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.