Chapter One: Why I'm Writing
I was a country girl because my mom was a country girl.
I grew up in the early seventies, listening to country music because my mom loved country music. We lived in a very rural community in Ramsfield, Ohio, just outside of the Amish/Mennonite community of Lovebury. In rural Ramsfield, there were no grocery stores, no convenience stores, no gas stations, no fast food restaurants, or any other business, for that matter, unless it was run out of someone's home. Even then, I can't think of any neighbors who weren't rubber workers or farmers. If we wanted to buy a Marathon Bar for ten cents, we had to go to Lawson's which was right in the middle of Ramsfield proper, where the courthouse, library and the bank were. And the only time we went to Lawson's was when my mom wanted to buy chip chopped ham and Lawson's chip dip. Most real grocery shopping was done in the "big city" of Lovebury, at the brick and block IGA. We did that probably once a week, on Friday, which was, of course, payday. As I got older, going to Lovebury to grocery shop with my mother was one of the most exciting things that could happen to me. The bagboys were cute. One of the bagboys even held the distinquished title of National Bagboy Champion. Yes, such a thing does exist.
My dad, Emil, worked for Great Day Tire and Rubber Company in Springfield and drove there every day. This seems like a very far drive to me now that I know how long it took to get there and how far it really is. Most of the other fathers in the neighborhood also worked for Great Day, including our closest neighbors, the Balzoviches. A few other dads were self-employed, and some of them, as I said, were farmers. James Smith was a plumber, John Johnson was a bricklayer, Randy Bolyard was a mechanic, and Gary Hoban was a jeweler.
The earliest thing that I can remember about my life in the country was playing in the front yard in tall piles of dirt, mounded there as part of the construction process. When I was a bit over two years old, my parents moved from Mercy Road in the Springfield area, where my dad had grown up, to Ramsfield, a very rural community in Laurel County. I don't remember much else about the construction process and only know what I was told by my parents. They didn't really keep pictures of the process, and they certainly didn't blog or even journal about it. If you ask my dad about those things now, he couldn't tell you. He could probably tell you how many pounds of rubber they shipped out in December 1974, or who was foreman during the strike of '77. If you ask my mom, I'd be amazed. We haven't spoken for over 4 years and haven't had a civil conversation in over 8. That is to say, I've been civil to her, but she's been manic, which was pretty much par for the course for the latter part of my growing-up years. So, for the past four years, the whim on her end has been that she does not have a daughter. And since I was an only child, that would mean that she currently has no children at all.
So now, I can only remember the things my mother told me while I was growing up. Really exciting and important things like how before our big front door was put on the house, it fell on me while I was playing under it. That's the only story that lived through the years my memory has tried to erase. A big steel door falling on me when I was two. That was my christening for my childhood home.
I survived, obviously, which is why I'm sitting here in Hart County, Ohio, writing this story about my life so far, writing it for my children, and my grandchildren and my great grandchildren. Writing it so they won't just remember the day that the big front door fell on them, or the day they asked me if there were really carrots in carrot cake, or the day they ran a big push broom into their stomach, passed out and had to go to the hospital or they day they crashed their bike, looked in the mirror and wailed that they looked like a dead man.
And I'm writing it so that, should our relationship ever get as dicey as mine has with my own mother, they will have the proof that I was lucid at some point, and I did participate in their lives. So, maybe I'm writing to give them a legacy. Maybe I'm writing to cover my butt.
While I sit here and type, my five year old daughter comes skipping into my bedroom where I type, two hanks of hair stuffed into ponytale holders on either side of her head. She's asking me what I'm writing. "
"It's the story of my life," I tell her.
"To who?" she asks.
"To you." She blinks at me, and then she puts her arms around me in a semi-hug.
"Why are you doing that?" She asks me, looking at the words I've just typed on the screen.
"I'm writing to you so that you can read about my life as a child, because I don't think I take enough time to tell you about your heritage. I'm writing because I want you to be able to read about your life when you're older, about what you did as a child, and about the things that we did together. I want you to know when I've made mistakes, and when I'm sorry. And I want you to remember the good things, too. That's why I'm writing."
She gives me a bigger hug, and starts skip-stepping out of the room. I feel good about what I'm doing. It makes me want to write more.
"I can't wait until I can read," she answers.
She may never remember saying that, but now at least she'll know that she did.
I grew up in the early seventies, listening to country music because my mom loved country music. We lived in a very rural community in Ramsfield, Ohio, just outside of the Amish/Mennonite community of Lovebury. In rural Ramsfield, there were no grocery stores, no convenience stores, no gas stations, no fast food restaurants, or any other business, for that matter, unless it was run out of someone's home. Even then, I can't think of any neighbors who weren't rubber workers or farmers. If we wanted to buy a Marathon Bar for ten cents, we had to go to Lawson's which was right in the middle of Ramsfield proper, where the courthouse, library and the bank were. And the only time we went to Lawson's was when my mom wanted to buy chip chopped ham and Lawson's chip dip. Most real grocery shopping was done in the "big city" of Lovebury, at the brick and block IGA. We did that probably once a week, on Friday, which was, of course, payday. As I got older, going to Lovebury to grocery shop with my mother was one of the most exciting things that could happen to me. The bagboys were cute. One of the bagboys even held the distinquished title of National Bagboy Champion. Yes, such a thing does exist.
My dad, Emil, worked for Great Day Tire and Rubber Company in Springfield and drove there every day. This seems like a very far drive to me now that I know how long it took to get there and how far it really is. Most of the other fathers in the neighborhood also worked for Great Day, including our closest neighbors, the Balzoviches. A few other dads were self-employed, and some of them, as I said, were farmers. James Smith was a plumber, John Johnson was a bricklayer, Randy Bolyard was a mechanic, and Gary Hoban was a jeweler.
The earliest thing that I can remember about my life in the country was playing in the front yard in tall piles of dirt, mounded there as part of the construction process. When I was a bit over two years old, my parents moved from Mercy Road in the Springfield area, where my dad had grown up, to Ramsfield, a very rural community in Laurel County. I don't remember much else about the construction process and only know what I was told by my parents. They didn't really keep pictures of the process, and they certainly didn't blog or even journal about it. If you ask my dad about those things now, he couldn't tell you. He could probably tell you how many pounds of rubber they shipped out in December 1974, or who was foreman during the strike of '77. If you ask my mom, I'd be amazed. We haven't spoken for over 4 years and haven't had a civil conversation in over 8. That is to say, I've been civil to her, but she's been manic, which was pretty much par for the course for the latter part of my growing-up years. So, for the past four years, the whim on her end has been that she does not have a daughter. And since I was an only child, that would mean that she currently has no children at all.
So now, I can only remember the things my mother told me while I was growing up. Really exciting and important things like how before our big front door was put on the house, it fell on me while I was playing under it. That's the only story that lived through the years my memory has tried to erase. A big steel door falling on me when I was two. That was my christening for my childhood home.
I survived, obviously, which is why I'm sitting here in Hart County, Ohio, writing this story about my life so far, writing it for my children, and my grandchildren and my great grandchildren. Writing it so they won't just remember the day that the big front door fell on them, or the day they asked me if there were really carrots in carrot cake, or the day they ran a big push broom into their stomach, passed out and had to go to the hospital or they day they crashed their bike, looked in the mirror and wailed that they looked like a dead man.
And I'm writing it so that, should our relationship ever get as dicey as mine has with my own mother, they will have the proof that I was lucid at some point, and I did participate in their lives. So, maybe I'm writing to give them a legacy. Maybe I'm writing to cover my butt.
While I sit here and type, my five year old daughter comes skipping into my bedroom where I type, two hanks of hair stuffed into ponytale holders on either side of her head. She's asking me what I'm writing. "
"It's the story of my life," I tell her.
"To who?" she asks.
"To you." She blinks at me, and then she puts her arms around me in a semi-hug.
"Why are you doing that?" She asks me, looking at the words I've just typed on the screen.
"I'm writing to you so that you can read about my life as a child, because I don't think I take enough time to tell you about your heritage. I'm writing because I want you to be able to read about your life when you're older, about what you did as a child, and about the things that we did together. I want you to know when I've made mistakes, and when I'm sorry. And I want you to remember the good things, too. That's why I'm writing."
She gives me a bigger hug, and starts skip-stepping out of the room. I feel good about what I'm doing. It makes me want to write more.
"I can't wait until I can read," she answers.
She may never remember saying that, but now at least she'll know that she did.
Hammered out at 11:43 AM. Copyright 2004 by Denice Hazlett
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