When I was a young mother, a small town stole my parents from me when I felt I most needed them. No Mom and Dad nearby to relieve me of parenting stresses or to provide extra doses of love to my little sons. Selfish twit that I am, I never quite got over it. I instinctively hated where they went: the nasty adobe shack on a barren hillock miles from a larger town but within walking distance of a depressing series of hovels called a village.
Mom and Dad were so proud of their find. They reveled in the nearness of lakes for fishing and the priceless view of a rugged mountain range from their living room windows. They bragged about the ease of leading a simple life out there, with no pressure to keep up or move out of the way. I snickered at that, as it was a 25-mile round trip to a decent grocery store, doctor or clothing shop. WalMart was the big game in town and I found that revolting: corporate America epitomized being the staff of small town life. What an angle.
Mom especially harbored the fantasy of small-town and rural neighborliness despite remaining principally aloof from every one and every thing, excepting rare occasions. She was vindicated when Dad became ill and had to go to a care center and some neighbors stepped in with little helpful jobs. It was only natural that she thought that meant the old-time rally 'round the widow would occur when he died.
Well, it didn't. No dishes were brought, although a box of doughnuts appeared. One person called without her having called them first about Dad's death. Many people in public places expressed sympathy and the obligatory "anything to help." So, she and my sister and I supposed that perhaps a number of fine small town and country folk would appear at the funeral and planned a rite to be proud of.
The day came. The delightful small-town funeral director was only just dressing and making up the body when we arrived for the private family viewing he'd scheduled five days earlier. He himself was unkempt and made a huge show of being ill by coughing at all the right times and opportunely acting weak-kneed. He reneged on an offer that he apparently made insincerely, never expecting five grandkids and two family members to want small token urns. He seemed anxious to just get us out of there, as if completing the job for which he'd been handsomely paid was an overbearing bother. The charming small-town caterer recommended by a helpful neighbor charged $150 for food for 40 which looked more like food for 20. The owners of the floral shop hung around expecting a tip for delivering the two arrangements we'd ordered. (Sorry, pals, owners don't get tips.)
And how many wonderful small town and country folk showed up? Two. Yessiree. One came to the public viewing for a half hour and the other attended the service. That's all. No more calls. No after-funeral dishes. Apparently, the folks' not having bought into the "being up in everyone's business while they're in yours" made them unworthy of such attentions. It's different here in the big city: if you have or had regular traffic with someone you generally attend the funeral and if you knew them or the family remotely personally you provide something to eat. No big deal, it's what you do. Not so in small towns. So much for small towns. I hope Mom can bear the disillusionment enough to wise up and come home.
