Small Community Interest

This week I revisited my love/hate relationship with small community interest in others, which some may call nosiness.

It all began when I called my bank and told her the account numbers where I wanted to transfer money from and to (no I haven’t mastered that online yet). I finished and the gal said, “Who am I speaking to?” I told her my name and she said, “I knew it, I knew that was your voice.” I don’t know this person very well and can’t remember ever talking to her on the telephone, but she felt and then was convinced that my voice belonged to me.

(Love living where everybody knows my name.)

A few months ago, I ran into someone at the grocery store who asked me how I was because she had heard I had been ill. She had heard this from a place where I had purchase some of my medication. What about HIPPA?

(Hate everyone knowing my business.)

For years at the end of each summer, I would go into the local post office where various postal workers would ask me if I needed a change of address form.  I would say no and ask why. I would be told that he or she had heard I was moving to the large city nearby. Every summer. It became quite amusing to me.

(Hate fabricated information being told as truth, but love the humor of it.)

A few others:

I wonder often, what’s going on at my neighbors’ homes when multiple cars are parked in the yard or along the road. Is it a death? Is it a birthday? Is it a murder? Of course it’s none of my business, and yet, that’s not our way. It is our business. It’s our reality and you can’t change our minds.

(Love that I notice my neighbors and they--me, and that I’m not ignored.)

I wonder why my meticulous neighbor’s grass is nearly a foot tall. Is he sick? Is he travelling? Is he dead in his house and no one knows? None of my business? I think I’ll check.

(Love how we think we are taking care of each other.)

I wonder whose untagged cow lays dead in the ditch apparently a victim of a car crash. Who didn’t fix his/her fence? Who does not own up to the cow being out because he/she might be sued?

(Hate having to dodge farm machinery on the highways, and cows, and horses. Love having to dodge farm machinery on the highways, and cows and horses.)

Love and Hate. As my mom has told me, there is a fine line between love and hate, a relationship of similarity. We can love and hate something in the same breath.

Significance of Community

I must admit, I have been aggravated by the lack of privacy in my rural community, and yet, there is something satisfying about walking into local restaurants and stores and being identified that makes you feel like a rock star. During my own personal “hard times” my community has rallied around me. There are always friends who don’t make an appearance, but there is always the extended family--of friends called community.  It's my reality and I love it.





Photo source: Ruralhood

Minnie

I was fortunate to know both my grandmas, to live near them, and to drink in their existence and experience.  My maternal grandmother, Sadie Dugan, was a loving presence in my life until I was 26 years old. My paternal grandmother, Minnie Powell, lived until I was 41.  I was truly blessed by both women.

When I think of my maternal grandmother I think of kindness, her faith in God, and a constant profession of love for me. When  I think of my paternal grandmother I think of style, wizard of creating all things beautiful, and an elder for moral support.

I miss my grandmothers.


Today, I reminisce about my maternal grandmother Minnie M. Pitts-Powell from whom I get my creative genes, which comes in handy.




Here are some memorable quotes from her that have lingered in my mind:

"It won't matter in a hundred years."

"Englebert Humperdink can park his shoes under my bed anytime." (I nearly had a heart attack after hearing my grandmother's confession.)

"If they don't ask, we won't tell because it's none of their business." (She was a very private person.)

"That's nonsense." (This might have worked against me, since I am full of nonsense.)

My grandmother Minnie was three or four inches shorter than myself at probably 5'2" or 5"3". She had red curly hair and kept it red until her dementia no longer allowed her to remember how to take care of it.

She told me that she had always wanted to be a nurse, but her folks didn't think it was the proper thing for a young woman to do...see naked people.  She became a hairdresser instead.

My grandmother Minnie could take anything and make it beautiful. She could take second hand clothing and make me gorgeous dresses. They weren't typical dresses, but fancy dresses. She invented taking old or discarded furniture and making it new and useful again. She reupholstered furniture, knew how to use tools, and could have opened a restaurant...her cooking was that good.

Minnie Powell worked very hard. She helped her husband on their farm and then still had to cook, take care of the children, do laundry, and keep house the old fashion way. She was tough and really didn't like "nonsense".

She loved my grandfather very much and told me so regularly. She loved her four children. And she loved me, even though she didn't say it much, but was always available for anything I needed. She made my wedding dress, my bridesmaids' dresses, and a garter for my skinny little leg.

Grandma Minnie also came to my rescue once when I really thought I was in danger. My husband and I had just signed up for life insurance. Our son was almost a year old.  The insurance agent was definitely interested in me; I have radar for things like that. I thought he was creepy from the start. But, the hubby was there, we signed, and the man left. Even as he left, he invaded my sacred personal space. Sure I go overboard with personal space, but this man was caressing my arm when my husband wasn't looking.

My job at that time was a stay at home mom.  Around 9 a.m. the next morning, I received a telephone call from the insurance agent. He told me he had forgotten to have us sign some kind of authorization. I was only 22, but red flags were flying to get my attention. I told him, no problem my husband worked in the city and he would come over after he got off from work. The agent was insistent saying that he needed it to be signed immediately. I told him, I could get it signed for him at lunch then. I made the mistake of telling him we only had one working car at that moment.  I told him it made no sense for him to drive nearly 40 miles when my husband was in the same city. Then he told me he had to come my way anyway and would be there within the hour.

I was alarmed.

We all have instincts within, if we will listen and I knew something wasn't right about that man and his mission, and I had a toddler to think about as well. (Today, of course, I would tell him what he could do with the paper and where he might go with the paper, but I wasn't that bold yet.)

Immediately, I made a phone call to Grandma Minnie and told her what I was thinking and asked if she could she come over? Within fifteen minutes, she was at my house. When the insurance agent arrived and walked in, his eyes grew with surprise as when he saw I was not alone. As grandma put it, she could see right away he was shifty and wasn't expecting me to have company. I think she saved the day for me. When he left, he put his hand on my shoulder and told me with his face turned away from my grandmother,  how pretty I looked. (I was in men's overalls.)  My Irish temper finally took over and I shrugged his hand from my shoulder and opened the door for him to leave.

Grandma stayed a couple more hours. I'm sure she saved the day.

Her feisty and creative genes live in me and I appreciate it.

Significance of Family: Rural areas are often a fair distance from towns and cities. Many times, if the youth stay in the area, they have many generations at their disposal. Rural people rely on their family members not only for love, but for support in many areas.  Often, I've called my parents and my grandmothers for advice and direction.  I also had many aunts, uncles, and cousins growing up around me. They all enriched my life experience.

Stay tuned for memories of my Grandmother Sadie Dugan.

Automobiles

These are some of the cars from my youth.

Enjoy!

The Rambler

(Can't remember the make)

I want to say this is a Morris Minor. I loved this car. I loved riding in it too.  I clearly remember thinking that when I grew up I wanted to live in this car. (Isn't my dad cool?)

My family are all about the VW's. I've owned two myself. What I want you to notice is the convertible that my folks passed to me to drive when I got my license. I was in convertible heaven. It became unreliable, however, and I had to stop driving it.

I think this Pontiac was my mom's all time favorite car. 

These are just a few of the many cars that had something to do with transporting me during my youth.

Do you have a favorite car or memory from your youth?

School Time, ahh!

The grade school that I attended in the early sixties had no kindergarten. My school career began in first grade. I learned a lot from my first year in school.

I remember walking in the front doors, big doors. Then I had to walk up a flight of stairs 10-20 and down the wood floored hallway where all the high school classes were held. I had to walk past the big kids. It seemed like a long hallway.

I smelled food cooking. The cafeteria was in the basement or what seemed like the basement, but in realty was probably the first floor.

I loved my first grade/second grade teacher, Mrs. Looney. She was so kind. My school contained two grades in one classroom. Mrs. (Beulah) Looney was my teacher. She was born on the fourth of July and lived to be over a hundred years old and only spent three or four in a care center. I learned some basic life experience in my first grade year...rural street smarts I like to call it.

I learned I could have a boyfriend who would push me in my swing at recess. (Yes, that is David to my right. He was also my carnival candidate partner. David was an older man--second grade.)

I learned that those siblings that go to school feel superior over those who have to stay at home.

I learned once you go to school, it's a downhill push--meaning you'll always be expected to attend.

I learned that in a rural area you can't get away with anything, because...everyone knows everyone in your family.

I learned how to read. "Tom! Betty! See Flip run." (Susan said this in case you're interested.)

I learned I could walk through the neighbors' yards all by myself to get to the school. (My mother watched me the entire way, but I didn't know that until much much later.)

I learned that hot dogs can make you and the entire school deathly ill if not cooked properly.

I learned what it took to get me to the next level: second grade.

I learned to make friends.

I learned that school makes you tired.

And that was my first school experience.

Wonderings

I’ve been told a few times, I think too much. But honestly this must have come from my rural childhood where I had to think up things to do. I had to use my imagination. Even today, I continue to wonder and think about everything. I love that about me...that I’m a thinker.

Here were some of my thoughts:

I wondered, as I played with Barbie in the mid 1960’s, if I would “look” like her when I grew up. I don't. I hated when they changed the Barbie body to look more realistic more mainstream. Really, what girl wants to dream of looking realistic and mainstream? Not me. I wanted to look like Barbie. I thought my big busted, small waisted, dark haired Barbie was perfect.

As a rural kid, I thought it was ridiculous that I was sent to the principal’s office in second grade for talking too much in class. I thought it was cruel to ask us to raise our hand to ask or answer questions, but, we couldn’t ask or answer questions of our classmates, in the middle of class. I thought this was a bit restrictive.

As a child, I didn’t think I would live to the ripe old age of 16. I mourned this thought often because I wanted to get my driver’s license. I wanted to drive. Then I didn’t think I would live to see the age of 30 and wrote my husband and children letters of appreciation and love. I didn’t think I would live to see the year 2000. So when I was in Dallas on New Year’s Eve 1999, I thought it might be my last night. (I also took flashlights in my luggage in case all electrical grids failed, remember that?) I guess you know by now that wasn’t my last night. I’m pretty sure I won’t live to be 100 years of age. And don’t try to talk me out of that one.

It may be true--I think too much.

If you are an over thinker, you are my friend and perhaps I will adopt you as family. Do you have an example of over thinking? I actually prefer to call it...a good imagination.

Rural Play

What can a child do for play when he or she lives far into the countryside?

Learn how to ride a tricycle.

Make friends with the grandparents- and the dog. "Come here, Poochy, Poochy. Let's go inside."

Make friends with all living chickens.

"They will never take your head, I swear, not as long as you keep this string on your leg."

Make friends with aunts who own hula hoops.

"Is that doll walking?"

Make friends with your own dolls. "Shh, don't tell the others, but you are my favorite."

Finally, when all else fails.

Boss!

Significance of Entertainment: When I was a child, I certainly used my imagination seemingly more so than the children of today. I can't remember a time when I had to be entertained. I entertained myself. I've never liked the phrase "I'm bored" and didn't let my children get away with saying they were bored. If they couldn't find something to do (I would tell them) I would find something FOR them to do. Even today, I don't get bored. I think it's because I can always find something to challenge or entertain my brain.

We are, after all, in charge of our own contentment.

How about you? What did you entertain yourself with as child?

Father's Day

I know I'm blessed to have known and to have grown up with both my parents, in the same home. Here are a few things I want to say about my dad.

Photo: James Dean Dad and me. (Some babies are just too cute for words.)

Growing up with him, as my dad, was often exciting. He has been called the Indiana Jones of MO. He was always exploring Missouri landscape or caves. He often rescued Indian artifacts from the farmer's plows and preserved them with care as if they were his own family treasures. I saw him nurse all kinds of wild critters back to health when they had been injured. If they were afraid of him, they weren't so much at the end.  Because of his ease with wildlife, I can hold a snake or a frog and not feel threatened.

I saw blocks of wood and sticks intricately carved into statues and walking sticks or canes. I saw blank canvas turned into familiar scenes or new places.

And he's always liked storytelling through writing. 

He loves history. He’s been in civil war reenactments. He’s been in community skits. He’s written for our local newspapers and other Missouri publications. He also had an acting part where he rode a horse (may have been his own) in an independently made movie.

A Memory: In the mid 1970’s a snow storm hit our area knocking out power and piling snow on the roadways. And I mean piling. We were stuck and without electricity for at least a week.  I was into reading classics then too and after reading the first few chapters of Jane Eyre had finally become interested. I was invested and now wanted desperately to read my book and tried to do so by whatever light we had: candles, kerosene lamps and flashlights. My dad decided, however, I needed to take a break, that I might be straining my eyes. He read one of his futuristic stories to us. Although I don’t remember the details of the story, I do remember it was about earth and how disease (I think) had wiped out most of the world's population. There was, of course, more to it than that, but what I remember most was the mood and how I related our circumstance (feeling isolated) to the character's circumstance in the story.

Interests: My dad and I have interests that are shared. We both like writing, drawing, and singing. We love creatures of all kinds (our whole family does). Oh and we both like buzzards.

Lessons learned: One of the best lessons I learned from my dad was something (and still in my mind) he told us growing up. He said, we needed to be fair to all people and not discriminate against anyone because of race or social status.

Best Gifts: My dad has been a trustworthy presence to me in my darkest hours. But, the best gift that he has given me is his love and commitment to my mom and their marriage. If you are wondering, this is the best gift you can give your children, too. Although my parent’s relationship like everyone’s has not been trouble free, they both have been committed to each other,  never giving up.

Photo: Indiana Jones Dad



Happy Father’s Day, Dad.