There is an allure to the far away and unknown. A glamor that attaches to anything shrouded in mystery. When I was a little kid, big cities were a little bit like that to me. I had heard about cities. I had never seen one. My Aunts and Uncles were farmers. Some of them had been to cities, but never for long. Most of those in North Missouri didn’t even have electricity, central heating, or indoor plumbing.
There was one exception: my Uncle Frank and Aunt Maudine.
They lived in Kansas City.
I thought of them as something apart from the rest of my family. I didn’t see them very often except for occasional family get-togethers at Grandpa and Grandma’s farmhouse in North Missouri.
They were different. I watched them for clues. Uncle Frank had a particular way of holding his cigarette that seemed to me to be very sophisticated. He also crossed his legs in a singular way – one knee atop the other knee. The rest of my Uncles crossed their legs by placing an ankle over a thigh.
Was Uncle Frank’s style typical of folks who lived in big cities?
I didn’t know. I wondered.
Aunt Maudine had her own distinctive ways. She carried herself with a certain confident composure. My other Aunts, farm wives all, carried themselves in a way that was something more like resignation. I don’t say that to slight them in any way. Their resignation had a noble quality to it. They were the last
of the pioneers; used to hard times and ready to deal with whatever came. They were also older. My Mom, and Aunt Maudine, were in their twenties; youthful, hopeful, and full
of life.
Mom and Maudine wore up-to-date dresses. My other Aunts wore older style dresses, often hand-made, and usually covered by aprons. Uncle Frank wore pressed slacks and shirts. My other Uncles wore faded work shirts and bib overalls.
Most of my Aunts and Uncles toiled in the fields of agriculture and livestock. Uncle Frank and Aunt Maudine toiled in the fields of papers, letters, and numbers. The office was their farm. Uncle Frank was an accountant. Aunt Maudine’s jobs were clerical; each of which she enriched with her command of grammar and punctuation. I learned all that years later. I didn’t know about work then. I didn’t even know people had to work to earn money. I thought everybody just did what they liked doing.
I wasn’t a complete hick. I’d lived in several small towns. Aren’t small towns sort of somewhere between city and country? Plus, Mom and Dad knew about cities. Nonetheless, we remained country-folks.
Uncle Frank and Aunt Maudine were city-folks.
We visited them once in Kansas City. It was really big. My experience with towns led me to look for outskirts and a main street. I couldn’t make sense of Kansas City. It went on for mile after mile. If it had a main street, I couldn’t see it. I also couldn’t understand how Dad found the right house in this complicated maze of houses.
My cousins, Ronnie and Karen were there. Ronnie and I were close in age. We knew each other pretty well. Karen was barely a smidgen of a girl at the time. I hardly knew her at all.
Later… much later - in just the last several years, we’ve become friends.
My memory of that trip is made up of vague bits and pieces of this and that. I remember Ronnie telling me about a street-cart vendor thereabouts that sold, “hot tamales”. I did not have the slightest idea what a hot tamale might be. Nobody sold hot tamales in Huxley, Iowa, or Mount Moriah, Missouri.
I thought Ronnie was pretty cool because he was hip to
all this big city stuff. I was also dazzled by a large indoor swimming pool that we went to. The place was enormous.
It seemed like a very old, very important building. The ceiling must have been several stories high. At least, that’s how
I remember it. Maybe I’m remembering wrong.
So, what did I think about cities after that trip?
I thought I liked the country better because there was more room and less people. Nothing I’ve learned since then has changed my mind.
I do like some things about cities. Cities have libraries, record shops, movie theaters, hot tamales, and who knows what? All less likely in the country. Also, city folks talk about things. Uncle Frank and Aunt Maudine talked about things.
That’s what struck me about them. My other relatives hardly talked about anything beyond chores and the weather. Uncle Archie didn’t talk at all unless he really had to. He’d say, ”Talk don’t get the cows milked …just wastes time you could‘ve been workin’ ”.
Uncle Frank and Aunt Maudine talked about things
I didn’t know much about; people and places, what was going on in the world, and so on. I didn’t understand a lot of what they said, but it sure sounded interesting. Uncle Frank had a wry sense of humor. Most of which went over my head.
Many years later, at a family reunion, he came up with
a typical quip. We asked him if any nearby motel still had vacancies. He said, with offhand resignation, ”Sure, right down the road”. Then, sighing, with a sad sideways turn of his head, he said, ”I tried to warn them, but they’re still lettin’ Shipleys in”.
He delivered this in his trademark ironic tone that let everyone know he was only kidding). I wish I could duplicate in writing his Jack Benny sort of style and timing. But, I can’t.
Uncle Frank liked to joke around; Aunt Maudine, less so. She had nothing against humor. It was only that she was more focused on business-at-hand. And, a good thing, too.
I think Uncle Frank preferred pondering the verities over tending to the interruption of the here-and-now. My Dad was much the same. I’m pretty sure about that because I share their inclination. I’ve spent a great deal of my life in day-dreaming.
Mom and Aunt Maudine decided most of the daily what-to-do questions, which was fine with Dad and Uncle Frank. They had important reveries to consider. They never shirked from doing what needed doing, but they didn’t care to spend any more time than necessary thinking about it. They were happy enough to have Mom and Maudine manage all that – you know, all that boring stuff.
In the early 90’s, Uncle Frank wrote a memoir about his army service in WWII, most of which was in the South Pacific.
It was pretty good. It made me think that putting some of my thoughts on paper might be a good idea, too. So, I did. I’ve sent every single thing I’ve written to Aunt Maudine for proofreading. After a few of these essays, Uncle Frank said, “Well, Kenney’s just copying me”. He was joking, but probably more right than he knew.
Aunt Maudine’s proofreading ability is astounding. She catches every single error of grammar, punctuation, or usage. Had she known there was such a profession as proofreading, she could have made a lot of money at it. I’ve worked with many proofreaders - none better than Aunt Maudine.
I don’t suppose Uncle Frank and Aunt Maudine knew how much they influenced me. They didn’t intend to, they were only being their own interesting selves.
The topic of my first essay was Uncle Franks old guitar. It hung on a wall of my Grandpa Joe and Grandma Ollie’s farmhouse. The plaintive twank it produced in response to my curious touch introduced me to a lifetime of guitar playing. It seemed to me that linking this small part of my history to the echoes it had in my future life might be interesting - even to other people. I think that’s proven to be so.
People tell me my essays remind them of similar stories
in their own lives. I’m pleased to hear that. It makes me think
I might be doing something useful. I hope so. I’ve continued writing about connections between past and present for most of the essays that followed - each expertly proofread by Aunt Maudine.
Maybe I would have taken up guitar, anyway. Maybe I would have started writing, anyway. Maybe I’ve exaggerated the role of Uncle Frank and Aunt Maudine in all this? I don’t think so. I think they gave me help and example at just the right time.
I’m grateful.
They introduced me to the bright lights of the big city.
I didn’t care for the big city, but I did like the bright lights.
By bright lights I mean the illumination of learning,
the joy of music, the entertainment of ideas, and the knowledge of the wide world beyond my childhood understanding.
The immortal Jimmy Reed once sang:
“Bright lights, big city, Goin’ tu my baby’s head.
Bright lights, big city, Goin’ tu my baby’s head.
I still loves yah baby, but yah don’t know
wat’cha talkin’ about”.
Maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about either.
But I try.
Uncle Frank & Aunt Maudine managed to look smart and sophisticated even before they moved to the, “Big City”.