Growing up in rural communities can be a blessing and a curse. I had my fair share of good memories and my fair share of tramatic events over my lifetime and most from an early age.
Kids can be mean. Kids at any age in any area can be very mean. Typically, children have kind hearts, gentle souls, and open minds and must be taught to be mean. Growing up in rural communities can mean growing up with cousins right down the road, an aunt for a teacher, or an uncle who is the principal. Unfortunately, in a lot of these rural communities, if you and I mean I, weren't related, you just did not belong there.
I was born in the greater New England area, Massachusetts to be exact. For those who have trouble pronouncing that state, it sounds more like "Mass a CHEW sits" - rather than "Mass a two sits". At an early age, I was moved to the rural area of the Ozark Mountains best referred to as Stone County AR. I lived all over the county, but I went to school at a very small rural school found in Fox, AR. Most of my youth was spend living in the Fox area. The town has roughly 360 people and EVERYONE seems to be related, except for me at that time. Not only was I not related, I talked funny to them and I dressed weird. I grew up poor. My mom believed in dressing me in saddle shoes and homemade dresses with aprons and bonnets, much like Little House on the Prairie. I loved my neighbors before I started school, and she made most of my clothes. What wasn't hand made in my early years was hand me downs.
The kids I started kindergarten with were my classmates for the next 13 years roughly. Some came and some went, but for the most part, they were there the whole time. When your class size is 20, it is hard to not still see someone they way you did when you were in kindergarten. I never outgrew the stigma of not being one of them. I never outgrew the names they called me. I never grew beyond the scared 5 year old who just wanted to be liked and make new friends.
I did not belong with them. I was able to make some friends along the way. I was blind to it for a while. I think mostly because I blocked a large portion of my past. See, my mom had this boyfriend who lived with us. We had moved from the top of Timbo Mtn to Parma area. We had a nice house with a sun room and awesome neighbors (yes the one who made my clothes). However, there was this guy. He was ex military. He had some demons of his own he needed to exercise. Instead, he found me, when my mom was passed out, he would come to my room. When I told my mom, she would tell me I dreamt it or imagined it all. Yes, because any healthy little 5 year old girl would make up a story about a 30 year old man coming into her room at night to touch her sexually.
This same unstable guy the summer I turned 6 I believe, decided to really fall off his rocker. He freaked out and then tried to shoot our other neighbors, then almost killed my mom. I walked into the room while he had the gun cocked and pointed at her head while she was passed out from the concussions he gave her with the heal of his loafer on either side of her forehead. He tried to usher me back to the room but I had startled him enough that he lowered the gun, then the phone rang, and most of the rest of it is a blur. I remember images of seeing him with my mom on the front porch with the cops and he begging them to just leave them alone. I remember watching him jump the porch railing and race off to the woods. I vaguely remember sitting in the cop car with the sheriff. I can still hear the shot of the gun and the shattering of the glass, the push from the sheriff to keep me from being hit by the bullet intended for me. He took the bullet in his right shoulder.
It was a lot of these events that block much of my early early childhood.
Much of what I remember is from 4th grade or later. I spent 2nd grade with my dad and I remember a lot of that time, although not all of it. I remember pieces of 3rd grade when my dad sent me back to live with my mom because he didn't want me anymore - I was too much of a burden on his marriage.
It was once I moved back that I remember growing up on Little Red River Road. I remember spending most of my time riding my back on the 4 miles of dirt road. I remember my best friend and brother John. I have such fond memories of the kids who I was in class with who lived on that road. John and I were almost inseperable, if I wasn't at his house most often he was at mine. We would climb the cliffs behind the house, hide in the trees, ride our bikes, and so on. Life was easy and somewhat carefree. I had classmates who were still mean as kids will be. I was told how ugly, fat, and annoying I was by girls I considered friends and guys I had hoped would see me differently. I was told my voice was like fingernails on a chalkboard and I talked to much; my voiced sucked for singing so I was better just being silent. I was told I couldn't dance to save my life and I should just forget music altogether. Yes, kids are mean. However, due to circumstance of my past, I never grew beyond the girl who was told all these things. I still believe those hurtful words because I am rarely if ever told any different.
Those times, those are the hard times, the rough times, of growing up in a rural community. However, the offset of the dirt roads and local rivers, creeks, and swimming areas those are the positives to growing up in a rural community. My life wasn't completly miserable, but it didn't lack for trials and tramatic events.
