The Family Pecking Order -- A Memoir

Chapter 5: Small Towns

Thankfully, I was able to have some special one-on-one time with Aunt Louise before she died because she went to Uncle Fatty's funeral with me. She was living in the same city in Ohio where I live with my family. No one in her immediate family was able to take off work or school to drive her mid-week when the funeral was scheduled, so Aunt Louise asked if she could go to the funeral with me. It is a pleasant five-hour drive from the flatlands of Ohio over to the rolling hills of southern Indiana. I have enjoyed it on my own many times going to visit my family when my parents were still alive. But this time, I was glad to have the company of my favorite aunt.

Aunt Louise had known Uncle Fatty and all of my Daddy's brothers and sisters practically her whole life. All her brothers and sisters knew them too. Both of my grandparents raised their families in the small farm towns and communities of the same general area, within miles of one other. Their children had gone to the same schools since there was only one Catholic grade school and one Catholic high school. Some of the families attended the same Catholic Church for Sunday Mass. Both families came together at the several Catholic churches in the region to attend the weddings, baptisms, and funerals that followed over the years as children grew up and other family members passed on.

In case this is not your experience, let me tell you something. Everybody knows everybody in a small town! Much to the chagrin of many and the embarrassment of some, everyone also knows everyone else's business. It's close to "Mission Impossible" to keep a secret for very long. Maybe there's something in the water in small towns that breeds a gossip gene. Or maybe it's because there's nothing much to do in most small, rural towns.

This is what I remember about growing up in my small town. Friday night was card night, spent at the local Eagles or Elks Club downtown. Families would eat fried chicken dinners or cheeseburgers and French fries for supper. Then the women would sit together to gossip, talk about their husbands, and maybe play a game of canasta. The kids that had been dragged along sat at another table and did whatever, mostly bored since supper was over, hoping they would be going home soon. The men would go to other tables and do their man-bonding thing. I would watch my Daddy drink too many beers, listen to him and his friends talk too loud, cuss like drunken sailors at the world in general, and play poker or gin rummy, usually for money. Actually, my Daddy was generally lucky at cards and won fairly often. But his winnings would disappear quickly and feeling generous, he would buy the next round or two of beers for all of his card buddies.

Saturday mornings at Bob's Diner downtown, the men listened to the hog prices and cost of feed on country radio, and drank seemingly endless cups of coffee after consuming Ethel's Breakfast Special. Saturday night was sacrosanct, reserved for the high school basketball game. Cheering and booing crowds sat on hard bleachers and watched the hometown boys "whup that no-good team" from Jasper or Vincennes, or whatever small town had brought their team into town that night on the rotating playing schedule of high schools in the region. When we were older and in high school ourselves, we were allowed to stay after the basketball game and go to the "Sock Hop". This was a dance held in the gym after the game was over. As the name implies, we would take off our shoes and dance in our socks. Most of the time, the music would be provided by some small teenage group of wanna-be rock stars. My girlfriends and I looked forward to checking out and flirting with the cute boys from the next town, and hoping they would ask us to slow-dance with them. We had a lot of fun and thought we were very cooll!

Sunday morning meant the whole family dressing in our good clothes and going to Mass. I don't remember paying too much attention to what was going on in church. I was usually daydreaming about playing outside when we got back home, or reading one of the stack of books I had from the local library. An avid reader since I first learned to read, I would check-out ten to twelve books at a time and could not wait to read them all. I always looked forward to the baked chicken or roast beef dinner my mother had started in the oven before we left for church. I would sometimes daydream about the upcoming meal instead of listening to the priest's homily. Anticipating what special dessert my mother had made for our once-a-week, after-Sunday-dinner treat was also not helping my concentration during the Mass.

Unless you don't mind your brain turning to mush from boredom, or have an abiding interest in watching your tractor, pickup truck, or other farm equipment rust away, there's not much to do in a small town. Except of course make babies, gossip about your neighbors, and go to Saturday night basketball games. You could always count on the fact that someone would be talking about you. So, naturally you felt an obligation to return the favor. Believe me, the truth got stretched pretty far sometimes. If one indiscretion or misstep was instant fodder for the gossip and rumor mill, three or four versions of it made the story even juicier as it was told and re-told. The more the "facts" were passed on from one person to the next, the more the story was added to and embellished upon. The final telling may not resemble much of the actual truth, but it certainly made for some pretty crazy and entertaining stories.

Oh, the joys of life in a small town!