electronic ballot box jammed, but our chair quickly called for assistance, and the machine was unjammed and restarted within fifteen minutes. As day became night, I added a new quip as I directed voters to the exit: “You’ll come out in the alley behind the church, but don’t worry, you’ll still be in Winterset.” My co-poll-workers thought that was hilarious.

From 8:00 until 8:59, all was quiet, but then a final voter arrived on the stroke of 9. Our machine had been unplugged seconds before she walked in, but our chair dutifully escorted her to a secondary machine available for voters with disabilities, booted it up, and helped her vote. Once she finished, the protocols for properly recording the results, turning the ballots over to county officials, and packing up the computers and other election equipment began. Because I can print neatly, I was charged with hand-recording the write-ins, dismayed to have to write “MICKEY MOUSE” more than once. I walked home around 10:30.

Throughout the day, I watched in awe as our bipartisan team of poll workers crossed every “t” and dotted every “i” to make sure our work was beyond reproach. I was disappointed my candidate did not carry my precinct—or my state—but it never would have occurred to me to question the results. When anyone talks about the election of 2020, I’ll always be able to say, “I was there. I saw with my own eyes how a free and fair election is conducted.”

*Our team was all women.

Growing up, my family changed houses only about four times that I can remember. We moved from Iowa, where I was born, to Kansas City, where I started school, then to Friendswood, Texas, and after that to Houston, where I graduated from Bellaire High School in 1967.

As is typical, I relocated numerous times in my college years—from one dorm room to another, from this apartment to that one, and then married for the first time in 1970 and occupied two Houston apartments before returning to Iowa, where for eighteen years we lived on the 80-acre farm where my father was born. My next move was into town—on my own at thirty-nine with my three kids, thirteen, nine, and six at the time. Lucky for me, my parents had inherited the house in Winterset where my Aunt Katherine—and my grandparents before her—resided after retiring from farming. I had practically no money, $80 a month in child support, and only the bare beginnings of a livelihood, but we had a roof over our heads.

During my thirty-plus years on West Jefferson, I forged a career, purchased the house on contract from my mother, remodeled it, landscaped it, and built an addition on the west side. In 2000, Mark Davis graciously moved from Texas to Iowa to marry me. In 2003, we added on again and put up a three-car garage.

Last fall Mark and I celebrated our twentieth wedding anniversary, less than a week after moving a block and a half from the house on West Jefferson to an historic brick two-story just steps away from Winterset’s town square. Surprisingly, I shed not a tear, and over recent weeks have examined why.

For one thing, our new home is totally different from any space in which either of us has lived. Picture a New York City or Chicago apartment, twenty feet wide by ninety feet deep, a living/dining area the full width of the building, with exposed brick walls, a see-through gas fireplace separating the living room from my slate-floored “lobby” office at the front of the building. It’s so urban, but with little Winterset—instead of a big city—outside. I can see the courthouse dome through my office windows!

For another thing, because of pandemic-related supply chain problems, the changes we made prior to moving (including putting in a kitchen) took six months, which meant we had plenty of time to sort through our belongings. We figure we eliminated at least thirty percent. The Legos went to a young family, my old prairie dresses and the kids’ dance costumes to the local theater group. The seen-better-days deck furniture went out to the curb where it was snapped up before I could even print and attach the FREE sign. Deciding what to keep and what to let go of centered me.

Currently, I walk by my old house every day on my two mile stroll, minimally affected by the For Sale sign in the yard. Left behind are two dozen rose bushes, a cherry tree, and memories galore. My hope is that a growing family will fall in love with 216 W. Jefferson, purchase it, and thrive there just as I did.

The Iowa Theater in Winterset, Iowa, known locally as “The Iowa,” is once again a gem of a space—Art Deco facade, classic marquee, single silver screen, 150 seats (including balcony), red velvet curtain that opens dramatically at start of show, and a concession stand offering Iowa-grown popcorn served with real butter.

The Iowa closed in 2015 after years of dwindling attendance and a resulting lack of revenue. Somehow, I got the chance to help bring it back to life. My youngest daughter Rebecca majored in Film at the University of Iowa, going on to earn a graduate degree in Art & Media Management at Columbia College, and work at Cinema Chicago, producer of the iconic Chicago Film Festival. Rebecca and I partnered to become the driving force in the two-year, full-gut-and-rehab of Winterset’s beloved little theater on the square.

We cleaned out accumulated (often gross) debris, applied to the IRS for nonprofit status, got fundraising started, and worked with the contractor every step of the way. To be honest, despite our many life experiences, and as enthusiastic as we were, Rebecca and I didn’t exactly know what we were doing, especially when it came to operating a movie theater. But we knew where to get help.

Starting in 2016 (when The Iowa was still in shambles), we traveled to Utah each January for the Art House Convergence, a national meet-up for operators of independent movie houses. The conference takes place not far from Sundance, where the famous film festival follows later in the month. We attended seminars, networked, learned about distributors, point-of-sale software, marketing, and (of course) popcorn. The conference was an extra-special blast because we did it together, sharing a hotel room, splitting up to absorb the available knowledge each day.

A favorite Convergence program is “Art House Tales,” an evening event no attendee would miss. Each year, a handful of theater operators get to tell their story—but with very strict parameters. Presenters provide 20 slides, and each slide is on the screen for only 20 seconds (that’s six minutes and 40 seconds, total). And, the slides are advanced automatically by the tech person, so you have to talk fast!

During Art House Tales back in 2016, we nudged each other. “Some day, we’ll have a story to tell!”

The Iowa reopened in 2017, and this year we were chosen. Rebecca selected the slides, and together we drafted our script. We practiced and practiced so not to flub our words. Hundreds of people filled the ballroom, and we were nervous before we began. By Slide #8 we could feel the audience absorb our energy and feed it right back to us. When we reached the final image, we were choking back tears, and the audience was cheering. We looked up from our scripts to see people jumping to their feet. Our small town story received a standing ovation, a first for Art House Tales!

Use this link to hear The Iowa’s story—maybe have a tissue handy.

But don’t go away, there’s more! The Iowa’s marquee was also featured recently in a national media ad from Bank of America, voiced by Academy Award winning actress Viola Davis, a message to the graduating Class of 2020. See the lights go on sixteen seconds in!

One day last month, Iowa Public Radio’s Jacqueline Halbloom, host of IPR’s Iowa Arts Showcase, popped over to Winterset. She sat down with me at the docent desk inside the Iowa Quilt Museum and asked me all sorts of cool questions, her microphone on.

Among the stories she got out of me were how I started quilting, how the Fons & Porter brand evolved over the years, and how Mary Fons became a quilter and cohost of Fons & Porter’s Lover of Quilting on public television.

We talked about my projects in Winterset—the quilt museum and the Iowa Theater. I also got to express my love of fiction and my current pursuit of an encore career as a novelist.

Jacqueline asked about the ongoing appeal of quilts and quilting in America, giving me the opportunity to list some of the different standpoints from which we can view our country’s most valued national craft—artistic, feminist, activist, patriotic, family, cultural, and more.

I expounded on some of my favorite “quilty” themes, quoting Mary Fons at one point (“You can’t wrap a baby in an iPod.”), how as a quiltmaker I’m a serial monogamist who makes one quilt at a time, and my recurring lament that librarians are sexier than quilters.

If you’d like to give the interview a listen just click on the triangle below.

In Winterset, each Friday morning from 8:15 to 9 a.m., a member of the Madison County Chamber of Commerce hosts coffee for fellow members. Thirty or forty people generally show up to enjoy a cup of joe and socialize on the last morning of the work week.

This past Friday, Winterset Parks & Rec hosted at the new, nearly-complete dog park on the east edge of town, out near our primary soccer fields. The compound includes spacious areas with beautiful gates and fences for both small and large dogs and will have doggy water fountains, benches for people, and of course clean-up-after-your-dog baggie dispensers.

My dog Scrabble weighs about eighteen pounds, which would qualify her for the small dog area, but, we probably won’t be going. As a puppy, the opportunity to make dog friends just didn’t happen, and when she was older she was twice(!) jumped by other dogs, and bitten, both times while attached to her leash.* At a dog park, Scrabble, who’s never met a human she didn’t adore, would undoubtedly want to hang with the owners.

A couple of years ago, on a day Scrabble had been to the hairdresser, I took the opportunity to wash the little harness she wears as a collar. Her license and rabies tag, with our phone number scratched on the back, hook to the clip at the top. While the harness was drying, she barked to go out, and as I opened the door for her, she looked naked to me without her harness. “Oh dear, she doesn’t have her ID!” went though my mind.

The thought of an actual dog ID card seemed hilarious, so I decided to fashion one for her on my computer, using my Iowa Driver’s License as inspiration. I included date-of-birth, eye color, and restrictions (leash).

Scrabble doesn’t actually need an ID card. She has an embedded chip, plus she doesn’t carry a purse.

*Loose dogs are rare in Winterset. We were simply unlucky.

Living next door to the post office isn’t so great at 5 a.m. when the mail truck with its back-up beeper delivers Winterset’s mail, but other than that, my home’s location less than five minutes’ walk from the town square is a constant joy.

If I need a greeting card, for example, I can scoot up the alley (I think of it as my alley) to Montross Pharmacy, enter through the back door, select and address the card, and mail it on my way back. If I need a box of paper clips, a curtain rod, a lightbulb, or a jigsaw puzzle, Ben Franklin, on the southeast corner of the square, is only a few paces farther. If I need fabric for the quilt I’m working on, Ben Franklin (co-owned by a quilter) or Piece Works (in the storefront that was once Fons & Porter) will have just the thing.

This past winter, Mark and I refurbished two upstairs bedrooms, changing wall colors, shifting beds from one room to the other, making the first updates in over a decade. The first one, once the flowery wallpaper was stripped and walls repaired and repainted, came together easily. My mom’s walnut four-poster, a pair of repurposed sheers, an area rug we owned already—all worked just right.

The other room, however, once the new bed and dresser were in place, lacked coziness. The creamy white we chose for the walls felt cold instead of inviting. Putting one of my quilts on the bed was a good start, but accessories were needed. Lucky for me, not one but THREE terrific home decor stores occupy the west side of Winterset’s square, so up the alley I charged. At Pine Creek Ltd., I found the Windsor chair, the footstool, the lamps, everything we needed to make the room just beautiful.

And, since this is Winterset, owner Bill Moody simply jotted down what I took away to try rather than have me purchase and return each piece of merchandise. He even let me out the back door to carry home a neat wood bench that turned out to be too short. I brought it back and exchanged it for a longer one.* And, since this is Winterset, I left my purse behind the counter with Bill so I didn’t have to haul it back and forth along with everything else.

*Bench not in photo—it’s under a window to the right of the quilt rack.

At age twenty-five, holding my newborn infant in my arms, I discovered a remarkable truth, almost as if Hannah were speaking to me.

The more you give, the more you get back.

I had given myself in marriage and in childbirth, but oh, what I had received in return—a precious child!

In those days, all I had to give were friendship, energy, time, and love, but the truth of Hannah’s lesson was continuously confirmed. For example, if I had two friends I liked a lot, I found a way to connect them. The result was more friendship rather than less friendship. Connecting friends in the quilting industry was one of my greatest joys.

In terms of energy, especially in my 40s and 50s, it seemed the more I expended on my various projects, the more I had at my disposal. This paid off tremendously in my career. More recently, when I was asked to explore the possibility of a quilt museum in Winterset, I resisted at first, then poured myself into it. That undertaking reenergized me in ways more satisfying than I could ever have imagined. The Iowa Quilt Museum project reconnected me to my own home town and the people in it, huge gifts.

Financially, I didn’t have much to give until after my children were educated and my business succeeded, but I have found Hannah’s truth applies in this area as well. Generosity enriches you, manyfold.

A sentimental but beautiful poem my mother Dorothy Graham published in the newspaper she owned and operated in Norwalk, Iowa, for more than twenty years perfectly expresses how giving works. I’ve kept it posted on various refrigerator fronts and bulletin boards over the years. “The More You Give, The More You Get” may be tattered, but its message is solid gold.

The Friday evening after Thanksgiving, families who’ve been working on leftover turkey and pie all day gather downtown for Winterset’s Festival of Lights. They drink hot cocoa, warm their hands at sidewalk burn barrels, and stroll around the square admiring lighted store windows, buying their first Christmas gifts, and greeting friends and neighbors. Here, children make their wishes known to Santa not at a shopping mall, but inside our native limestone courthouse.

Meanwhile, decorated floats queue up at the old high school to be judged for prizes before the parade begins. At 7:15 Santa comes out and down the sidewalk to his sleigh (secured to a wagon pulled by a firetruck), and the long strings of lights that reach all the way from the corners of the square to the courthouse dome are magically lit. As the procession goes around the downtown block (twice), young adults visiting from the far off cities where they now live experience nostalgia for the past. Kids gather memories for nostalgia of the future.

“Elf” (free with donations of food items for a local pantry) begins at the Iowa Theater at 8:00. We print the 150 tickets in advance and hand them out until they’re gone. Last year, down to just one ticket, two junior high age girls, obviously best friends, appeared at the door, horrified as they grasped the one-seat-left situation. “Oh please, please, please, can’t she just sit on my lap?” one asked. They scooted in as we taped the “Sold Out” sign to the door.

Someday, one will be a bridesmaid in the wedding of the other. They’ll be standing together before a mirror and one will say, “Remember that time you sat on my lap for ‘Elf’ at The Iowa?”

(Photo by Charlotte Underwood for The Winterset Madisonian.)

Independent filmmaker Jack C. Newell* (who happens to be my son-in-law) rolled into town late Monday night, en route Chicago from Boulder, CO, where he recently wrapped filming on his latest project, a dark romantic comedy titled “Monuments.” The story involves a road trip-heist-chase, so he and two crew members were capturing scenes along the way, getting “journey footage” on their way home. They were driving two vehicles—a car, and the beat up old pickup featured in the movie.

Earlier on Monday, a text from Jack asked if I might be able to organize some cows in a field along a highway close to town. They wanted a shot of the pickup truck barreling down the road . . . from the point-of-view of the cows. I called Peggy Casper.

Jack and crew also requested a marquee-change at the Iowa Theater, so Monday afternoon manager Scott Smith got on a ladder in a frigid, cutting wind, removed the current letters, and put up the movie titles Jack asked for (“The Searchers” and “The General”). Around midnight, the “Monuments” team arrived on the square, turned on the marquee, and got their night shots, one of which involved temporarily replacing the pickup’s legal Illinois license plates with fake Colorado ones.

Mark and I were fast asleep by the time Writer/Director Jack, Director of Photography Stephanie, and Production Designer Matt let themselves in the back door to occupy our guest bedrooms for one night.

The next morning, north of town on Hwy. 92, Peggy’s grandson Zach Bruett helped Stephanie and Matt hoist their large, bulky, and incredibly expensive (rented) movie camera and tripod over the fence and onto his truck bed, and then coordinated the movement of the cows (coaxing them with tasty corn) between camera and fence, while on the highway Jack drove the movie truck through the shot for two or three takes.

Later in the day, after lunch at Montross Pharmacy (involving Stephanie’s introduction to the Iowa Pork Tenderloin), as the crew headed out of town, Jack sent a text saying they had forgotten the fake license plates and Matt’s drill near the theater late Monday night. Would someone maybe have turned them in to City Hall or perhaps the police? Shortly, I made two of the weirdest phone calls of my life, with no results.

The next day, Winterset Utilities employee Jay Gibson delivered the lost items to my back door. He’d been installing Christmas lights on the square at 5 a.m. Tuesday morning and noticed the drill and plates on the sidewalk under The Iowa’s marquee. Later in the day, he showed them to the facade crew working on Jim Smith’s building next door. “Not ours,” they said. Jay next contacted the police department about running the plates. That’s how he found me. “It looked like a pretty good drill,” he said. “I knew someone would be wanting it back.”

That’s Winterset, Iowa, my home town.

*Check out Jack’s fantastic documentary, “42 Grams,” about a Chicago restaurant that goes from a popup to the talk of the town, available on Netflix and ITunes.

One of my community’s joys is welcoming visitors to our picturesque little town. Collectively, we love to share the uniqueness that is Winterset and Madison County. Annually, in May, we embrace hundreds of guests for the John Wayne Birthplace Celebration, thousands in October for the Madison County Covered Bridge Festival.

We open our arms every day in smaller ways as well, whether by giving directions to tourists looking for our covered bridges, pointing out our beautiful gift shops and other independently-owned retailers that line the square, or greeting quilters and quilt lovers who enter the Iowa Quilt Museum.

Soon, my town will be opening its arms to a special, limited group of quilters. The September 13–15 event, titled “At Home with Marianne Fons,” has been organized by my longtime friend Marlene Ingraham, who waxes poetic about Winterset and the event here. Personally, I’ve been describing the weekend as a “quilting spa,” because once participants hit town and check into their accommodations, everything else is provided—fabric for my full-size quilt, “Darling,” (plus an additional project) sewing machine, special tools, instruction, snacks, lunches, dinners with local wines, and, of course, camaraderie. Mega quilters Paula Nadelstern and Victoria Findlay Wolfe will be in town for the kickoff. Iowa’s own Linzee Kull McCray, Tony Jacobson, and Diane Tomlinson have much to share as well. The whole thing will be like a soothing quilt massage.

For years, in the popular “Tip Table” segment of “Fons & Porter’s Love of Quilting” on public television, I invited viewers to send their tips to a PO box in Winterset, Iowa. I encourage anyone who’s curious about the place I call home to come experience my stomping ground in a very quilty way.

Nothing’s prettier than my town square on a national holiday. Sponsored by individuals and businesses, crisp, bright American flags line the perimeter of the courthouse on the lawn side and wave in front of storefronts on the retail side. The local Lion’s Club and Optimist Club, assisted by the Boy Scouts, place the flags early in the morning and remove them in the late afternoon. People sponsor flags on the residential streets as well, so on this Independence Day, our country’s beautiful flag waves gracefully all over town.

I walk my dog Scrabble around the square each day, and this morning, while she and I were admiring the flags, we bumped into local friends I hadn’t seen for a while. The three of us stood under a shade tree to catch up, and in the course of our conversation I learned their daughter now has a dog, a mutual friend is moving, and other bits of social news.

My friends happen to know I’m a moderate Democrat, and I happen to know they are moderate Republicans. Together, we bemoaned the extremism we observe—not in our community, but beyond—every day. We expressed nostalgia for moderation, when we really didn’t know what party anyone belonged to or what church they went to unless we went to that church, too.

When parting, Craig said, “I’d like to start a new political party, the Equalitarian Party. Its core value would be equality for people of every stripe. Basic equal human rights would make up the planks of our platform.” I reached out and shook his hand before continuing my walk, and as Scrabble trotted along at my side, she wagged her tail, so I think she approved. Of course, Scrabble’s tail is pretty much always wagging, and she loves all humans, whether they have a party affiliation or not, so it was just a guess.