Herb smiled when he told me his idea for the name. “I was thinking the Merriweather.”
I nodded, grinning in agreement. “I think that sounds perfect.”
So, on a clear, crisp day that autumn, we boarded the Merriweather—Herb, Adelaide, and I—and took off for Michigan. The purpose of the trip was more than simply to take my husband and daughter for a stroll down a long-unseen memory lane. I had recently given $150,000 to Battle Creek Central High School, and I’d urged my General Foods board to make an additional gift of $100,000, all to help build a new sports complex and stadium, for which the school had thanked me by naming it C. W. Post Field. As a further thanks, they’d invited me out for the opening football game.
If I was eager to see my hometown once more, the people there seemed to share my feelings of warmth, because the crowd welcomed me like a queen returning home after a long absence. The moment my Merriweather touched down, we were cheered at the airport by a huge gathering of local photographers, journalists, town leaders, and residents. As I made my way with Herb and Adelaide down the steep steps of the plane, locals clapped and members of the high school marching band serenaded us. People queued up for a chance to shake my hand and take a picture; others showed me press clippings or old photographs they had saved having to do with Papa and even with me as a young girl.
A sleek Packard limousine awaited, and we made the short ride to the new complex through a town I barely recognized. Several familiar names were already stamped on many of the local facilities—the hospitals, the hotels, the theaters and parks—Kellogg and, even worse, Leila. I glowered, saying aloud to my daughter and husband: “It’s right that Papa will now have his name marked in this town.”
A few minutes later we arrived at the stunning new sports grounds, where a massive archway bore my daddy’s name: C. W. Post Field. “Now, that’s more like it,” I said, exiting the car to yet another crowd of cheering and jostling onlookers.
Though the day had dawned clear, as we entered the stadium and settled into our seats, a chilly autumn rain began to fall. Knowing that we were there to watch a nighttime football game, I had dressed for cold weather in one of my heaviest Russian furs, but I hadn’t prepared for the rain. As the team kicked off on the field below, I pulled my collar closer around my shoulders.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Post?”
“Yes?” I glanced upward to stare into the face of a high-school-aged boy who was at that moment opening an umbrella beside me. “We are here to keep you dry, ma’am.”
“That’s awfully kind, young man,” I said in reply. “But I can hold my own umbrella.”
“No, ma’am.” The young man shook his head.
“It would be our honor,” said the student beside him, as all around us, half a dozen students unfurled their own umbrellas to create an impenetrable canopy over our small huddle.
“Well, this is some service you get at the C. W. Post Field,” I said, smiling appreciatively from my seat on the cold bleacher.
“What can we get you to drink, Mrs. Post?” asked another youngster.
“I’ll take something warm if you have it.”
“How about a mug of Postum, ma’am? We hear that’s your favorite.”
I smiled, nodding at the student. “That’d be perfect.”
“And you, Mr. May? Miss Close?”
Adelaide accepted another Postum. Herb said, “I’ll take something a bit stronger if you have it.” So they brought two warm Postums for Adelaide and me and a brandy for Herb, and together we watched and cheered as my hometown Bearcats took the lead against the team from Muskegon.
The rain continued to fall. By halftime, the bleachers and the ground were soaked, even as our steadfast pack of students continued to hold their umbrellas over our heads in their best efforts to keep us dry. My fingers ached from the cold, but I tried not to show my discomfort. Herb fidgeted in his seat. “Say, could you hold that a bit closer, young man?” Herb asked, coaxing the student nearest him to step closer. A few minutes later Herb asked the fellow: “How about a blanket? Could that be arranged?”
“Of course, sir.” The youngster dashed off to fulfill Herb’s request, soon reappearing with a blanket bearing the Bearcat logo. “There you go, Mr. May.”
Herb nodded approvingly, giving the young man a pat on the shoulder. “Just put it in my lap, would you? And how about another brandy? I’m doing my best to stay warm.” The young man skipped off once more, quickly returning with a fresh brandy for my husband.