Strange and Wonderful, Part 2

Now, some of the wonderful. It’s only fair.

We lived in the midst of incredible beauty and abundance. Spring-fed creeks ran everywhere, clean and cold and sweet, and the hills were alive with flowers and fruits and nuts (the edible kind).

You could get an excellent education in our schools if you tried. A handful of dedicated teachers (Florence Garrison and Shirley Piland and Harold Reed) and one assistant librarian (Gertrude McDonald) made sure of it.

One of our teachers, Wanda Williams, won the game show, “Queen for a Day,” in 1967. Like all the other contestants, she could wish for anything her heart desired. Mrs. Williams wished for—and won—a trip to a distant city, a meal in a restaurant, and a night in a hotel for all her students. (Unfortunately, many of the parents refused to let their children go to the distant city, so they ended up doing a day trip to a town 60 miles away. The kids did go to a zoo and have hot dogs, though. Now, 40 years later, some say they still remember every minute.)

We knew nearly everyone we saw from day to day. In fact, we knew them, knew their folks, even knew their dog if they had one. We knew who could be counted on to get their car washed at the Pep Club fund raisers, knew who would buy brownies at the Rainbow Girls bake sales, knew who to hit up to place ads in the Echo, our school newspaper, and the Docomo, our yearbook. (We also knew who to stay away from after dark on a Saturday night and whose business was a front for running drugs, but that’s not so much on the wonderful side of things, so we’ll let it go for the moment.)

Many of the people who landed in our town were warm, intelligent, interesting folks willing—maybe even anxious—to make friends. (The natives were not so welcoming. 18 years after we moved to town, Mom was invited to a "Newcomer's Party." She'd want me to tell you that. It still makes her laugh.)

Our piano teacher, Miss Dee Woods, had been an international concert pianist, with scrapbooks to prove it. She came to our house to give us lessons and held recitals in the elementary school gym. We wore "formals" and white gloves to her recitals and sat up straight and tall, just like she taught us. Miss Woods must have been in her 60's when we knew her. She had marshmallow-y white hair and walked with a slight limp. She lived alone in a falling-down house way out in the woods. Her house was absolutely over run with cats and so filthy Mom wouldn't allow us to step inside after she first saw it.

The local hermit allowed himself to talk for one week each year. One time Miss Woods lured him to our piano recital with the promise of tea and cookies, delicacies for a man who lived on whatever his brother monks left in front of his cave. When the recital was over, Brother Theodore sang "They Call the Wind Mariah.” It was—and remains—the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. That man's voice might have been the reason God gave us ears. It reverberated through the blue steel rafters of the gym, the metal folding chairs we sat on, the marrow of my bones. If I concentrate, I can feel it still.


So, how was it, growing up in this strange and wonderful place, you ask? Ah, that. Now, that’s a story.