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Mimms, who watches the shop for her a few hours a week, had remembered to leave the air-conditioning on this time. Last week we’d been miserable for the first halfhour as we worked in the small back room where motors from the dehumidifiers had pushed the temps into sauna range.
    Morningside is a beautiful town. Except for my college and post-grad years this has been my home. I’ve traveled a lot for someone my age, but I’m always happy to come back again. I can’t remember the dying town Winston described.
    Morningside is technically an incorporated town. We have a council government, several churches and a compact commercial district. But during the revitalization campaign the town elders had taken to calling it Morningside Village and made sure all the literature and signage reflected that designation. It sounded quaint, though Morningside had long ago outgrown village status.
    Winston dropped back to walk alongside me, pointing to one of the wrought-iron lamp stanchions bordering the sidewalk. “That was Dorothy’s handiwork. That was the opening salvo in her war on shabbiness.”
    The stanchions held old-fashioned globed streetlights, and on lower arms hanging baskets of greenery and colorful perennials gave the commercial district a charming, vibrant look.
    â€œDorothy gave those to the town?” I asked.
    â€œWell, no,” Winston said. “It wasn’t like that. If you saw old pictures of this strip here you wouldn’t recognize it. The shops were all rundown with peeling paint and dirty windows. The sidewalks were cracked and the gutters littered. No such thing as landscaping. People just let things grow as they might, weeds and all. It wasn’t pretty.”
    â€œWhat happened to turn it around?” Jack asked.
    â€œDorothy and her family pride,” Winston said. “She was not going to have the place her grandfather founded go to shambles. Dorothy had a pet word she used: tacky . Couldn’t abide anything she found tacky. She made a fiery speech to her garden club on the sorry state of affairs and got those women stirred up enough to go to the historical commission to rabble rouse. When they didn’t get action there they marched on the town council, which in those days met conveniently around the supper hour at the old Bar-B-Que Hut out on Orchard Road.”
    â€œAnd the council came up with a plan?” Jack asked.
    â€œNot really,” Winston said. “The town fathers—and it was all men back then—allowed as how, yes, things were looking a little downtrodden and could use some sprucing up. But they never did anything about it.”
    â€œWell, clearly, someone did,” I said, gesturing toward the row of shops with their faux Old World facades, tasteful signs, immaculate landscaping and sparkling panes of glass. The rest of the group had keyed in on Winston’s story and he held court as we strolled, more comfortable now that the sun was setting.
    â€œDorothy went commando on ’em.” Winston said. “She said if they weren’t going to do anything she would. She and her garden clubbers started staging unsanctioned beautification projects. They had bake sales and quilt raffles and all such as that and raised a good bit of money, plus they put their backs into the actual physical work. Big planter pots like those,” he pointed to an urn overrun with brightly colored petunias, coleus and trailing honeysuckle vines, “just showed up along the sidewalks and Dorothy and her posseof women—and it was mostly women—started having come-to-Jesus talks with the shop owners about taking pride in the appearance of their places. I know ’cause I was one of those owners.” He nodded toward Sugar Magnolias Bakery on the opposite side of the street.
    We’d arrived at Keepsake Corner and Marydale was, as usual, having difficulty with the lock. She wiggled the key and jiggled the knob as she spoke.