Just A Small Town Girl

Before I met my oldest brother, I had no idea that anything was missing from my life. I didn't feel any holes, any missing pieces.

The story of my mom's first child, adopted by his wonderful forever parents, wasn't part of the story I knew of my life, of my mom's life.

Since he found us, though, so much in my past, and my mom's past, makes more sense. Looking at things with the lens of added knowledge, there's so much more clarity.

For instance, Mom never expressed any overt hostility toward her hometown. She shared positive memories. There was no, "I hated every moment, and I couldn't wait to get out." Still, she never wanted to go back. She left at 19, and died at 83. She went back to her hometown exactly twice in those years, and one of those times was to deal with my grandmother's move out of her home and into a nursing facility.

When she got high school reunion invitations, I'd say, "Don't you want to go?"

"No," she'd say. "There's nobody that I need to see. I don't even know what we'd talk about."

Still, she's an introvert, very happy being alone, miserable in crowds, so that was fairly expected.

Mom hated crowds and noise, so it goes without saying that she disliked large cities; it would never have been her choice to live in one. She didn't even like to visit large cities. So, it was a tiny bit puzzling when she was also vocal about not wanting to live in small towns. "Small towns are terrible," she'd tell me. "Everyone knows your business, and everyone's in your business."

"I don't care," I'd say, especially as a child. (I wanted to live in a town that went beyond "small" and into "tiny.") My personality veers more toward TMI than it does toward close mouthedness, so having people know my business didn't seem like too big a drawback. Also, I'm very good at brushing off people who want to make my decisions for me. They annoy me, but I can ignore them.

That was viewing things through my lens. Through Mom's, things look different. I cannot begin to comprehend what it felt like to be an unmarried pregnant teen in the 1940s, in a small town in the Midwest.

My family probably already looked pretty scandalous to those with wagging tongues. My grandparents were divorced. My aunt was about to get a divorce. Mom was pregnant out of wedlock.

I can imagine the force of all of those well meaning advice givers and all of those judgement passers mostly from Mom and Aunt Jeanette's reactions - move 2000 miles away, and never come back. She never, ever spoke of it to me, my siblings, my cousins, but I don't have to hear the details; I see the results.

And, I can't count the number of times Mom told me that small towns were gossipy and judgemental. I chalked that up to her experiences during her divorce. In the picture perfect 1950s, she left a handsome husband and a pretty house to marry a never before married bachelor 20 years her senior - and he and her first husband worked together in a small town fire department. "Grandma," my daughter told her decades later, "you were scandalous!" She humphed, and smiled a small, amused smile. Now I know that, by then, she was a pro at navigating societal disapproval.

(In the turbulent, "free love" 1960s and 1970s, she was a faithful wife and mother. Whether she did it intentionally or not, I'm tickled that she swam upstream, against prevailing currents.)

How Mom described us now carries more meaning for me, as well. When someone asked how many children she had, my mother would say, "My husband and I have four at home," and, as the older kids were no longer at home, "My husband and I have four." It was invariably "we," not "I." If she said "I," it was usually with details about one or another of us - "I have one who's turning 30 this year." I always looked at it as her way of looping my dad in - two of us were children of her first husband, not my dad (her second husband). Still, he raised them, so I always liked that she always phrased it as "we have" four children, not "I have 2, and my husband has 2."

I'm still certain that was part of the intent. Mom presented us as a unit, because she saw us as a unit.

Now, though, I know that there was a second, unspoken part to that statement. "My husband and I have four" was accompanied in her head by, "And I have an older son." He was always in her head, always in her heart, just as the rest of us were.

So much of her life was colored by her first child, by this brother that I didn't meet until I was in my 50s. And now, I get to love him, too. And I love the way his life touched my mother's. I enjoy understanding her better. She was an outstanding mother, friend, aunt, sister just because of her own personality, but her experiences with her firstborn made her a better one. Having my brother had a huge impact on the kind of person she was, and the rest of us siblings (and our friends) reaped the benefit.

I understand so much more - and I am glad.

On The Street Where You Live

Recently, as we sat in traffic in a large city, my husband grumbled about being "surrounded by nothing but trash and crazy people."

"It's actually cleaner than I expected. And you're generalizing, aren't you? You haven't even met many residents. They might be lovely people." (I'm usually pretty Pollyanna about things.)

He looked at me as if I was also clearly crazy. "Sane people wouldn't put up with this!" He waved his hand at the traffic, the noise, the crowds (and also, I'm pretty sure, the inflated prices).

I laughed. "You know how many people say that about where we live, right?"

I have several loved ones who have waged a years long battle to convince me to move elsewhere, or at least to get with the program and consider my home state to be a punch line. I know that they sincerely want what's best for me, so I cut them slack, but it grates on my nerves.

For one thing, I sincerely like my area. We're high mountain desert, tucked up against a mountain range; everything from the wide open sand and sage of the Great Basin to the pine forests overlooking deep mountain lakes says "home" to me. It's pretty fantastic.

I like my house. It's comfortable and cost effective. I am intensely irritated by people who think that I'm living my life in the way that I am because I'm unaware that there are other options.

Recently, a friend moved to a new city, and asked for advice on her social media. "We're considering two houses. One is larger and less expensive, but the area isn't considered as desirable. The other is more money than we wanted to spend, but it's in a popular area. Which should we buy?" I think that I was the lone voice saying, "The less expensive house! Obviously!" Everyone else voted for the more expensive house, saying things like, "Think of the resale value!" and telling her that, obviously, the neighbors and the schools would be better in the popular area.

(They finally chose a third house that split the difference.)

People are frequently perplexed by our choice of a fixer upper in an aging neighborhood - not old enough to be "historic," just old enough to be "older." I say, "Hey, I'd rather live here and take my kids on vacation and send them to summer camp." I've been told that I'm doing things "all wrong." "It's more important to spend the money on something you'll use every day, not on something that only lasts for a week or two."

Balderdash. I can show you studies that verify that spending money on experiences instead of belongings results in a happier life, but I don't need them to justify my choices. I am happy in my life.

A friend was once trying to describe what she loved about living in a large city. "In my neighborhood, when I go to get coffee, or shop, or have lunch, the people working there know me, and I get personalized service." I responded, "That sounds like living in a small town." The last time I lived in a truly small town (it made the front page of the tri-county newspaper when we got our second stoplight), when I was buying groceries the cashier said, "That shed's looking pretty good!" My husband was building a shed in our yard, one visible from the road, but I have no idea how the clerk knew that I lived at the house with the shed under construction.

My friend was sure that I was deliberately misunderstanding her. I don't think so; in my city, when I go to the bank, the grocery store, the convenience store, and several restaurants, they know me, often by name. Sometimes, I will have known them for literally decades. I don't think that the size of my city has any bearing on that.

 Of course, there are other conversations and other tactics.

"It's such a shame for your kids,"  to be living here, I was told.

"How do you figure?"

"They're never going to be exposed to different people from different backgrounds. Where you are, it's pretty homogenous; everyone's the same."

I have no idea where that mischaracterization came from. I went to church with a significant number of Tongans with names like Feofa'aki. My daughter's boyfriend was Navajo, and her best friend was from El Salvador. We'd planned birthday party menus to include Hindu, Muslim and Jewish guests. I know lawyers, accountants, ranchers, artists, singers, right here in my community.

I tried to encapsulate all of that in one sentence, without sounding like I was trotting people out as show ponies ("How can you say that? Look at my Token Minority friend!"), and speaking to the experiences of my kids. "My daughter is the only white girl in her Girl Scout troop."

"Well, yes, but I'm talking about professional, educated people."

Um, what? This is a lovely, sincere, well educated person, who always means well, but I was appalled. "Oh, I just know that you did not just imply that their parents are all dishwashers and maids, or that there would be anything wrong with it if they were!"

"No! No. I'm just saying that people in my community have been recruited from all over the world for their particular areas of expertise."

"Do you know what my Scouts' parents do? Because I don't, and I see them every week." This is true; I have actually known people for years before I find out what they do for a living.

I meet a lot of people at church or doing community theater, and we tend to "talk shop," not go through the cocktail party small talk of, "So, what do you do?" I rarely ask this of people. Sometimes, I'm taken by surprise when I find out.

The girls in the Scout troops I led always had parents who took their cookie order forms to work, and sometimes I'd find out what they did for a living based on where they made their sales. On year, the top seller had a (very pretty) mother who was a bartender, and made her sales at the bar. ("And if they don't pick up the cookies, I know I can just sell them to somebody else who's there.") One year, the top seller had a grandmother who worked at a local brothel, and made her sales there. No, I didn't ask in what capacity, although I know that they have non-prostitute staff. I once did theater with a young lady who was the cashier at a brothel.

No, I did not bring up the brothel workers at that point in the conversation. No, I do not think that they prove my loved one's point. No, I did not point out that the area in which this person lived in is known for a particular industry, and therefore more "homogenous" than many other communities, in that you can probably accurately guess what industry in which any person you meet is likely to be employed. I did not point out that when I'm sitting in church in between the owner of a construction business and the owner of a potato farm, listening to a schoolteacher give the lesson, I'm simultaneously experiencing diversity and not categorizing people based on occupation or education.

What I did was rather forcefully change the subject. This is a relationship that I truly value, but if I'm expected to be a job snob and feel that I'm shortchanging my kids by refusing to be badgered into moving to a sprawling metropolis, well, I may start to value it less.

Someone else described me to myself this way - "You're so... so... provincial!"

(You know how sometimes you make a friend, and you laugh together about how you never would have hung out when you were in high school? Yeah - I'm aware that people who love me, but met me when we were kids, would probably not be interested in making friends with me if they met me today. That's OK. We love each other anyway.)

I enjoy visiting large cities in order to experience museums, theaters, historic sites and the like, but then I want to leave and go home.

Something I discovered as an adult, and it was a pleasant surprise, is that I could conceivably live anywhere. I pick up real estate guides every time I travel. We recently spent time in cities older than my nation, staying in apartments, and commenting, "I could live here." I may live somewhere else in the future; but it won't be because I don't like it here, where I am now.

Why am I thinking about this? I was sorting through and organizing photos recently, and I came across this:

Oh, yeah. This image is comfortable, happy - it says "home." It lowers my blood pressure. I could live down that road. Looking at it, I know what it smells like, sounds like, feels like. I want to know what's over the horizon. I want to wander and explore.

That's in contrast to how I feel looking at this image:

I also know what this sounds, smells and feels like; I took both photos. I know that there are places to discover, to eat, to shop. I could conceivable live there. But, given a choice - not so much.

Given a choice, I'll probably always take the dirt road.

Small Town USA

OK. It's settled. When we retire, I want to live in Genoa, Nevada.

OK, maybe "settled" is too strong a word. Can we call it "on the short list"?

As a kid, I was sure that I wanted to live in a tiny apartment, preferably in a tall, narrow, aging home, in a big city. I'd walk to the quirky corner grocer, where I'd know everybody by name. When I could, I'd ride the train downtown to the theater and museums.

I never would have predicted that what I really want is a big, rambling house in a small town, maybe a town too small to even merit a stop light.

It should have occurred to me that my early childhood would affect where I'm most comfortable. When I was no more than 2 1/2 or 3, my parents or big sister would help me up onto the back of big, gentle Lady, our Thoroughbred horse, and I'd follow my sister or my mom, on sprited Querida, out of our back pasture and through the neighborhood, which was dotted with small ranches. There were two places within easy riding or walking distance where we occasionally went to watch the practice sessions of the local rodeo competitors. We ice skated in our back pasture. One of our dogs, gentle, razor sharp Duchess, was half coyote.

I was 12 years old before I ever vacationed anywhere except the wilderness. I was used to camping, fishing, swimming and hiking. Visiting my best friend in Sacramento, and then taking a day trip to San Francisco, was an entirely new experience.

I still didn't expect to spend my life in small towns. Then, just before our wedding, my husband's company transferred him to a small farming and ranching community. I was furious. I dug in my heels. "I'm not going. You can't make me. You can find a new job." Cooler heads prevailed, and I found myself in a town that had five brothels, but was just opening its first movie theater (two screens!) We had one grocery store, and a business that was a combination tire/craft/satellite store.

I loved it. We bought a home outside of town on an acre and a quarter, had two babies, built a chicken coop and brought home 24 baby chicks. We spent a lot of time on dirt roads, and discovered new favorite picnic spots.

When my husband's company offered him a transfer back to his old plant, we bought a home in a small town rather than face the culture shock of moving back to Reno. I loved our little town. It made the front page of the twice-weekly tri county newspaper when we got our second stoplight. The largest park, where the 4th of July festivities were held, was across the street from us. My kids performed at the community center in the yearly Christmas pageant. We were on a first name basis with the librarian.

Eventually, we moved back to the Reno area, buying a house two and a half blocks from the house I grew up in. (The ranches were long since relegated to memory; it was a ordinary, suburban neighborhood.) That's another story.

I still find myself feeling wistful when we visit small towns. I pick up real estate listings and think, "We could afford that." I daydream about ponds, a horse, farmhouses and trees. It makes no sense right now to move anywhere, but retirement and a place for my grandkids to visit isn't too far off in the distance.

I'm allergic to fur, but still find myself thinking about just one horse - just enough to pull a carriage. Doesn't that sound perfect for grandkids - and portraits?

This is what my kids did today:

We were about 50 miles from home, at an indoor pool that made this kind of activity perfect for a winter day, even though there was snow in sight of the pool.

I didn't feel like swimming; I felt like a solo day with my camera. So, off we went, to nearby Genoa, the oldest town in the state.

This is the equivalent of downtown:

This house is for sale, just two doors down:

My daughter tells me that no self respecting man would live in a pink house, but I work in the wedding industry. With its period furnishings and charmingly landscaped grounds, it looks like the ideal place to hold weddings. Would a self respecting man be married in a pink house?

Only steps away, on the corner, this girl fed three deer stale bread out of the back door of a cafe:

I know, it's always a bad idea to feed wildlife, but how charming is a place where this happens?

I spent the day shooting crumbling stone structures, horses, barns, and houses like this one:

Farm equipment sat in the fields like sculpture:

It was a day well spent, and a reminder of what might be someday.