A Town Raises a Child

A long time ago before the former First Lady and now Secretary of State Hillary Clinton wrote the book based on the old proverb, “it takes a village to raise a child” the small Midwest town I grew up in was practicing that proverb to its fullest.

To understand what I mean you would have to go back and see my hometown as it was when I was a young boy. In this article I hope to paint for you the picture that still stays vivid in my mind, as if I had inserted the DVD into my player.

I grew up in a little town in Missouri just outside of Kansas City named Mosby. To hear the inhabitants of our town speak about Mosby in its early days, some would say it was the “richest little town in America”. The town was pretty much built upon and surrounded by coal mines that most of the locals worked in at some time or another. As the mines died off or were closed, most of the people traveled to nearby towns (mostly Claycomo and Kansas City) to work in the automobile plants or drive trucks. Mosby was, in the truest sense a predominantly blue-collar town. And from those very roots, most of us who are now labeled “baby boomers” learned our values and work ethics.

I consider myself one of the luckiest to come out of Mosby. You see, I had a very unique perspective of my little town, because for 5 years I was the town Paperboy. Between the ages of 9 to 14 it was my job to deliver The Daily Standard (the paper from nearby Excelsior Springs) to all the inhabitants of Mosby and the houses just on the outskirts of town. I saw many things in those years, some bad but mostly good. And I can say without a doubt it was the experiences of my life and the people who were part of it that molded me as a child.

I inherited the paper route from Steve Cazzell, who like me 5 years later, had grown to an age where delivering the paper was cutting into a burgeoning social life. When he asked if I wanted to take over his paper route, I knew I had to first ask my parents who had recently divorced. Both my Father and Mother separately sat me down and told me that I was taking on a responsibility that could not be taken lightly, and that if I was going to commit to it, then I had to understand what I was doing. They gave their blessing to a 1 month trial/probationary period where I would learn my route and see if it was truly what I wanted to do. I was to take no pay for the month but was still required to perform as if I was being paid. In my mind, all I heard was “yes” and then drifted off to dream about the “big money” I would make that I could spend on just me. Little did I know how completely wrong I was to be….you see, I would not learn till much later in life that the REAL payback I got from the paper route was the life lessons and the people I came to know as more than just customers.

It was a nice spring day when I raced from my house to just down the dusty street to Steve’s house. There, waiting on the porch, was the stack of freshly printed papers wrapped in a plain sheet cover and tied tightly together with string. Steve came out of the house and cut the string with his pocketknife and handed me half of the stack and showed me how to fold the paper properly. And with that also came my first lesson in being a paperboy….know your customers. Half of the papers we folded in one particular fashion, the rest we left unfolded because certain customers didn’t want to have their papers folded and thrown into their yard, they wanted them hand delivered. I murmured something about being unfair, that it would make the job much harder. Little did I know, but it was those personal deliveries that would introduce me to some of the most wonderful people in my life.

The first 20 or so papers were easy…throwing them in the yard or on the porch. As we passed by, most of the inhabitants of those homes would come out seconds after we passed, pick up their paper and go back to the comfort of home to eat their dinner while reading their paper. Our first live contact with one of our customers was a stop at the home of Mrs. Thompson, who was also the Sunday School Superintendent of the local Baptist church we all attended. Stopping to chat with her was a must because it always was accompanied by a glass of lemonade and sometimes a sugar cookie. While there she would remind us of our Sunday School lesson, to remember to read our Bible Verses for the week, and also that she had seen us talking during service last Sunday and that it wasn’t respectful to do that. Apologizing and promising to do better the next Sunday, we departed and headed out for our next deliveries. We turned right onto what was South Road, the sometimes dusty/sometimes paved street that ran in front of my house and further down the street Steve’s delivering papers as we went. It was there we made a sharp left past the 2-story white house of the Mayor, Neil McCrary (who later built a smaller home next door) and headed to our next stop at the home of Roxie, Frank and Lena Gareffa. The Gareffa’s were immigrants from Italy who had settled into our quiet little town as their retirement home. We would hand deliver the paper, knocking only 2 times, and would wait for either Frank or Roxy to answer the door. We would personally hand them the paper, make small talk that usually reminded us that we were late getting his paper to him and then head off. At the Gareffa’s we would turn left yet again and head down our next street criss-crossing the streets to deliver each house a paper. First the Kennedy’s, then the Dove’s, next the Browns…to the Suttons, the Mullins, the Bush’s (not George), the Narramore’s, the Curry’s, the Parsonage, the Dagley’s and then the Carmichael’s. From there we would turn right and head over to the next street where delivering the paper became just a little more interesting. It wasn’t the people…more the circumstances.

As we headed down the next street our first 2 deliveries were calm….the Sisco’s and the King’s. But the next stop always seemed interesting…..the Shelton’s. But it wasn’t the family, but their pet that always made it an adventure in paper delivery. You see, somewhere along the line the Sheltons got a Saint Bernard named Splash. Now, while Splash was young he was fun to play with…mostly because of the novelty of never having seen a St. Bernard in person. It was more when he got full grown that it got hairy. You see, Splash thought the delivery of a paper was play time…and when large St. Bernard’s play, they do so in the only manner they know….with full force. I never got bit, but imagine being 130 lbs and being almost tackled by a dog of a comparable weight. (I think that is where I learned to run so fast)

After escaping the clutches of Splash we were off to the Moore’s, then Mrs. Hecht (my babysitter when I was much younger), then the Ault’s followed by Jack Armstrong. Jack was an enigmatic character and not well loved by many in the town. But for all the bad habits that he had that the neighbors loathed, he was always very kind to me. I remember every birthday and Christmas he would hand me an envelope and caution me not to open it till I got home. There was always a $5 bill in it with a handwritten note thanking me for being so nice, and occasionally stopping to talk to an old man who truly just wanted a friend. From there it was the Crawford’s to the Crowley’s to the Lattin's. It was the next 2 houses that I can say truly affected my life a great deal in their own special way.

Right across the street from each other at the intersection of 3 streets were the houses of Georgie George and Effie Smith. Both ladies were widows, whose roots were deep in the town. And the wisdom and kindness that both of them showed a young boy is still buried deep within the heart. I remember the very first time I delivered the paper all by myself to both ladies. Mrs. George invited me in, asked me to sit down and brought out a glass of tea and pumpkin cookies. She would sit in a chair across from me and talk about her life, her experiences and her family. When she spoke it was with a gleam in her eye, remembering the good times and the bad, and giving advice on how to be a young man of strong Christian character. I remember going in dreading the thought of listening to unimportant conversations and ramblings, only to leave embarrassed how wrong I had been. As I would cross the street, I would almost repeat the same scenario with Mrs. Smith; absorbing with wonder the stories I would be told. Both ladies would call my next door neighbor to have her tell my mom that I had made it to their house and was fine, each assuming a role of “watching over me” as they felt it was their duty to do.

After leaving the home of Mrs. Smith, I would swing around the church head to the Owens, then the Leutjen’s, backtrack to the road and head to Bill Due’s Bait and Tackle Shop.

Bill Due…just to say that name makes me laugh. It conjures up memories of sitting in his shop with a cold bottle of Pepsi and talking about everything from hunting to fishing to baseball and football. Looking back, I am not sure how Bill ever made a living off of running that shop, but when the only grocery store in town closed because of a fire, Bill promptly stepped in and turned a small bait and tackle shop into a combo grocery store/fishing store. And when he added candy and chips, it was the only place for a kid with 50 cents. I can’t remember the number of times kids would come into the store with not enough money to buy what they wanted the most, but none ever left without it. After every baseball game we were all treated to one soft drink free, knowing full well if he got us in the store, candy would be our purchase. Bill was a shrewd business man….but generous with us kids.

From Bill’s place to the next 2 houses, then to George Cox’s Garage for my next stop.

George ran what was, for a while, the only garage/gas station in town. 1 Pump Ethyl, 1 Pump Regular. George would fix all the cars of the locals, probably never for a real profit, and fixed bicycles on the side for free. He also had the largest plate glass window in town that was never, ever broken, until many years after I graduated High School by some kids who slipped into town looking for trouble. Every year for Halloween we would soap his window and then come back the next day to wash it off for him. He always paid us to do it, with a wink and a nod telling us he knew we were the culprits.

From George’s garage I would stop at the home of Don and Barbara McCrary. In my mind they wrote the movie “Field of Dreams” based upon Don’s kindness. You see, without Don giving up part of his field to make a small baseball field for our local church-sponsored Little League team there would have been no field to play or practice on. Whether they were pick-up games or League games, the Diamond was always busy during the summer. I can only imagine how many young men’s life was changed because instead of looking for trouble, we were playing baseball.

My paper route consisted of many people….and all played an important part in helping to mold me into the man I have become today. Each name I have listed here had a part, whether small or large in showing kindness, giving advice, or guiding me thru my childhood.

There are other names on my route I have left out…and for good reason. They played very significant parts in helping me stay on the straight and narrow at a very tough time in my life. I am saving their stories for another time.

Mark

The Last of the Three

Call me the holdout....or maybe the procrastinator.

In my family the ability to tell a story, fact or fiction, is legend (ok maybe only to our family). I can remember from my earliest days listening to my Grandpa spin tales of life in the hardest of times. Family gatherings at holidays turned out to be a time where, while pretending to be concentrating on something else, I would listen attentively to the Kilgore men (my Father, his 2 older brothers, and my grandfather)who played cards and told tales of work and life in general.

I cannot speak for my brothers, but for me that is where my love of the spoken and written word began. And growing up in a small town where there wasn't much to do except ride bicycles, play sandlot baseball, and think of ways to get in trouble, a rainy afternoon curled up in my room with a book was a welcome retreat.

My brothers and I, like the rest of our friends in the small town of Mosby, went to a small 4 room rock school from 1st to 8th Grade. We were encouraged during those years to read and expand our minds by our teachers. They challenged us with summer contests to see how many books we could read and many of us dove in with vigor. Spelling Bees were often highly contested between my older brother and I, so much so that we often wouldn't speak for the rest of the day.

I've never lost that love of reading and managed to inherit my Father's ability to spin a verbal yarn. But writing has always been the domain of my older and younger brothers. My older brother, even at an early age, wrote poetry and short stories that were published locally or state-wide. He now is a published author/speaker and with his wife runs a business that specializes in how to teach others to practice Christian principles/values in the workplace. My younger brother has his own blog that is not only read here but in other countries as well.

So, it is with much trepidation that I start this venture into the written word. My skillset has always been the spoken word. (Many of my friends swear I could filibuster with the best) Words or stories come easy to me when I am not having to take the time to write them. But in the spirit of competition that is buried into the DNA of my family, I am trying my hand at writing.

Most of what I will write about is more reflection than information. I have been lucky enough to experience life lessons some have not had to, but I would not be the person I am without these experiences.

And maybe, just maybe, I can be as good a writer as my siblings.

Mark