Do you ever watch a show on tv and someone mentions that they are "from a small town"? It is always surprising to me when someone says that and I look up the "town" and it has a bigger population than the entire county I grew up in. So maybe they are using nearby towns to give reference, but honestly, does it matter to the television watching populace if you say Wapokeneta, OH or Buckland, OH?
A small town is not 60,000 people. A small town isn't even 30,000 people. I grew up in towns with populations of 1,000 to 3,600 people. My hometown only just reached 4,000 residents because the prison moved there a couple years ago and that population counts in the census. The county's population hovers at just below 40,000.
Growing up in such a small town is both good and bad. Everyone knows you, but they also know your family. You have a reputation that precedes you. On the one hand, someone might tell your father they saw you smoking (the one cigarette you'd ever smoked) behind the dumpster at work, but on the other hand, someone might recognize you as kin and give you a $20 tip that same day. More than one speeding ticket (initiated while driving with Massachusetts plates) has been avoided by invoking the family name or simply saying "I was just leaving the farm."
Then there were the teachers. My older cousins were trouble makers, so I had to overcome that. My younger cousins and sister had to overcome academic achievement expectations set by me. One teacher was absolutely dreadful until she connected the dots and realized my grandmother was her maternity nurse when she had her babies. Then I was the teacher's pet.
In a small town, there is no room for anonymity, but no one can get lost, either. It takes a village to raise a child, and often, small towns are more than up for the task.
I'm sure growing up in a city or a suburb is perfectly fine, that just wasn't my experience, and I wouldn't trade it for the world.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Saturday, October 8, 2011
This is Truck Country
Everyone where I come from is very vehicle dependent. Everything is spread out and very few people live "in town". Add to that the number of people who have a lot of land, and you have a lot of pickup trucks on the road. Every little boy grows up wanting their very own pickup truck.
Trucks are the epitome of masculinity. They smell like men, they are big, and they are powerful. For any boy, this is what they aspire to be. For some gay boys, this is what they want. I love pickup trucks.
My earliest memories of my father's vehicle is of his late 70s model Dodge. It was a huge two tone tan truck with chrome and a cool brown and tan pinstripe detail down the side. I loved that truck. I loved riding in it with him on cool fall nights while he smoked with the window cracked. The rush of cool air tinged with menthol counteracted by the warmth of the heating system.
It was both sad and exciting when he traded it in on a September afternoon in 1990 for a 1984 Chevy S10 4x4. This was a spur of the moment purchase that my parents couldn't really afford, but when he pulled up to pick me up from 3rd grade and all the kids in my class rushed to the window to see who drove the sexy "new" truck, it was totally worth it. The new truck was black and had leather seats and red pin-striping. Gorgeous.
I wanted this truck when I got my license. I was secretly hopeful it would be passed down to me. Sadly, this was not in the cards, and as I reached driving age, the truck began to rust and fall apart and my tastes changed for a time. I didn't want to be associated with anything redneck in high school.
There were other significant trucks in my childhood. My godfather worked in construction, and he had a large pimped out truck that was two toned black and blue. My three great uncles all bought the new generation Dodge Ram pickups when they came out in the mid to late 1990s, one in white to replace a white GMC, one in red to replace a tricked out truck with fog lights, tow lights, and running board lights, and one in black to replace an ancient truck. The black Dodge was my new favorite truck when Uncle Donnie purchased it. It was the newest of the trucks and quickly replaced the S10 in my heart. The Dodge was our transportation whenever we went harbor, lake, or ice fishing. It was the truck my dad borrowed when he had work that required a bigger truck than the S10. I had so many memories associated with all of these trucks.
My dad finally replaced the S10 with a 1987 Nissan 4x4 when I was in college. Since then, he once again upgraded to a 1997 extended cab Nissan Frontier.
At 30, my husband and I now have a small crossover SUV that we call "the truck" but it just isn't the same. I still want a pickup truck.
Trucks are the epitome of masculinity. They smell like men, they are big, and they are powerful. For any boy, this is what they aspire to be. For some gay boys, this is what they want. I love pickup trucks.
My earliest memories of my father's vehicle is of his late 70s model Dodge. It was a huge two tone tan truck with chrome and a cool brown and tan pinstripe detail down the side. I loved that truck. I loved riding in it with him on cool fall nights while he smoked with the window cracked. The rush of cool air tinged with menthol counteracted by the warmth of the heating system.
It was both sad and exciting when he traded it in on a September afternoon in 1990 for a 1984 Chevy S10 4x4. This was a spur of the moment purchase that my parents couldn't really afford, but when he pulled up to pick me up from 3rd grade and all the kids in my class rushed to the window to see who drove the sexy "new" truck, it was totally worth it. The new truck was black and had leather seats and red pin-striping. Gorgeous.
I wanted this truck when I got my license. I was secretly hopeful it would be passed down to me. Sadly, this was not in the cards, and as I reached driving age, the truck began to rust and fall apart and my tastes changed for a time. I didn't want to be associated with anything redneck in high school.
There were other significant trucks in my childhood. My godfather worked in construction, and he had a large pimped out truck that was two toned black and blue. My three great uncles all bought the new generation Dodge Ram pickups when they came out in the mid to late 1990s, one in white to replace a white GMC, one in red to replace a tricked out truck with fog lights, tow lights, and running board lights, and one in black to replace an ancient truck. The black Dodge was my new favorite truck when Uncle Donnie purchased it. It was the newest of the trucks and quickly replaced the S10 in my heart. The Dodge was our transportation whenever we went harbor, lake, or ice fishing. It was the truck my dad borrowed when he had work that required a bigger truck than the S10. I had so many memories associated with all of these trucks.
My dad finally replaced the S10 with a 1987 Nissan 4x4 when I was in college. Since then, he once again upgraded to a 1997 extended cab Nissan Frontier.
At 30, my husband and I now have a small crossover SUV that we call "the truck" but it just isn't the same. I still want a pickup truck.
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