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.