I don't really know why, but I have pigs on the mind recently. I love pork chops and bacon, but I don't think that's what has prompted this porcine preoccupation. Anyway, I have gotten to thinking about the modern view of pigs, and just how integral they are in our colloquial expressions and informal culture.
Pigs are often featured at children's zoos, usually surrounded by a family of roughly 200 piglets, [well, okay, maybe eight,] all pink and cute and looking innocent and friendly. They snuffle and snort, looking for all the world like the perfect familial scene. This is false advertising, mostly propagated by people who have seen too many Disney movies. Pigs are large creatures with beady eyes and small, yellow, very sharp teeth, and they are not afraid to use them. I think it's very important to remember this as you sink your own teeth into that juicy chop you are now going to have for dinner.
A word of wisdom - if you don't like to throw dirt, don't get into a pig pen. They are pretty unconcerned about hygiene, happily wallowing in the mud, like... well... pigs. See, that's what I mean. Our culture is full of pig related references, which make our language richer.
Not unlike the end result of feeding pigs, which produces a type of fertilizer that can work in a field, but definitely should not be used on a garden. I'm pretty sure, however, that most Americans don't want to think about what is fertilizing some of those organic crops they are scarfing down by the very expensive bushel. [See, I told you I grew up on a farm. I can throw terms like bushel around, and look really smart, even if I don't know what I'm talking about. Which in this case, I actually do.]
Entire industries revolve around the delicate taste of "the other white meat." It has supported a nationwide obsession with barbecue joints, not to mention men with grills, and of course, the National Pork Producers Council, which works hard every day to protect the fine image of the pig. Imagine, a whole national council to promote the right of every citizen to die by pork sausage patty. Is this a great country or what?
The government, with its usual keen finger on the pulse of the nation, has sponsored a study of pigs, to determine once and for all if Porky is smarter than Doc. Apparently, the results of this study were mixed. While some pigs appear to be smart enough to build houses of brick and send the wolves at the door packing, (or turn them into stew,) other pigs are not quite so hard working. I mean seriously, straw? Twigs? Natural selection at play on that one, I would say.
Pigs are not only found in animated entertainment or fine children's literature, however. We use, or abuse, the pig in daily life on an ongoing basis, and without it, we would be bereft of many colorful cliches, without which, I, for one, would be unable to write this blog.
It has been said that you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. This has obvious meaning, and requires little explanation, unless you don't know silk comes from a worm and not a pig. In which case, you shouldn't be using that metaphor, anyway. [And if that is the case, I once again must urge you to get off the blogs and into a library or a good book, because you are woefully ignorant.]
When we accuse someone of eating like a pig, the meaning is clear, although perhaps a little unfair, since pigs prefer a rather healthy diet of grains and fruits and vegetables, unlike the humans who are being so described. By the way, pigs today are fed carefully controlled menus, to produce the exact amount of meat and fat required for the modern diner. Aren't you glad to know that the spare ribs you will grill were designed just for your tastes?
Someone who is stubborn is pig-headed. We bleed like a stuck pig, and we have as much difficulty achieving our tasks as catching a greased pig.
Some of the phrases are a little less clear. What, exactly, is a pig in a poke? I am guessing we are not talking about a porky Pillsbury Doughboy. And why on earth did we start looking for pigs to fly, I wonder?
Pigs, those versatile creatures, are a complete package it seems. They provide us with food and dog toys. They have played a role in educating generations of children through fine literature, not to mention pointing out that straw does not make for a sturdy dwelling. They have given us a wealth of colloquial sayings, and their animated adventures are part of the history of television. Pigs have provided us with art, and even music. "Who's afraid of the big bad wolf...?" Anyway. Foolish or smart, pigs are an integral part of our informal language and American life.
And now, apparently pigs have broken the barrier into high fashion, because just the other day I heard that not only do we dress pigs, but they are wearing lipstick as well. Do you think Petunia will start her own label?
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Pandora's box...
I woke up this morning, and immediately realized there is nothing funny about this day at all. I have a headache, my sinuses are killing me, my teeth hurt, even my hair is aching. I think I will just go ahead and drop a hammer on my foot to take my focus off the pain in my head. So this is not a humor post. If you are in need of a laugh, you are in the wrong place. No. Really. Go away. I'm crabby, and I'm not afraid to use it.
As regular readers of this blog know, I am adopted. That is not a joke, perpetrated by an older brother who resents my existence. [If he really did, he would be much more devious about it. Maybe telling me that the flying monkeys from the "Wizard of Oz" would be coming by for me shortly if I continued to annoy him. I dunno. Just making up some hypotheticals here.] No, I am the real deal: unwed teenaged mother, unhappy family, ruined lives, misery and despair all around. And then, viola, all the problems solved by simply unloading the problem onto someone else. I think she may have been wise beyond her years, given what a sore trial I have been.
I give my mother credit. [That would be my real mother, not the biological one, by the way. Giving birth gets you a baby, watching them barf their guts out in the middle of the night and still thinking they are beautiful makes you a mother.] We survived my being 15, and she is nice enough to lie and pretend she never thought about giving me back. Personally, I would have returned me as defective merchandise a few times [years,] but she is made of sterner stuff.
Being adopted is a weird thing, to be sure. I have had people ask me what it feels like to be adopted. I can't honestly say if it's different than not being adopted, because I have never not been adopted. I don't know if I would feel more or less wanted, more or less loved, because I don't have anything to compare it to.
I do know that one time quite a few years back, someone asked my mother about giving birth to me (we were probably at a baby shower, I can't recall now,) and for a moment she was trying to remember. We laughed as I pointed out that she was not there when I was born, but that was one of the most genuine expressions of pure love in my life. In that moment, I understood my being adopted was simply not part of her understanding of who I am. The fact that I am adopted never arises, because I am hers, and she is mine, and it really is as simple as that.
To hear my mother tell it, and I made her tell it over and over again, I was never confused about where I belonged. She tells me that on the day they got me, January 3, 1962, I never cried. We visited my cousin on the way home (she was the first relative I met, and we have been close ever since, so she was yet another perk) and I fell asleep before we got across the Mendota Bridge, which is just a hop, skip and a jump from my aunt and uncle's house. Mom says she was prepared for me to be up all night for days, if not weeks, unhappy and crying. Instead, I went to bed and slept through the night, no problem, while she hung over my crib filled with panic and worry. Which was probably good practice for being my mother, come to think of it.
I often see in news reports a child being referred to as an "adopted" child, like they come with restrictions or limitations. Sort of a conditional member of the family. The implication is not one of quality, unfortunately, but that the kid is somehow not quite up to snuff.
For example, Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman have two children together, who happen to be adopted. Why does the media, and by extension, why do we, think that matters? Are the children they have adopted somehow less their children than their biological children? Whatever you may think of them as people or actors, you see pictures of Tom and Katie, in particular, on the sidelines at the soccer games or attending school events often enough that you know it's a regular thing. And I'm guessing as they leave the house they are not saying, "Let's go see the adopted kids play soccer."
I don't really admire any of them, but I do appreciate the normalcy they bring to a very visible adopted family situation. They don't show it off, they just live as a family, and in doing so, make it apparent that adopted children live perfectly normal, happy lives. They are a weird poster child for normalcy, to be sure, but they are certainly far more normal than the Spears sisters and their three ring circus, biology not withstanding.
Of course, most adoptions aren't the high flying affairs of a Madonna or an Angelina, or a John and Cindy McCain, with endless money to spend, and unlimited exposure for all, sort of like a pricey parenthood public service announcement. That is not a slam on them, by the way, because in the end, they have taken responsibility for a child, or children, who otherwise may not have had a life at all. And that can only be seen as a good thing, because every child is worth saving.
But most adoptive parents don't have that kind of money, or that kind of power and exposure. For most, their only photo ops are arriving home on an airplane or driving up the driveway with their new member of the family, and the only adoring crowds are the relatives and friends who have watched them struggle to get to this day. What they do have, perhaps in even greater measure, is a desire and a wealth of love unmatched by almost anyone.
I am always bewildered at the decision of a young girl, unmarried, still in high school, who insists she is keeping her baby because she loves it, and can't imagine giving it away. I personally can't imagine keeping a baby when you are so young and unprepared and inexperienced. I think the most selfless love is found where you make the decision based on what is best for the baby, instead of trying to fulfill your own wants. But maybe that's just me.
But however positive the adoption may be, as an adopted kid, you will always have this Pandora's box of information that you don't know, and it is frustrating and tempting to open that box and see what it contains. I was adopted in the early 1960's, when there was no such thing as open adoption, and everything was shrouded in secrecy. When my biological mother relinquished custody of me, she signed me away completely, knowing that she would never see me again. That is not a leap of faith so much as it is throwing your baby from the burning building to the net below. I don't claim to understand the decision, but I certainly am grateful that she made it.
I don't know anything about myself, other than a few very general pieces of information, some of which are conflicting. I don't have any medical history. I don't know who I look like. I am not informed as to whether my biological parents are alive or dead. I don't know if I have biological siblings. I don't believe my biological father even knew I was born, but I don't know for sure, either. I have no information on education, or anything else that most people take for granted.
As tempting as it can be to open that box, I am not tempted often. Once the cover comes off, you can never slam it back down, and you are stuck with whatever knowledge you have gained. It is much less likely that you will find a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, than that you will find regular people living a regular life, with good things and bad, but with whom you have very little in common.
And is that information vital to being happy? It doesn't seem to be. Because the happiness or satisfaction in my life certainly hasn't depended on knowing the answers. It is always awkward to explain that I have no family health history because I'm adopted, and even my kids are pretty limited. Breast cancer? Heart disease? I have no idea. On the up side, neither am I forced to claim the family history of Parkinson's and diabetes to be found in my adoptive family, so there is my silver lining peeking through.
My birth certificate looks a little goofy, because it wasn't officially filed until I was three. When I went to get my passport, I had to send a note along explaining the situation, along with my adoption decree, which was a little annoying, and sort of embarrassing, but certainly not the end of the world.
I can't think of a single other time that being adopted is ever even made note of. Most people who know me don't have any idea, and certainly, my relatives have never treated me any differently than any of my other cousins. In fact, on the contrary, I think I may have had special treatment, because everyone was so happy for my parents that we all found each other in the great big universe.
So, when a child is adopted, who benefits most? It's hard to say, because it seems to be one of the few life situations in which everyone wins. The biological parents have recognized, for whatever reasons, their inability to care for the baby they have created, and thus, are relieved of the responsibility. Which is especially good if they are young and not married, and a baby will prevent them from getting education and job experience they would need to get a good start in life. The baby gets a family that wants and will be able to care for it in a way it's own parents probably never could. The adoptive parents, who probably feel the luckiest of all, get the baby they have longed for and dreamed about and will love just as if that child were born to them.
So why, then, in the pro-choice versus pro-life debate, is adoption given such a tiny place? Why does it make people nervous, uncomfortable, edgy? When I mention that I am adopted, it can be a conversation stopper. People simply have no idea how to respond to that piece of information, even at my age. I see them struggle to decide if the appropriate response is sympathy, indifference, or encouragement, like it's a challenge to be overcome, but one that's not quite nice to mention in polite conversation. Sort of like a colostomy bag. Necessary at times, but let's not talk about it.
I am not a fringe person, and never will be. I am in the great, gray middle, the mushy area where you admit you don't have all the answers, and you don't deal in absolutes, because you think life is a little squishier than that. But I do wish, in the great abortion debate, that we would open the window and look at adoption a little more closely, and try to understand what the realities are. Why do we never hear from people who have participated in adoption? Why are the parents who have been blessed, and the blessings themselves, never asked to the table to partake in the discussion? There is something between all and nothing, and it is a win/win/win for all involved.
Each year as I celebrate my birthday, I wonder if my biological mother is still out there somewhere, and if she wonders about me. Does she wonder if she did the right thing? Does she worry that I am happy and safe? Does my birthday signify a happy day, or a sad day? I wonder, what does she feel?
I have had people ask me, if you could talk to her, what would you say? I know they think there are lots of profound questions I would like answered, or some deep feelings that I need to express. But the answer is much easier than that. I would say thank you for giving me life, not by giving birth, but by giving me away. As I celebrate my birthday this week, number 48 already, I hope you will know that I am sending you, not the love that belongs to my mom and family, but my gratitude, that piece of my heart which belongs to you.
As regular readers of this blog know, I am adopted. That is not a joke, perpetrated by an older brother who resents my existence. [If he really did, he would be much more devious about it. Maybe telling me that the flying monkeys from the "Wizard of Oz" would be coming by for me shortly if I continued to annoy him. I dunno. Just making up some hypotheticals here.] No, I am the real deal: unwed teenaged mother, unhappy family, ruined lives, misery and despair all around. And then, viola, all the problems solved by simply unloading the problem onto someone else. I think she may have been wise beyond her years, given what a sore trial I have been.
I give my mother credit. [That would be my real mother, not the biological one, by the way. Giving birth gets you a baby, watching them barf their guts out in the middle of the night and still thinking they are beautiful makes you a mother.] We survived my being 15, and she is nice enough to lie and pretend she never thought about giving me back. Personally, I would have returned me as defective merchandise a few times [years,] but she is made of sterner stuff.
Being adopted is a weird thing, to be sure. I have had people ask me what it feels like to be adopted. I can't honestly say if it's different than not being adopted, because I have never not been adopted. I don't know if I would feel more or less wanted, more or less loved, because I don't have anything to compare it to.
I do know that one time quite a few years back, someone asked my mother about giving birth to me (we were probably at a baby shower, I can't recall now,) and for a moment she was trying to remember. We laughed as I pointed out that she was not there when I was born, but that was one of the most genuine expressions of pure love in my life. In that moment, I understood my being adopted was simply not part of her understanding of who I am. The fact that I am adopted never arises, because I am hers, and she is mine, and it really is as simple as that.
To hear my mother tell it, and I made her tell it over and over again, I was never confused about where I belonged. She tells me that on the day they got me, January 3, 1962, I never cried. We visited my cousin on the way home (she was the first relative I met, and we have been close ever since, so she was yet another perk) and I fell asleep before we got across the Mendota Bridge, which is just a hop, skip and a jump from my aunt and uncle's house. Mom says she was prepared for me to be up all night for days, if not weeks, unhappy and crying. Instead, I went to bed and slept through the night, no problem, while she hung over my crib filled with panic and worry. Which was probably good practice for being my mother, come to think of it.
I often see in news reports a child being referred to as an "adopted" child, like they come with restrictions or limitations. Sort of a conditional member of the family. The implication is not one of quality, unfortunately, but that the kid is somehow not quite up to snuff.
For example, Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman have two children together, who happen to be adopted. Why does the media, and by extension, why do we, think that matters? Are the children they have adopted somehow less their children than their biological children? Whatever you may think of them as people or actors, you see pictures of Tom and Katie, in particular, on the sidelines at the soccer games or attending school events often enough that you know it's a regular thing. And I'm guessing as they leave the house they are not saying, "Let's go see the adopted kids play soccer."
I don't really admire any of them, but I do appreciate the normalcy they bring to a very visible adopted family situation. They don't show it off, they just live as a family, and in doing so, make it apparent that adopted children live perfectly normal, happy lives. They are a weird poster child for normalcy, to be sure, but they are certainly far more normal than the Spears sisters and their three ring circus, biology not withstanding.
Of course, most adoptions aren't the high flying affairs of a Madonna or an Angelina, or a John and Cindy McCain, with endless money to spend, and unlimited exposure for all, sort of like a pricey parenthood public service announcement. That is not a slam on them, by the way, because in the end, they have taken responsibility for a child, or children, who otherwise may not have had a life at all. And that can only be seen as a good thing, because every child is worth saving.
But most adoptive parents don't have that kind of money, or that kind of power and exposure. For most, their only photo ops are arriving home on an airplane or driving up the driveway with their new member of the family, and the only adoring crowds are the relatives and friends who have watched them struggle to get to this day. What they do have, perhaps in even greater measure, is a desire and a wealth of love unmatched by almost anyone.
I am always bewildered at the decision of a young girl, unmarried, still in high school, who insists she is keeping her baby because she loves it, and can't imagine giving it away. I personally can't imagine keeping a baby when you are so young and unprepared and inexperienced. I think the most selfless love is found where you make the decision based on what is best for the baby, instead of trying to fulfill your own wants. But maybe that's just me.
But however positive the adoption may be, as an adopted kid, you will always have this Pandora's box of information that you don't know, and it is frustrating and tempting to open that box and see what it contains. I was adopted in the early 1960's, when there was no such thing as open adoption, and everything was shrouded in secrecy. When my biological mother relinquished custody of me, she signed me away completely, knowing that she would never see me again. That is not a leap of faith so much as it is throwing your baby from the burning building to the net below. I don't claim to understand the decision, but I certainly am grateful that she made it.
I don't know anything about myself, other than a few very general pieces of information, some of which are conflicting. I don't have any medical history. I don't know who I look like. I am not informed as to whether my biological parents are alive or dead. I don't know if I have biological siblings. I don't believe my biological father even knew I was born, but I don't know for sure, either. I have no information on education, or anything else that most people take for granted.
As tempting as it can be to open that box, I am not tempted often. Once the cover comes off, you can never slam it back down, and you are stuck with whatever knowledge you have gained. It is much less likely that you will find a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, than that you will find regular people living a regular life, with good things and bad, but with whom you have very little in common.
And is that information vital to being happy? It doesn't seem to be. Because the happiness or satisfaction in my life certainly hasn't depended on knowing the answers. It is always awkward to explain that I have no family health history because I'm adopted, and even my kids are pretty limited. Breast cancer? Heart disease? I have no idea. On the up side, neither am I forced to claim the family history of Parkinson's and diabetes to be found in my adoptive family, so there is my silver lining peeking through.
My birth certificate looks a little goofy, because it wasn't officially filed until I was three. When I went to get my passport, I had to send a note along explaining the situation, along with my adoption decree, which was a little annoying, and sort of embarrassing, but certainly not the end of the world.
I can't think of a single other time that being adopted is ever even made note of. Most people who know me don't have any idea, and certainly, my relatives have never treated me any differently than any of my other cousins. In fact, on the contrary, I think I may have had special treatment, because everyone was so happy for my parents that we all found each other in the great big universe.
So, when a child is adopted, who benefits most? It's hard to say, because it seems to be one of the few life situations in which everyone wins. The biological parents have recognized, for whatever reasons, their inability to care for the baby they have created, and thus, are relieved of the responsibility. Which is especially good if they are young and not married, and a baby will prevent them from getting education and job experience they would need to get a good start in life. The baby gets a family that wants and will be able to care for it in a way it's own parents probably never could. The adoptive parents, who probably feel the luckiest of all, get the baby they have longed for and dreamed about and will love just as if that child were born to them.
So why, then, in the pro-choice versus pro-life debate, is adoption given such a tiny place? Why does it make people nervous, uncomfortable, edgy? When I mention that I am adopted, it can be a conversation stopper. People simply have no idea how to respond to that piece of information, even at my age. I see them struggle to decide if the appropriate response is sympathy, indifference, or encouragement, like it's a challenge to be overcome, but one that's not quite nice to mention in polite conversation. Sort of like a colostomy bag. Necessary at times, but let's not talk about it.
I am not a fringe person, and never will be. I am in the great, gray middle, the mushy area where you admit you don't have all the answers, and you don't deal in absolutes, because you think life is a little squishier than that. But I do wish, in the great abortion debate, that we would open the window and look at adoption a little more closely, and try to understand what the realities are. Why do we never hear from people who have participated in adoption? Why are the parents who have been blessed, and the blessings themselves, never asked to the table to partake in the discussion? There is something between all and nothing, and it is a win/win/win for all involved.
Each year as I celebrate my birthday, I wonder if my biological mother is still out there somewhere, and if she wonders about me. Does she wonder if she did the right thing? Does she worry that I am happy and safe? Does my birthday signify a happy day, or a sad day? I wonder, what does she feel?
I have had people ask me, if you could talk to her, what would you say? I know they think there are lots of profound questions I would like answered, or some deep feelings that I need to express. But the answer is much easier than that. I would say thank you for giving me life, not by giving birth, but by giving me away. As I celebrate my birthday this week, number 48 already, I hope you will know that I am sending you, not the love that belongs to my mom and family, but my gratitude, that piece of my heart which belongs to you.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Rain, rain, go away....
Into each life, some rain must fall. Well, we have had rain. And more rain. And more rain. In the current year, 2008, we here in Kansas City have not gone longer than nine days without some of the wet stuff falling from the sky. And I, for one, have had just about enough of it.
I would leave, but I think I might be the problem, so there would be no point. If I leave town, it will be nice here, and rain wherever I go. That's how it works. I'm not a rain goddess, I'm a disaster, like a hurricane or a tornado. Or a flood.
I have brought rain relief to drought stricken Florida. I am not kidding here, by the way. They were having a months long drought when my family went to Orlando on vacation. End of drought. Spring break has never been so damp. It was unbelievable, how much rain could come down in a week. They were talking evacuations by the time we left, so it was a good thing our time was up. On the upside, we spent a week at Disney World with almost no lines, so there is a silver lining in every cloud, I guess.
I have caused a flood, simply by planning a trip. They had record breaking rains in Hawaii when we went on our one and only trip there a couple of years ago, spring break again, and also broke the record for least sun. The precipitation started approximately 25 seconds after the non-refundable reservation went through, and kept on for a week after we got home again, just for good measure.
We went horse back riding in the rain, we went to the beach in the rain, we had an indoor luau because of the rain [the roof leaked,] we went for a submarine ride in the rain [you would think that wouldn't matter, but you have to get out to the sub somehow. Rock and roll is not a good thing in a small boat on a big ocean.] My daughter is the only kid I know who has ever been to Hawaii for a week and come home without a tan. By the time we left, they were having mudslides, and we had seen the sun approximately five minutes total. I was aggrieved to learn that it had been 75 and sunny the entire week in KC, but as I said, that's how it works.
I have heard talk that if I ever try to return, the National Guard has been ordered to stop me at the border because they cannot afford the clean up, but that might just be rumor.
I have been to Southeast Asia, and it rained there, too. That was an interesting experience, because their sanitary sewer projects have not kept pace with their undeniable economic boom. Thus, they have far more pavement than water runoff drains, which means when it rains, it floods. Everywhere. I was really glad I had gotten all my shots, because heaven only knows where that water had been before. I don't want to talk about it. I'm going to have nightmares again.
One would think, with my previous experience of never having gone on vacation in my entire life without bringing the rain, that I would always go prepared. But I am an optimist, and each time, I am just sure that this will be the time it doesn't rain. So I never have an umbrella. I have purchased umbrellas in Hawaii and Chicago, and three of them in Florida. I suspect that they mark them up when they see me coming. I am an economic boom all by myself, what with the poncho and umbrella sales I generate by my mere presence.
If you noticed a trend, we seem to travel on spring break a lot. Rest assured I am way ahead of you. I have tried to switch it up, just to fake out the rain gods, but no luck. I think they have a permanent satellite trained on me. "Uh oh, look out - she is talking to her cousin, the travel agent, now - get ready, a trip might be in the works - wait, wait, there we go - reservation made - prepare to open the heavens, here she comes - it's show time." Let the rains begin.
One of the most frightening storms I have ever been in was in Cancun, Mexico. Lovely place, normally. Or so I'm told. I had the extreme version, of course. I enjoyed a corner room overlooking the ocean. Or it would have overlooked the ocean, if only we hadn't had to have the giant wooden shutters closed the entire time, because of the Tropical Storm, 73 mph winds, that we were experiencing. The waves would lash the side of the hotel, the wind would whistle and rattle the shutters, the rain poured down, and the skies were black. Two days, we couldn't leave our building. The whole weekend trip spent in a lobby with a bunch of other disappointed tourists. All I know about Cancun is that they have smiling waiters, crabby tourists, and when they say open air lobby, you should bring rain gear during hurricane season.
For several years, I had a fear of tornadoes, which I srongly felt I had to overcome. It was hatched when I stood out on the front yard of my college trailer home one afternoon, calmly watching a funnel cloud develop. [You can just keep the white trailer trash jokes to yourself, thank you very much. I am the humorist here.] I kept calling into the mobile home to my then husband, "Someone is going to have some rough weather." Then it was, "Someone is going to have a tornado." Finally, as I saw it was heading straight for us, I yelled, "Uff da, we have to get to the shelter." Naturally, it was too late by then, so we rushed to the pole barn ag store next door and hid in their bathroom, singing "Itsy, Bitsy Spider" with Adam while the rain came down the spout. I don't like spiders either.
I decided a few years later that I simply must overcome this ridiculous fear of storms. Naturally, we were heading out on a mini-vacation at the time, driving from Memphis to New Orleans for the weekend. I cannot emphasize enough that if I were to wait for clear weather, I would simply never leave my home, because it rains wherever I go. Thus, I decided to overlook the ominous clouds that immediately began to build in the previously clear and sunny sky as I threw the hastily packed suitcase into the car.
I thought I had pulled a fast one, actually, because it was a last second decision, not something we planned and thought about. We simply tossed a few things together and took off, not even stopping for gas.
We got approximately 20 miles down the road when the tornado hit. We barely had time to pull under the overpass as that twister crossed over just above us, rain pounding so hard on the roof of the car we couldn't even hear ourselves arguing about whose fault it was that we were putting our small son in mortal danger. A few moments later, a Mississippi state trooper, [they always were the ones to be on top of everything,] drove up and motioned to us to roll our window down. He warned us that we shouldn't be on the road, as there were tornadoes in the area. Thanks.
They say that April showers bring May flowers. I don't know who got the roses, but I think I'll have to excuse myself now to go and get a thorn out of my side.
I would leave, but I think I might be the problem, so there would be no point. If I leave town, it will be nice here, and rain wherever I go. That's how it works. I'm not a rain goddess, I'm a disaster, like a hurricane or a tornado. Or a flood.
I have brought rain relief to drought stricken Florida. I am not kidding here, by the way. They were having a months long drought when my family went to Orlando on vacation. End of drought. Spring break has never been so damp. It was unbelievable, how much rain could come down in a week. They were talking evacuations by the time we left, so it was a good thing our time was up. On the upside, we spent a week at Disney World with almost no lines, so there is a silver lining in every cloud, I guess.
I have caused a flood, simply by planning a trip. They had record breaking rains in Hawaii when we went on our one and only trip there a couple of years ago, spring break again, and also broke the record for least sun. The precipitation started approximately 25 seconds after the non-refundable reservation went through, and kept on for a week after we got home again, just for good measure.
We went horse back riding in the rain, we went to the beach in the rain, we had an indoor luau because of the rain [the roof leaked,] we went for a submarine ride in the rain [you would think that wouldn't matter, but you have to get out to the sub somehow. Rock and roll is not a good thing in a small boat on a big ocean.] My daughter is the only kid I know who has ever been to Hawaii for a week and come home without a tan. By the time we left, they were having mudslides, and we had seen the sun approximately five minutes total. I was aggrieved to learn that it had been 75 and sunny the entire week in KC, but as I said, that's how it works.
I have heard talk that if I ever try to return, the National Guard has been ordered to stop me at the border because they cannot afford the clean up, but that might just be rumor.
I have been to Southeast Asia, and it rained there, too. That was an interesting experience, because their sanitary sewer projects have not kept pace with their undeniable economic boom. Thus, they have far more pavement than water runoff drains, which means when it rains, it floods. Everywhere. I was really glad I had gotten all my shots, because heaven only knows where that water had been before. I don't want to talk about it. I'm going to have nightmares again.
One would think, with my previous experience of never having gone on vacation in my entire life without bringing the rain, that I would always go prepared. But I am an optimist, and each time, I am just sure that this will be the time it doesn't rain. So I never have an umbrella. I have purchased umbrellas in Hawaii and Chicago, and three of them in Florida. I suspect that they mark them up when they see me coming. I am an economic boom all by myself, what with the poncho and umbrella sales I generate by my mere presence.
If you noticed a trend, we seem to travel on spring break a lot. Rest assured I am way ahead of you. I have tried to switch it up, just to fake out the rain gods, but no luck. I think they have a permanent satellite trained on me. "Uh oh, look out - she is talking to her cousin, the travel agent, now - get ready, a trip might be in the works - wait, wait, there we go - reservation made - prepare to open the heavens, here she comes - it's show time." Let the rains begin.
One of the most frightening storms I have ever been in was in Cancun, Mexico. Lovely place, normally. Or so I'm told. I had the extreme version, of course. I enjoyed a corner room overlooking the ocean. Or it would have overlooked the ocean, if only we hadn't had to have the giant wooden shutters closed the entire time, because of the Tropical Storm, 73 mph winds, that we were experiencing. The waves would lash the side of the hotel, the wind would whistle and rattle the shutters, the rain poured down, and the skies were black. Two days, we couldn't leave our building. The whole weekend trip spent in a lobby with a bunch of other disappointed tourists. All I know about Cancun is that they have smiling waiters, crabby tourists, and when they say open air lobby, you should bring rain gear during hurricane season.
For several years, I had a fear of tornadoes, which I srongly felt I had to overcome. It was hatched when I stood out on the front yard of my college trailer home one afternoon, calmly watching a funnel cloud develop. [You can just keep the white trailer trash jokes to yourself, thank you very much. I am the humorist here.] I kept calling into the mobile home to my then husband, "Someone is going to have some rough weather." Then it was, "Someone is going to have a tornado." Finally, as I saw it was heading straight for us, I yelled, "Uff da, we have to get to the shelter." Naturally, it was too late by then, so we rushed to the pole barn ag store next door and hid in their bathroom, singing "Itsy, Bitsy Spider" with Adam while the rain came down the spout. I don't like spiders either.
I decided a few years later that I simply must overcome this ridiculous fear of storms. Naturally, we were heading out on a mini-vacation at the time, driving from Memphis to New Orleans for the weekend. I cannot emphasize enough that if I were to wait for clear weather, I would simply never leave my home, because it rains wherever I go. Thus, I decided to overlook the ominous clouds that immediately began to build in the previously clear and sunny sky as I threw the hastily packed suitcase into the car.
I thought I had pulled a fast one, actually, because it was a last second decision, not something we planned and thought about. We simply tossed a few things together and took off, not even stopping for gas.
We got approximately 20 miles down the road when the tornado hit. We barely had time to pull under the overpass as that twister crossed over just above us, rain pounding so hard on the roof of the car we couldn't even hear ourselves arguing about whose fault it was that we were putting our small son in mortal danger. A few moments later, a Mississippi state trooper, [they always were the ones to be on top of everything,] drove up and motioned to us to roll our window down. He warned us that we shouldn't be on the road, as there were tornadoes in the area. Thanks.
They say that April showers bring May flowers. I don't know who got the roses, but I think I'll have to excuse myself now to go and get a thorn out of my side.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
A new day
Today is September 11, and as a nation, we are remembering those lost on 9/11/2001 in the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center in New York City. There is nothing funny about that event, and I am certainly not one to intrude on the national outpouring of grief. That was a day in which our national consciousness was altered and we were changed forever, and it is appropriate to remember and recognize it.
Oddly enough, it seems that every generation has their day. For my son and daughter, surely 9/11 will be that moment they will never forget, when their world shifted, and they lost their innocence. They were both in school, and each of them remembers the events of the day in vivid detail.
Adam, in high school at the time, recalls watching on television in his classrooms through the day. The media, as bewildered and unprepared as the rest of the nation, tried to make sense of it all by replaying the scene over and over, talking endlessly about what happened and what was going to come next. The adults in his own personal world struggled to come to grips with what it meant as well. We all looked over our shoulders that day, wondering where the next attack would come from, and if we were all as vulnerable as we felt.
My little girl asked me that day if they were going to come to Kansas City and crash into our house, because for her, that was what she found most frightening. She wanted to know she was safe, and for the first time in her life, I couldn't assure her the way I normally would that all would be well. I was glad, at that moment, to live in the heartland, flyover country. I told her if we were going to be safe anywhere, it would be in the Midwest, because even our own countrymen couldn't seem to locate us. It made her feel better, but as a parent, that was small consolation.
On a personal note, I feel sympathy for my brother and his lovely bride, because they were married on September 11, 1998, ten years ago today. While, as he once rightly told me, they had the day first, and it surely is a day to honor because he and his wife found their soul mates, it is still a little hard to go out and celebrate while everyone else is mourning the destruction of the Twin Towers and the loss of life that occurred because of it.
For my own generation, I think the assassination of John F. Kennedy was probably that redefining moment. Although I was only three at the time, (I am a "barely boomer," sort of a Boom-X, really,) for the kids who were a little older, and certainly for the adults, I know it was one of those times that they look back and remember exactly where they were when they heard the news. The world was shocked and mourned with us, and we still remember that day each year, because it changed the way we understood the world, and perhaps, the way world understood us, as well.
Ironically, we have a personal connection with that day, too. My mother was born on November 22, 1926. So every year, when her birthday comes around, she gets to wake up to a reminder that this is a day for the nation to be somber and remember the dark side of human nature. And happy birthday to you. [Sometimes her birthday falls on Thanksgiving, so then she gets completely eclipsed. It's a good thing she's a Minnesota Lutheran, thus can just accept it as her cross to bear.]
Speaking of my mother, for her generation, the watershed moment of change was, of course, December 7, 1942, when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor and the United States was dragged, kicking and resisting, into World War II. They say history is written by the winner, which is, of course, strictly speaking, quite true. One of the problems with that is the loss of perspective, because it is presented as a sure thing. But the outcome, while always believed in, was not assured, and the struggle was desperate and genuine.
That day of infamy is gradually fading from our collective consciousness, as those who lived through it, and were changed by it, pass away from this earth. But it was truly an event that changed the course of the world, and for those who were a part of it, it changed them. And so we have all been changed.
For my grandparents, the obvious life shattering event was the Great Depression. Even the very wealthiest Americans were not sheltered from the events of that time, as the country went suddenly from boom to bust, almost overnight.
My own relatives, farmers all, were more fortunate than some, perhaps, because they had the opportunity to live off their own land. Although there were many hardships, don't even get me started on rumagrout, my mother had food on her table every day, and a roof that had been over her family's heads for three generations. For those in the city, soup lines and families living in desperate straights were all too common. The hardships were in plain sight, shared by most, and it changed how the nation viewed those less fortunate.
Those times were the root of programs that continue to lift families from the depths of poverty and homelessness even today. No matter what you may feel about welfare and social security and all the other social programs, we as a nation are undeniably better for showing our concern for, and sharing our national wealth with, those who have fallen off the edge.
It is ironic, I think, that we as a country are at our best when we are at our most vulnerable. It is in those times that our true national character emerges, and the spirit that created this nation is most visible.
We are, on the surface of things, a fractured, contentious group, unable to see any other point of view, demanding, greedy, and in election season, unreasonable and downright hateful to others whose opinions do not mirror our own. But underneath the superficial flaws there lies great compassion and strength, a dedication to justice and freedom, not only for ourselves, but for all people.
That is what makes me proud to be an American today and every day. I have never doubted for a single moment that we, as a nation and as individuals, will rise to any occasion, will make any sacrifice, that is necessary to preserve not only our freedom and our rights, but those of the very people with whom we disagree.
Although it scares the enemies of this great nation, we continue, each new day, to embody the final words of the Declaration of Independence, which read:
"We mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor."
Oddly enough, it seems that every generation has their day. For my son and daughter, surely 9/11 will be that moment they will never forget, when their world shifted, and they lost their innocence. They were both in school, and each of them remembers the events of the day in vivid detail.
Adam, in high school at the time, recalls watching on television in his classrooms through the day. The media, as bewildered and unprepared as the rest of the nation, tried to make sense of it all by replaying the scene over and over, talking endlessly about what happened and what was going to come next. The adults in his own personal world struggled to come to grips with what it meant as well. We all looked over our shoulders that day, wondering where the next attack would come from, and if we were all as vulnerable as we felt.
My little girl asked me that day if they were going to come to Kansas City and crash into our house, because for her, that was what she found most frightening. She wanted to know she was safe, and for the first time in her life, I couldn't assure her the way I normally would that all would be well. I was glad, at that moment, to live in the heartland, flyover country. I told her if we were going to be safe anywhere, it would be in the Midwest, because even our own countrymen couldn't seem to locate us. It made her feel better, but as a parent, that was small consolation.
On a personal note, I feel sympathy for my brother and his lovely bride, because they were married on September 11, 1998, ten years ago today. While, as he once rightly told me, they had the day first, and it surely is a day to honor because he and his wife found their soul mates, it is still a little hard to go out and celebrate while everyone else is mourning the destruction of the Twin Towers and the loss of life that occurred because of it.
For my own generation, I think the assassination of John F. Kennedy was probably that redefining moment. Although I was only three at the time, (I am a "barely boomer," sort of a Boom-X, really,) for the kids who were a little older, and certainly for the adults, I know it was one of those times that they look back and remember exactly where they were when they heard the news. The world was shocked and mourned with us, and we still remember that day each year, because it changed the way we understood the world, and perhaps, the way world understood us, as well.
Ironically, we have a personal connection with that day, too. My mother was born on November 22, 1926. So every year, when her birthday comes around, she gets to wake up to a reminder that this is a day for the nation to be somber and remember the dark side of human nature. And happy birthday to you. [Sometimes her birthday falls on Thanksgiving, so then she gets completely eclipsed. It's a good thing she's a Minnesota Lutheran, thus can just accept it as her cross to bear.]
Speaking of my mother, for her generation, the watershed moment of change was, of course, December 7, 1942, when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor and the United States was dragged, kicking and resisting, into World War II. They say history is written by the winner, which is, of course, strictly speaking, quite true. One of the problems with that is the loss of perspective, because it is presented as a sure thing. But the outcome, while always believed in, was not assured, and the struggle was desperate and genuine.
That day of infamy is gradually fading from our collective consciousness, as those who lived through it, and were changed by it, pass away from this earth. But it was truly an event that changed the course of the world, and for those who were a part of it, it changed them. And so we have all been changed.
For my grandparents, the obvious life shattering event was the Great Depression. Even the very wealthiest Americans were not sheltered from the events of that time, as the country went suddenly from boom to bust, almost overnight.
My own relatives, farmers all, were more fortunate than some, perhaps, because they had the opportunity to live off their own land. Although there were many hardships, don't even get me started on rumagrout, my mother had food on her table every day, and a roof that had been over her family's heads for three generations. For those in the city, soup lines and families living in desperate straights were all too common. The hardships were in plain sight, shared by most, and it changed how the nation viewed those less fortunate.
Those times were the root of programs that continue to lift families from the depths of poverty and homelessness even today. No matter what you may feel about welfare and social security and all the other social programs, we as a nation are undeniably better for showing our concern for, and sharing our national wealth with, those who have fallen off the edge.
It is ironic, I think, that we as a country are at our best when we are at our most vulnerable. It is in those times that our true national character emerges, and the spirit that created this nation is most visible.
We are, on the surface of things, a fractured, contentious group, unable to see any other point of view, demanding, greedy, and in election season, unreasonable and downright hateful to others whose opinions do not mirror our own. But underneath the superficial flaws there lies great compassion and strength, a dedication to justice and freedom, not only for ourselves, but for all people.
That is what makes me proud to be an American today and every day. I have never doubted for a single moment that we, as a nation and as individuals, will rise to any occasion, will make any sacrifice, that is necessary to preserve not only our freedom and our rights, but those of the very people with whom we disagree.
Although it scares the enemies of this great nation, we continue, each new day, to embody the final words of the Declaration of Independence, which read:
"We mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor."
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
On small towns....
The last few days we have heard quite a bit about the virtue of living in small town America, as if Mayberry is real, and Lake Wobegon is Oh-so-here. Well, I have news for those who have never lived in a small town - that is actually sort of how it is. Except when it's not. Which is often. Meaning, small towns, like everywhere, have good points and bad points, and usually the perception is not the reality.
I grew up in a small town. I am a hick, in fact. I know. Gasp. While my big city exterior may have confused you, I am, in fact, a farm girl at heart. I graduated from high school with 85 other silly teenagers, which means I was about as prepared for the real world as a less engaging Opie Taylor. Naturally, in response, I went to college, got married, had kids, and moved to the big city.
Raising city kids, I have now seen the other side, and I have realized there are a lot of pressures in growing up in a metropolitan area. But don't kid yourself, small towns have dramas of their own, and the shoals can be just as dangerous to navigate. You haven't lived until your misdeeds preceded your arrival home, because six people called your mother before you could get to her first.
Just kidding. I never did anything to warrant that kind of reporting. Coincidence? I don't think so.
When I go back to my small town to visit my mom, I am instantly returned to childhood, a time when walking down the street almost guaranteed you would run into five people you knew, some of them related. My kids are always amused to go visit their Grandma, although it's not nearly as fun since Bergh Drug Store went away. We never fail to see people who remember me from when I was little, and they are amused to find out I was not always as perfect as I am now. Okay, I'm not perfect, but I'm pretty fair. Well, I'm not too bad. Uff, all right, I'm good enough. Happy now?
My little community had about 1500 people living inside the city limits, and a lot more living on the farms that surrounded the town. We had 13 Lutheran churches, one Catholic church, two grocery stores, a hardware store, a drug store, and a five and dime. We also had a men's clothing store and a women's clothing store. This was before there was a mall on every corner, and buying something by mail was a Big Deal. So going to town was pretty exciting for a kid. You just never knew what would happen In Town.
Of course, it was not as exciting as when my mother was a girl. She has regaled us with stories of her exploits walking the busy streets of that same small town on a Saturday evening in her youth. NO, not those kinds of exploits.
When my mother was young, going to town was an exciting adventure, because everyone else went to town one evening a week, too. Stores stayed open late on Friday night so everyone could come in from the country to buy groceries and whatever else they needed. So on a Friday night in the summer, the streets would be full of people, shopping, talking, socializing. It was a community event, just like you would imagine in small town America. While the adults would visit and catch up on the news of the week, the teens would stroll the sidewalks, walking up one side of the street and down the other, checking out the competition, and what everyone else's families were up to. I am not joshing, this was big fun.
It was during the Great War, World War II, and everything was in short supply, including money. Walking the street was free, and it allowed you to share your life challenges with other people who had it just as bad as you did. My mother and her siblings did not just hop into the car [or was it a buggy? That could be just a nasty rumor....] and run off to town any old time they were bored. That was something that required planning and coordination, so everyone would have an opportunity to do whatever they needed to accomplish.
On the upside, everyone knew everyone, which means everyone knew everyone else's children, too. So crime was not exactly a wave back then. More of a twitch, really. One that got back to your parents long before you did. And parents back then weren't afraid of hurting their children's delicate egos, either. They punished, because they wanted to be sure you not only never did something like that again, they didn't even want you entertaining the thought.
My uncle Fritz was a bit of a handful, as we have heard him tell it. I have known him to allow that it's entirely possible if he had been raised in a city instead of on a farm, he may have been classed as a juvenile delinquent. Which is pretty ironic, since he grew up to be a truly God fearing, fantastic person, who volunteers in a prison ministry, among other things. Anyway, he has a few stories to tell, but the pertinent one for today is about a field, a horse, a wagon, and a couple of boys who were not kept adequately busy.
It was, as I recall the story, [and rest assured, if I have the details wrong, I have several relatives who will be happy to weigh in and correct me,] a nice sunny late afternoon, and my uncle and his friend from down the road, who went by the name of Buddy, were together, thinking up mayhem they could commit. I am not entirely sure what got into them, but on this day, I guess Satan held out a particularly shiny, juicy apple, and they could not resist taking a bite.
Anyway, Buddy's dad had just spent the day setting up shocks of oats in the field between the two houses. [I am going to let my uncle tell the rest of this story, because he tells it better than I do.]
But first, a shock, for any youngsters who may be reading this, were back breaking work, done by hand. Here is an explanation of what they are, and how they are done, straight from my very own mother. Consider yourselves fortunate to be able to hear from her.
Starting with the grain field, let's say an oats field, when the grain is ripe and golden it is cut with a binder. It's called a binder because there is twine in it that ties the grain stalks into just the right size bundles. These bundles when tied come out of the machine and just lie there on the ground. As soon as possible the shocker, the person who does the work, picks up a bundle one in each hand and places them together, one standing against the other, so they're leaning against each other. Then he takes two more and places them next to the two that are standing together. He probably will take two more and set it along side the four that are standing. When finished, this is called a shock.
After a week or two, when the grain is very dry, the farmer comes with his team of horses and a wagon and loads the shocks onto the wagon. He brings them to the barn yard where the threshing machine is located, and the bundles are tossed into the machine where the grain is separated from the straw. The grain comes out a leg of the threshing machine into a pick-up truck that brings it to the granary and the straw is blown onto a pile to be used in the winter for bedding for the cattle.
The oats are stored in the granary to be ground into feed for the chickens and the other farm animals, ie cows, pigs, horses.
Two bundles are usually saved to be put on two stakes that are attached on either side of a small out building such as a small corn crib which will feed the birds in the winter. These bundles are usually put out on Christmas Eve Day.
Here is the rest of the story, in my uncle's words. "We were driving a team of horses. So when we saw this inviting field of shocked oats, we said, 'lets do it.' What happened is that as the horses straddled the row of bundles in full gallop, the bundles would go airborne behind us. Quite a sight." Apparently, this was pretty big fun, right up until they realized Buddy's dad was watching them wend their way through that field, stalks flying every which way behind them, like a little hurricane moving across the landscape.
I will allow my uncle some dignity, and spare him the humiliation of public exposure on the discipline front, but I think it's safe to say that was a very long evening living with the land. And I think it's a sure bet he never did that again, or anything remotely like it. Which makes me think, perhaps those old people, our grandparents, might have known a thing or two about child rearing.
My own parents were not exactly worried about the psyche of their hot house flower, either. Punishment was doled out pretty liberally, as earned, and I don't remember anyone feeling bad about it, either, except maybe me. Well, probably not even me, since I usually knew it was all my fault, anyway. My mother, in particular, was never shy about who was in control, and it was not me. So if I was foolish enough to think I was going to be one up on her, I would soon be thinking again. However, that did not prevent me from trying. On one notable occasion, I was probably about three, I actually turned to a life of crime.
There was one grocery store in town that had a very sweet clerk, who would slip me a small piece of candy whenever we went through her check-out. Like most children would, I really looked forward to that candy, and didn't realize that it was a gift, freely given, not an entitlement. On that fateful day, we went to the store, and the piece of candy was not forthcoming. I'm not sure why, but for whatever reason, it seemed she wasn't going to give me my prize. So I figured I would just take the pressure off her and go ahead and select my own piece of candy.
Naturally, since I was choosing, I went for the biggest piece, a chocolate bar, the largest one on that rack. I plucked it from it's box, and had just the smallest twinge of fear that perhaps I had overstepped, but I really, really wanted it, so I overrode my misgivings. We walked out to the car, my mom and I, with the candy bar held sort of out of mom's line of sight, just in case I had pulled a bone headed move. I was already developing a keen sense of when I was poised for big trouble, and by that point, my radar was on high alert.
Is anyone surprised to learn that my mother spied that candy bar, and immediately honed in on the implications? Like my brother, she tries to make sure things are clear, so she asked me where I got the candy bar. She knew she hadn't paid for it, and I was not independently wealthy, so it was probably pretty clear to her that I had walked out of that store with stolen goods. But I was not all that bright, so I said, "She gave it to me." I still remember that tight, pinched look my mother got on her face, disappointment and anger and irritation all rolled into one. Even then, I could tell she wasn't going to buy that whopper.
My mother, fair minded as always, gave me another chance to do the right thing, and said, "She who?" There I was, caught with the ill gotten gains melting in my hand from the heat of all my lies, when I suddenly had the enlightened thought that the truth may serve me better in the current predicament. So I bravely admitted my lie, said I had taken it, and hung my head, no doubt going off like a sprinkler to put out the fire from the hot goods I was holding.
My lovely mother was not impressed. Have you noticed how all the parenting books these days advise parents to notice only the positive things their kids do, reward the appropriate behavior, and ignore the negative? If you don't notice, goes the theory, it will go away. I personally have not noticed that working especially well at the grocery store, Target, or church, although I have observed that today's parents do seem to have substantial hearing loss. My mother was not blind, deaf, or stupid. I was caught chocolate handed, and I was not getting away.
She marched me right back into that store, talk about your walk of shame, and made me 'fess up about what I had done. I am sure that I looked miserable and pathetic, because that is certainly how I felt, but I don't recall anyone going easy on me. The clerk took the candy bar back, shooting disapproving glances at me, while everyone in town certainly knew of my disgrace. Or at least, so I imagined. We went home, and I don't remember any further punishment, so I suspect my mother knew the humiliation had been what I needed, and decided to let those consequences speak for themselves. And I am here to tell you, I don't take a penny off the sidewalk today without checking around to be sure I'm not grabbing it from it's rightful owner.
I don't pretend to have all the answers to life's serious problems. The world is a much different place than it was when I was a child, and more different yet from when my mother was young. When you are on the outside looking in, small towns may give the illusion that they are a place where time stands still, that Mayberry can be found in rural America even today, and Aunt Bee just might be waiting for us on the porch with a smile and piece of pie. But I notice Opie grew up and moved away, and even Andy and Helen went to Mount Pilate. Although Mayberry is fun to visit, when you have to make the big choices in life, some of us just need the city lights. Maybe we're afraid of the dark.
I grew up in a small town. I am a hick, in fact. I know. Gasp. While my big city exterior may have confused you, I am, in fact, a farm girl at heart. I graduated from high school with 85 other silly teenagers, which means I was about as prepared for the real world as a less engaging Opie Taylor. Naturally, in response, I went to college, got married, had kids, and moved to the big city.
Raising city kids, I have now seen the other side, and I have realized there are a lot of pressures in growing up in a metropolitan area. But don't kid yourself, small towns have dramas of their own, and the shoals can be just as dangerous to navigate. You haven't lived until your misdeeds preceded your arrival home, because six people called your mother before you could get to her first.
Just kidding. I never did anything to warrant that kind of reporting. Coincidence? I don't think so.
When I go back to my small town to visit my mom, I am instantly returned to childhood, a time when walking down the street almost guaranteed you would run into five people you knew, some of them related. My kids are always amused to go visit their Grandma, although it's not nearly as fun since Bergh Drug Store went away. We never fail to see people who remember me from when I was little, and they are amused to find out I was not always as perfect as I am now. Okay, I'm not perfect, but I'm pretty fair. Well, I'm not too bad. Uff, all right, I'm good enough. Happy now?
My little community had about 1500 people living inside the city limits, and a lot more living on the farms that surrounded the town. We had 13 Lutheran churches, one Catholic church, two grocery stores, a hardware store, a drug store, and a five and dime. We also had a men's clothing store and a women's clothing store. This was before there was a mall on every corner, and buying something by mail was a Big Deal. So going to town was pretty exciting for a kid. You just never knew what would happen In Town.
Of course, it was not as exciting as when my mother was a girl. She has regaled us with stories of her exploits walking the busy streets of that same small town on a Saturday evening in her youth. NO, not those kinds of exploits.
When my mother was young, going to town was an exciting adventure, because everyone else went to town one evening a week, too. Stores stayed open late on Friday night so everyone could come in from the country to buy groceries and whatever else they needed. So on a Friday night in the summer, the streets would be full of people, shopping, talking, socializing. It was a community event, just like you would imagine in small town America. While the adults would visit and catch up on the news of the week, the teens would stroll the sidewalks, walking up one side of the street and down the other, checking out the competition, and what everyone else's families were up to. I am not joshing, this was big fun.
It was during the Great War, World War II, and everything was in short supply, including money. Walking the street was free, and it allowed you to share your life challenges with other people who had it just as bad as you did. My mother and her siblings did not just hop into the car [or was it a buggy? That could be just a nasty rumor....] and run off to town any old time they were bored. That was something that required planning and coordination, so everyone would have an opportunity to do whatever they needed to accomplish.
On the upside, everyone knew everyone, which means everyone knew everyone else's children, too. So crime was not exactly a wave back then. More of a twitch, really. One that got back to your parents long before you did. And parents back then weren't afraid of hurting their children's delicate egos, either. They punished, because they wanted to be sure you not only never did something like that again, they didn't even want you entertaining the thought.
My uncle Fritz was a bit of a handful, as we have heard him tell it. I have known him to allow that it's entirely possible if he had been raised in a city instead of on a farm, he may have been classed as a juvenile delinquent. Which is pretty ironic, since he grew up to be a truly God fearing, fantastic person, who volunteers in a prison ministry, among other things. Anyway, he has a few stories to tell, but the pertinent one for today is about a field, a horse, a wagon, and a couple of boys who were not kept adequately busy.
It was, as I recall the story, [and rest assured, if I have the details wrong, I have several relatives who will be happy to weigh in and correct me,] a nice sunny late afternoon, and my uncle and his friend from down the road, who went by the name of Buddy, were together, thinking up mayhem they could commit. I am not entirely sure what got into them, but on this day, I guess Satan held out a particularly shiny, juicy apple, and they could not resist taking a bite.
Anyway, Buddy's dad had just spent the day setting up shocks of oats in the field between the two houses. [I am going to let my uncle tell the rest of this story, because he tells it better than I do.]
But first, a shock, for any youngsters who may be reading this, were back breaking work, done by hand. Here is an explanation of what they are, and how they are done, straight from my very own mother. Consider yourselves fortunate to be able to hear from her.
Starting with the grain field, let's say an oats field, when the grain is ripe and golden it is cut with a binder. It's called a binder because there is twine in it that ties the grain stalks into just the right size bundles. These bundles when tied come out of the machine and just lie there on the ground. As soon as possible the shocker, the person who does the work, picks up a bundle one in each hand and places them together, one standing against the other, so they're leaning against each other. Then he takes two more and places them next to the two that are standing together. He probably will take two more and set it along side the four that are standing. When finished, this is called a shock.
After a week or two, when the grain is very dry, the farmer comes with his team of horses and a wagon and loads the shocks onto the wagon. He brings them to the barn yard where the threshing machine is located, and the bundles are tossed into the machine where the grain is separated from the straw. The grain comes out a leg of the threshing machine into a pick-up truck that brings it to the granary and the straw is blown onto a pile to be used in the winter for bedding for the cattle.
The oats are stored in the granary to be ground into feed for the chickens and the other farm animals, ie cows, pigs, horses.
Two bundles are usually saved to be put on two stakes that are attached on either side of a small out building such as a small corn crib which will feed the birds in the winter. These bundles are usually put out on Christmas Eve Day.
Here is the rest of the story, in my uncle's words. "We were driving a team of horses. So when we saw this inviting field of shocked oats, we said, 'lets do it.' What happened is that as the horses straddled the row of bundles in full gallop, the bundles would go airborne behind us. Quite a sight." Apparently, this was pretty big fun, right up until they realized Buddy's dad was watching them wend their way through that field, stalks flying every which way behind them, like a little hurricane moving across the landscape.
I will allow my uncle some dignity, and spare him the humiliation of public exposure on the discipline front, but I think it's safe to say that was a very long evening living with the land. And I think it's a sure bet he never did that again, or anything remotely like it. Which makes me think, perhaps those old people, our grandparents, might have known a thing or two about child rearing.
My own parents were not exactly worried about the psyche of their hot house flower, either. Punishment was doled out pretty liberally, as earned, and I don't remember anyone feeling bad about it, either, except maybe me. Well, probably not even me, since I usually knew it was all my fault, anyway. My mother, in particular, was never shy about who was in control, and it was not me. So if I was foolish enough to think I was going to be one up on her, I would soon be thinking again. However, that did not prevent me from trying. On one notable occasion, I was probably about three, I actually turned to a life of crime.
There was one grocery store in town that had a very sweet clerk, who would slip me a small piece of candy whenever we went through her check-out. Like most children would, I really looked forward to that candy, and didn't realize that it was a gift, freely given, not an entitlement. On that fateful day, we went to the store, and the piece of candy was not forthcoming. I'm not sure why, but for whatever reason, it seemed she wasn't going to give me my prize. So I figured I would just take the pressure off her and go ahead and select my own piece of candy.
Naturally, since I was choosing, I went for the biggest piece, a chocolate bar, the largest one on that rack. I plucked it from it's box, and had just the smallest twinge of fear that perhaps I had overstepped, but I really, really wanted it, so I overrode my misgivings. We walked out to the car, my mom and I, with the candy bar held sort of out of mom's line of sight, just in case I had pulled a bone headed move. I was already developing a keen sense of when I was poised for big trouble, and by that point, my radar was on high alert.
Is anyone surprised to learn that my mother spied that candy bar, and immediately honed in on the implications? Like my brother, she tries to make sure things are clear, so she asked me where I got the candy bar. She knew she hadn't paid for it, and I was not independently wealthy, so it was probably pretty clear to her that I had walked out of that store with stolen goods. But I was not all that bright, so I said, "She gave it to me." I still remember that tight, pinched look my mother got on her face, disappointment and anger and irritation all rolled into one. Even then, I could tell she wasn't going to buy that whopper.
My mother, fair minded as always, gave me another chance to do the right thing, and said, "She who?" There I was, caught with the ill gotten gains melting in my hand from the heat of all my lies, when I suddenly had the enlightened thought that the truth may serve me better in the current predicament. So I bravely admitted my lie, said I had taken it, and hung my head, no doubt going off like a sprinkler to put out the fire from the hot goods I was holding.
My lovely mother was not impressed. Have you noticed how all the parenting books these days advise parents to notice only the positive things their kids do, reward the appropriate behavior, and ignore the negative? If you don't notice, goes the theory, it will go away. I personally have not noticed that working especially well at the grocery store, Target, or church, although I have observed that today's parents do seem to have substantial hearing loss. My mother was not blind, deaf, or stupid. I was caught chocolate handed, and I was not getting away.
She marched me right back into that store, talk about your walk of shame, and made me 'fess up about what I had done. I am sure that I looked miserable and pathetic, because that is certainly how I felt, but I don't recall anyone going easy on me. The clerk took the candy bar back, shooting disapproving glances at me, while everyone in town certainly knew of my disgrace. Or at least, so I imagined. We went home, and I don't remember any further punishment, so I suspect my mother knew the humiliation had been what I needed, and decided to let those consequences speak for themselves. And I am here to tell you, I don't take a penny off the sidewalk today without checking around to be sure I'm not grabbing it from it's rightful owner.
I don't pretend to have all the answers to life's serious problems. The world is a much different place than it was when I was a child, and more different yet from when my mother was young. When you are on the outside looking in, small towns may give the illusion that they are a place where time stands still, that Mayberry can be found in rural America even today, and Aunt Bee just might be waiting for us on the porch with a smile and piece of pie. But I notice Opie grew up and moved away, and even Andy and Helen went to Mount Pilate. Although Mayberry is fun to visit, when you have to make the big choices in life, some of us just need the city lights. Maybe we're afraid of the dark.
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