Small-Town Windows

There is a Blue Spruce that stands outside my bedroom window—no one ever expected that it would grow quite to the extent it has— “It’s a Fat Albert Blue Spruce—it’ll never be taller than eight feet,” Brad had told my mom.  Mom attributes its enormity to vocal admiration and praise— “you are so beautiful,” “you are so strong,” “look at the charming, blue growth at the tips of your boughs,” “Aren’t you the prettiest thing?”  

Before my view was blocked by this pretentious pine tree, I could see quite a bit. Blondie had purplish hair and a pink house kitty-corner to ours. She wasn’t around much. Belle was to the North. She was a quiet and kind old woman, and she was hard of hearing. Of course, you couldn’t determine that from observing from across the street, but you could when you heard a wee belch in the middle of church (a belch that was thought to be adequately suppressed) or when you knocked relentlessly on her door—finally having to peek your head in to holler.

From the front-door window I saw lots of faces—when it was the Schwann’s Man, my mom would tell us to hide. I guess that was easier than telling him she still had a whole box of chicken cordon bleu in the freezer. One December evening, I looked out of the window to see my cousin giving me a round of applause. I had unknowingly performed Johnny Mathis’ “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” with some Broadway flair—arms out, standing at the top of the ladder.  The only way I could’ve descended that ladder any faster would’ve been to fall off.  

One could see the top of my dad’s head while he stomped the snow off of his feet before coming in, or my mom trying to find the house key while several bags of groceries banged against the door. Opie, our little, white Maltese could be seen sitting at the top of the stairs waiting to come in, or basking in the sun where the sidewalk ends. Joni, my best friend, would wave excitedly and walk toward the door—she didn’t wait to be let in most times. Loved ones and friends, Jehovah’s Witnesses and Kirby vacuum salesmen, these were all part of looking out of that front window.

My dad’s family lived on the same block. As a result, we could see all of his siblings’ houses from our back windows. “Looks like there is a new truck over to Clyde’s.” “Who’s that over to Maurice’s?” These comments normally meant, “Amanda, go and get my binoculars.” Don’t worry, it was like a neighborhood watch—just keeping an eye out for our kin—rest assured, just our kin.

Also from these windows, I would see Alva walking down the street and Brett speeding for the hills on his three-wheeler. Elementary-school kids would be walking home from the bus stop—throwing their backpacks up into the air or bending down to grab a snow ball. In the evening I would see dad working on the rusting Riviera—a light-bulb clipped to the hood—rubbing his greasy hands onto a blue rag. I would see Maurice and Shane stopping by with bags of corn and zucchini. Cason and Shad would be playing basketball on their sloped driveway with friends (a slope that made for quick athletes and accurate passes), and that one time I saw that one kid from the county line driving our lawnmower in our backyard acre of dirt. Dad didn’t trust him to drive the 4-wheeler even though he had been begging dad for some time. The kid didn’t get to drive the mower after that however, as from the window I could see he was trying to climb that huge pile of dirt in our south-east corner—I ran and told on him. I would see Uncle Dave walking out to Spring Creek, friends who got to play before they practiced violin, and Marilee walking to her mother’s house carrying a cat. It rained, it snowed, it was windy, it was sunny. It was life.

Sometimes in life, however, we see those raw moments of living—not something as simple as snow falling in giant flakes, or someone going about the menial tasks of the day—but, something that stirs your core. In these moments, real living takes place—you are no longer simply observing. Such was the case this particular quiet afternoon. I was 22 years old, living at home, and waiting for a missionary assignment from my church. I was alone and had probably been walking from the back bedroom toward the kitchen. What caught my eye though was the view out of my parents’ south window—it was Uncle Clyde. He had been for a ride on his 4-wheeler, but now he was just sitting there—no carrying yard tools into the carport, no taking sodas out of the outdoor fridge. Just sitting. He was alone too, and probably didn’t think anyone could see him as he was very still, just staring into the same place for a very long time. Even though I didn’t want to interrupt his thoughts, I didn’t want him to be alone. So I stayed where I was too. You see, Uncle Clyde had been diagnosed with kidney cancer. Normally a stalky six-foot-six, his face was now very thin and his frame significantly less giant-like. It was in that moment that I saw a small part of what it feels like to be at a point in life where one is unsure of their finishing point. Where the past is definitely a thing of the past and where the present literally is a gift. Every moment, every hug, every word matters. It was like I could see his hopes for his family—a wife, a daughter, two sons and their small families.  It was like I could see his sadness in leaving them behind. I could see his pain. I could see raw reality. I don’t know if he was crying, but I was. The experience was a reminder that life is real. That we live it. And that it can hurt. There was something sweet about the experience though too; maybe it was that I got to spend a little time with my uncle that day—just me and him—thinking about those real things that can draw souls together—I had never felt as close to him as I did on that day.

 I know others too, who have seen these real moments from their windows—the following is an account from a husband and father in our small-town circle who recently lost his beautiful wife to cancer:

 “Tonight as we were coming home from basketball games…, I dropped the kids off at [my sister-in-law’s house]. Then I raced home to be alone with my grief. As I crossed the…bridge into town I thought, maybe I should go to the cemetery, maybe I would find her there. So I slammed on the brakes and spun around kicking mud and gravel up as I went.
 When I got out of my car I ran to her grave. Being overcome with grief in that moment and missing her so much, all my strength was gone and I fell on her grave. I lay there for a while squeezing great clumps of dirt in my hands. Then slowly, wearied from sorrow, I rose to my knees, brushed the dirt from me and stood up.
 As I walked to my car to leave, another vehicle pulled up. It was President Chynoweth. He had watched the whole thing from his kitchen window and raced up to meet me. He threw his arms around me and let me weep on his shoulder all the while saying the kindest things to me. It was like the Savior himself was wrapping his arms around me. Oh what love, what generous love!”

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A view from our window surely cannot tell us everything about a person, but it can surely tell us a few things if our eyes are open to see them; perhaps we see that Belle needs help getting her garbage can to the street, or perhaps Uncle Vergene needs help finding his house again. Perhaps we see that although Mr. Lee can be a cranky old man, his small dog brings a smile to his face, and perhaps we are a little more understanding of his gruffness when we see a flag pole in the corner of his yard with the American Flag and a black and white “POW” waving beneath it.

Maybe a scene from our window has less to do with someone’s needs and more to do with simply recognizing our own needs in seeing life through a more present lens, a more insightful lens, a more sanguine lens—rather than scowling over a window half-full, one may recognize a beautiful Blue-Spruce that exceeds all expectation and proudly reaches its blue tips above and beyond its ever-growing potential.

Small Town Vistas

I was scrolling through Facebook when I ran into an interesting post. A caption, “What a view!” accompanying what looked like a photo—a person was sitting in the foreground observing a nature scene. Looking closer, however, I realized that this “photo” was in fact a screenshot of a video game…. A virtual view from the Lazy Boy that only required a paddle, a PlayStation, and a pair of thumbs. 

That time brings change is no headline.  Can’t buy a candy bar for a nickel, can’t by a coke for a dime, can’t even buy a coke for a dollar. There aren’t as many potato chips in the bag, eyesight isn’t what it used to be, and no one talks to each other anymore.  Kicking against the pricks of change doesn’t do much aside from causing a sore toe, but it is disheartening how some change—in particular technological change has replaced some really basic, yet wonderful aspects of life—like a hike to a real-life landscape, or a family gathering where everyone talks instead of texts, and where everyone validates with head nods and back pats instead of the casual click of the “like” button.  

I am no strict opponent to technology and change (as I sit here typing a blog post, knowing some will read it on their electronic devices), but I have lately been reminded of those real-life places and those stepping-outside-the-door sources of entertainment that have been a part of my small-town life.

This is my hometown cemetery. Early evening, before the sun goes down, this cemetery has some of the most beautiful views, and the most peaceful feelings. I say before the sun goes down, because at night, it is more of a thrill. As soon as the headlights would hit that large, overhanging gate, we were ducking our heads and trying not to look around too much—who knew what we might see. One night, after a thrilling ride through those black gates and 100-year-old headstones the car horn started honking on its own. By the time the windshield wiper started waving at us in the back window, we were pretty scared. We ditched the running car at an intersection and ran our butts home. When we told my dad the story, he just shook his head and told us to go get the car.

If you’re a small-town kid, a 4-wheeler is a big part of your childhood and beyond. Even though you may only be able to drive around your back yard in 2^nd gear for a few years, eventually you prove your abilities (an 8-year-old who accidentally hits the house may have another couple of years added to the proving period—don’t drive forward while looking in the rear-view) and are set free on the small-town streets and surrounding dirt roads. I included in this picture the lawn-mower. We got this gem when I was probably 11 or 12. When the 4-wheeler wasn’t working, it was a great substitute—with 6 speeds, this Craftsman could really get the blood pumping. If you hear anyone say you can’t ramp a lawn-mower, they’re wrong (shhh…don’t tell dad).  

The well had the best water—straight H2O without the additives. Fresh goodness that only came during irrigation months. My sister and I were sometimes sent to fill up a gallon jug for home. I would tell my friends, “Get ready to try the best water you’ll ever drink in your life.” I would teach them the trick that my dad taught me—how to channel the water into a fountain with your hand. Perhaps it wasn’t that delicious to them, but I didn’t care. It was one of my favorite places in the Spring and Summer; plus, it had the best willows for roasting marshmallows.

This is the overpass. We would cart our friends from out of town down that long lane of fields and demonstrate the fun of getting diesel trucks to honk their horns. We would run from one side to the other, slapping high-fives when we could get any type of response…well, except for the police response that came from “out-of-towners” traveling down the freeway with cell-phones. Those didn't merit high-fives, just disgusted sighs and eye rolls. We figured they simply couldn’t stand seeing kids have too much fun—“Why aren’t they at home playing video games instead of causing our serene, uneventful drive to be interrupted by a half mile of relentless honking!”

We called this the “office.” It literally had a sign that said “office.” But this was a place that became a thrill at night as well. Down a dark, unlit lane, it was a terrible place to have the 4-wheeler break down; especially when you had to leave your city friends there to wait while you went to “get help.” You’d come back to wide-eyes and stories of whatever creatures they swore they heard while you were away.

Until I was about 10, this was a place I had strict orders to avoid. Especially on Friday nights. My parents said there were too many drunks. In fact, I wasn’t allowed to go outside the house on dance-hall nights because the streets were lined with cars from out of town and out of state. Party folk coming to dance with a live band and most times, a lot of liquor. My granny used to play honky-tonk piano at this dance hall, but my mom and dad said it changed too much over time. It has been almost 20 years since my mom, as a town councilwoman, moved to make the Cobblecrest into a beautiful park. I was proud of her for changing its reputation and its look—from dirt and weeds to grass and trees. For any kid from my town, you can guarantee that we all have the same favorite holiday—the 4^th of July. The Cobblecrest has become a big part of why it is a favorite. There is a dance party for any age and if you don’t want to dance, there is plenty of grass to lay out a blanket and visit with friends.

And then there is my own acre of stomping ground. The place where my dad has the most beautifully plowed dirt in town, with a border of the most organized junk cars in town, and where my mom has made the most of the yard’s odds and ends and created a landscape masterpiece. 

This is the place where dad taught me to walk on hand-crafted stilts and where we as friends would play steal the flag for hours on Summer nights. This is where I would take a nap in the shade and wake up with sun-burned legs and a sock line and where me and my best friend would sit under the tree in our "place" and drink IBC Rootbeer from the bottle and eat treats from the local campground. This is where we would lay on the trampoline and hold hands with our crush for the first time or rename stars—who cares that that one bright star is already famously named Arcturus—to us it is CAJ 723. Casey, Amanda, Joni; July 20^th 2003. 

I'm sure most kids (and let me include adults) still enjoy views and diversions that don't involve pods, pads or PlayStation paddles--at least, I hope they do. Although these are only a few scenes that I love, there are many more--the front porch full of friends and family, a 1972 Volkswagen Beetle bursting with teenagers, and the sight atop water-tank hill--there it is, tucked against the red hillside, shrouded with trees, unknown to many a passerby on the distant freeway; my hometown. Perhaps you have had your fill of the virtual landscapes. So, close your laptop, leave your phone, and walk out your door. Your real-life view awaits....

Small Town Tragedy and Relishing the Good in the "Passed" and Present

I married a boy from this small town valley of 520 in which I now live, and naturally all of the love and loyalty I feel toward my home town, Pace feels for his. This includes the wonderful people who contribute to what his small-town experience has been—uncles, aunts, grandparents, teachers, neighbors, employers, classmates, and friends. Vance taught him how to shoot a basketball with proper technique—square that elbow, keep it tucked into your side, practice consistency, and don’t shoot with two hands. Grandpa Lester would wake Pace and his little brother, Parker, early in the morning by knocking on their bedroom window. He needed them to come and help him sheer the sheep, change sprinklers in the hay fields, or load the hay onto the back of his truck, an old black Ford with a flat-bed attached. Grandma was the designated driver for these occasions…bless her heart, she never had a drivers’ license and those damn hay bales would sometimes get right in her way. Uncle Gene and Aunt Spring would regularly invite his family over for dinner—a single mom at the time, and her five children—Pace has fond memories of their kindness toward them. Mr. B made history interesting and applicable, Phoebe helped him with his homework, and Mike was a mentor, not just a golf coach. The list goes on. Both of us have been shaped by our small town associations.

Then there are those small town tragedies—when someone unexpectedly passes on. The whole town feels it because it literally hits home. Small town tragedy has a large impact on the community—large because all are aware of the one. There is a saying that “you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.” I agree that this is often the case. How many of us have experienced a moment of bad health, and suddenly remember how great it was to simply move without the aches, or to simply sleep instead of adding to the chorus of neighborhood dogs with your barking cough. Sometimes it takes the bad to recognize the good—the anguish to recognize the joy, the loss to recognize what was once present.

A few years ago, I wrote down the following observation:

Why do we not focus on someone’s potential and beautiful attributes until the day of their funeral? I recently heard of a football player in a nearby city who died of cancer. He was 18. By the time I’d heard accounts of his knack for patience and his zeal for life, I felt like I knew him …that a piece of me had been lost, yet I had never met this kid in my life.  How many great individuals do I pass by each day and how many acquaintances do I overlook?

I am always amazed that when someone is gone, their flaws seem irrelevant; we simply remember and revere the good. You see, Zakk was adventurous and loved making connections—he regularly called Pace on the phone; “What are you into, bro?” he would ask. This would lead to a conversation about business ventures and new ideas he was eager to explore—last week he was killed in a car accident in Mexico. I will always remember his love for laughing no matter the circumstance, like the time I couldn’t get the horse shoe into the opposite pit, but somehow managed to get it into the 2^nd story window of my sister-in-law’s house—normally a situation where I would flee in embarrassment, I was able to laugh too. 

Earlier that same week, Ferrell passed away after a long battle with cancer. He had a fondness for Diet Coke and Brockle-face cows—particularly the fact that they always had a patch of white on their face or legs. It was a daily occurrence that he would drive by our house in a little, red truck with a Black Lab barking excitedly from the bed the whole way down the street. His family was his world. Whether it was preparing for the deer hunt with his kids or planning activities for the family camp-out, he was committed to making memories. 

Jace was 4 years old with a love for big equipment. He accompanied his dad on many occasions—hauling loads of gravel in semi-trucks, bailing hay on the farm, or simply helping the newest family in the neighborhood move into their home—I still remember him standing under our giant pine tree, in his over-sized Denver Broncos hat, waiting for his dad to help us finish unloading a trailer full of boxes and furniture. Shortly after his 5^th birthday, Jace passed away due to an inoperable brain tumor. His family has been an amazing example of trusting God and believing in good things to come—their knowledge of seeing their “Jace Bud” again is beautiful to behold.

Miles, Zakk’s brother, had a drowning accident the summer before his junior year. On his Facebook page, a couple of weeks before his passing, he had posted this on Facebook:  “What’s one word that describes me???” Friends responded with “Ahsome,” “Caring,” “Amazing and unforgettable,” “Smiley,” and his younger brother wrote, “Loving.” 

That same summer, only weeks later, Jesse was taken in a car accident. Jesse was 6’ 6’’ and everyone called him “Big Red.” He loved basketball and never missed a lay-up. Somewhat quiet, he was known as a gentle giant to his friends. That basketball season following the accident, his team won the state championship and held his jersey on the sidelines throughout the whole game. Only 18 students graduated in 2013, they had lost two of their boys, two of their friends. 

Steve, an avid hunter, an avid friend, and an avid fan of country music—especially Easton Corbin’s song, “Roll with It,” was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer a few years ago and although the whole community was fighting with him, he was unable to conquer the disease. He sold Pace his first hunting rifle complete with a high-quality scope. He was one of the nicest guys I had ever met. In fact, it seemed that anyone who met him thought the world of him as his funeral was packed from the front of the church to the back…packed...wall-to-wall chairs. Standing room was even difficult to find.

The list of small-town influences could go on for pages, hundreds of pages. I guess recognizing these beautiful qualities in those who have passed on isn’t just for all of us in a small town who may have felt the impact of losing these very individuals, but more for any of us who have an association with people. We can all remember and cherish the memories of those who have contributed to our circles of definition in some way, but let us also recognize who we have in the now. Don’t wait until someone is gone, before recognizing the value of their presence. Don’t wait for the grave to change that awe-inspiring potential to be admired today into a legacy to be remembered tomorrow. Let us ask ourselves, “Is there anyone that I have overlooked?” and then let us go out and meet our own potential as “loving,” “smiley,” “gentle,” “adventurous,” and “kind” people—let one of our legacies that we leave behind be our “ability to help others feel important, valued, cherished and loved.”

Painted Rocks and Circles

I was born. And as much as I don’t remember the day, I am sure my mother would say it was one of the best days of her life. Needless to say, this was a critical moment in my life…because this is when “my life” began. I was so unaware of the step I was taking onto the pathway of definition.  I guess I must have been unaware for some time, as my earliest memory is of when I was two…oddly, the memory didn’t involve anything super outstanding or traumatic, but it did have to do with M&M candies and clogging,…whatever that means.

                                (My sister is the one facing the camera, flag-waving like crazy)

After this point in my life, other memories pop up here and there, but most of these later memories involve a moment of realization or learning.  I was four when I learned that something was wrong with my great uncle next door, he regularly had the cops over for a visit and one time he drove into the Yield sign across the street. If that wasn’t odd enough, he came and yelled at me, who had happily been riding my bike in our yard, for being in the way. He was what my mom called a “drunk.” I was kind of afraid of him after that, and when I saw him driving his blue-striped truck, I kept my distance. I also kept my distance from his dog, a blue healer who apparently thought I was either a threat or a treat. I guess over time I became more accustomed to my uncle’s behavior as, even though it was rather crazy, it was less mind-boggling. No surprise when he’d show up to my grandmother’s house wearing a sweatshirt for britches.

(Great Uncle's house back in the old days....)

I also learned at a young age that not everyone was interested in buying a painted rock on a street corner. All of the business went to those little brats at the other end of town who sold cheap, watered-down lemonade. Needless to say, even a young lassie notices that only her mom enjoys paying five cents for such a gem. In order to make a profit, one must invent something that everyone needs—at least that is what my aunt says.  I regret to say, a couple of years ago I passed up an opportunity to buy a painted rock on a street corner full of kids. I still kick myself.

I learned that getting dog poop on your shoe at school was quite humiliating; I learned that even though kindergarten recesses were spent running from all the boys, the boys weren’t interested the next year, and that coaxing a chase only led to more humiliation when they pulled away and began chasing their new crush—some blond chick with an annoying giggle. I realized that not everyone wanted to be part of my “Happy Kitty Club” and that despite being five years old; my friend from piano lessons wouldn’t be coming ever again because of a “heart failure.” No surprise that after this moment, I realized that “life” was more than simply living…it involved dying.

It is quite amusing how even as I age, I still have these pockets of memories that are stirred when I drive by that old clogging station or when I see that tall, lonely house sitting on the corner of center street and 100 West—the crooked, faded yield-sign gone.  

I am reminded of the fact that everyone is going through or has gone through something every time I see the mother of my five year old friend from piano lessons. More recently I was reminded of my early business endeavors as my little two-year-old daughter, upon being told she could select any of the collectibles from Great-Grandma’s assortment, chose the only non-collectible thing that happened to be sitting there with everything else—a painted rock—and this reminded me of the fact that life is full of the beautiful circles that bring us back to our memories and lessons learned. 

I have found that some memories can be painful, but I have also realized that I wouldn’t trade them for anyone else’s. They are what build my character and keep history alive—a history full of experiences and people; people who have their own history of character-building, who experience their own various connections, whose connections involve you, and there again you have more circles in life being revealed. A circle is my favorite shape. It has no beginning and no end, but yet, it can expand as it is filled—it has potential to grow. It is continuous, it is eternal, and it represents life so beautifully. If a person were to live their life with eyes wide open, they would find it was full of these circles—reminders of the experiences and people who should not be forgotten—these experiences and these people have played important roles to this person’s character, helping to fill their circle in some way—helping them to become what they have the potential to become. 

How I Came to be a Small Town Girl: A Brief Introduction

A long time ago, in a dry, windy valley, my great, great, great grandfather, Lorenzo, settled my home town. Simply put, my family has lived in this town for generations.

 My mom and dad were next door neighbors and they had not-a-few squabbles. Such squabbles were spurred by acts such as the time my dad and his buddies pranked my mother by stealing her from her friends, taping her to the fence of the local gated community for the deceased, and then driving off, leaving her all alone. Never mind that it was Halloween night. Such badgering behavior solicited the message “Love Thy Neighbor” being written onto the window of my father’s residence. Unfortunately the message left anonymously, was not so anonymous in exposing the culprit—my mom soon found herself being packed off by him and his brothers to a nearby ditch full of irrigation water used for gardening. Pranks like these weren’t considered harassment back then.  Despite the tormenting nature of their adolescence, they eventually tied the knot several years down that somewhat jolty road.

Perhaps a small town isn’t for all young people, some might complain of insufficient entertainment or they might complain of the inconvenience of not having a convenience store or a gas station, but I would not have had it any other way. It has been said that it takes a town to raise a child—I cannot even begin to list the characteristics I have acquired as a result of being a small-town kid. Everybody knows everybody—I mean, don’t even be surprised if you receive a few calls and a few cards on your birthday from all of the ladies old enough to be your great grandmother. In my small town there are no sounds of traffic and when you hear a car, you get ready to wave because it will be someone you know. When you walk out your door you hear the open air flowing through the pine tree in your yard, you hear your best friend’s mom a few blocks down calling her home for dinner, you hear the neighbor’s cow bawling for its calf, you hear the neighborhood kids playing Steal the Flag, and sometimes late at night you hear Mary singing to her music that is up way too loud. It is Mary’s mother who, from her rocking chair adjacent to her cracked window facing the street, yells, “Elizabeth! Elizabeth!” And you respond because you know that you and your aunt, who used to play with Mary as a child, do look very similar. She calls you over and asks for your help feeding her cats; or she asks if you wouldn’t mind hanging the laundry on the line. If she is yelling from her porch, it is because she has locked herself out again and needs you to climb through the tiny bathroom window to let her in. Most often though, she hollers for you because she simply wants to talk or because she has made a pie that she wants to give away, complete with fall-esque designs in the top. You take the pie graciously, and even though you don’t always eat it, you put it on the counter and smile at it when you walk by for the next few days. But oh, if she found out you wasted it—well, that would be shameful. A depression child you see.

A small town life is a simple life—it really is. It has a slower pace, it really does, and I can compare it to an actual city experience because I do get out…I really do...on occasion. On that occasion, after being away for long, I yearn for the solitude and the small-town warmth. This warmth doesn’t come from being packed in next to a population of thousands of unknown persons, this warmth comes from the three-hundred acquaintances and friends who live at least a half-acre away. See, population for a city may just be a number, but for those of us in a small town, the population represents the many names and faces that have helped you come to love being a small town girl.