Going Home Again

4/15/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Going Home Again

            Who recalls a song about the “dear hearts and gentle people that live in my home town?” I’m pretty sure I’ll hear from Delores on this one, and when I do, I want her take on whether most of us who reach a “certain age” often revisit folks from long ago.

            My hometown was small enough for everyone to know everyone else, and a bit of everyone’s business besides. We had a lot of diversity, but it was mostly focused on personality or family structure, and folks seemed to just accept one another at face value.

Shirley’s father lived in a shack next to the soddy where her mom and the kids resided, and made no contribution to the household, but he ate meals with them and his wife did his laundry. Any commentary regarding this situation was never aired in public.

One young woman and her son lived with her father. I never knew if the husband had left, or been killed in the war. 

The music teacher managed to ship her spouse off to various ranch jobs between sprees. Milt worked for us off and on, and was good help, until his thirst overcame him. His wife was often seen dragging one or the other of her boys home by the ear, after some escapade. If she had  thoughts of using that method on Milt, no one ever heard it from her lips.

An elderly man and his middle aged son lived across the street from Grandma. Both sat on the porch to smoke and sun themselves, weather permitting; that was as far as their ambition stretched. Next door was an older woman whose two grown sons worked at odd jobs when they felt like it, but seemed content to put their feet under the maternal table most days.

Charlie and his ma, who was seldom seen except at church, lived at the edge of town. Due to his aversion to soap and water, Charlie was unpopular with his classmates, but the teacher put up with him until the day he killed a skunk on the way to school. She sent him home, and none of us saw much of him thereafter. He may have been old enough to quit school, but I’m not sure anyone ever investigated.

Ray rode his bike to a dairy near town every morning, milked the family cow that was kept there, and rode home with a full bucket balanced on the handlebars. His dad was an invalid, and there were a passel of kids who worked at any job they could find. Their clothes were often patched, but the mom, who took in wash to earn a living, made sure they didn’t resemble Charlie in manner or grooming.

It was a railroad town, so a lot of the men worked at the roundhouse or had jobs on the section. Wives raised gardens, canned, tended chickens in their backyards, and walked to the post office or store, stopping to chat with anyone they met. I never saw one of those town women drive; even the ones whose husbands could afford an automobile.

I was a country kid, as were most of my close friends. We all had fathers in residence and moms who, of necessity, drove whatever conveyance might be available, but few of us had central heat in our homes or indoor plumbing. Poor as we all were, I think we realized we were richer in many ways than Charlie, Shirley, and several of our other classmates.

My mother’s parents lived in Omaha. The other week, while there on business, I asked if we could drive by their former home. I have memories of a small, but comfortable, house in a middle class neighborhood, and was curious to see how much that area had changed. Unsurprisingly, the neighborhood, although hardly a slum, is a bit run-down. On the way out of town we drove past today’s middle class homes, which my grandparents would have considered luxurious, and then through a section of dwellings that could only be described as mansions. I’ve found myself thinking often about those people from my past, and how our society’s standards have changed.

If my grandparents aspired to a larger home, or more than one automobile, it was never voiced. I really believe they were content with what they had, and grateful for it. By the same token, none of the folks in that old home town of mine complained about their lot. Surely the moms would have liked nicer clothes, but there was no place to wear them, and no one to impress. Some of us had more to eat than others, but it was all plain fare.

Helping hands were there, in an unobtrusive way. I doubt Ray’s family could afford to pay the keep on that milk cow, and am pretty sure the dairyman never presented a feed bill. I lived in that home for several years and never heard mention of anyone on the milk route being behind on their account. We delivered at Charlie’s house same as we did at the bankers.

Here’s what else is different now. Those who had less to do with whined the least, and seemed to smile the most. They are people worth remembering, and perhaps emulating.