Angie J. Mayfield - Love Loss & Lunacy in a Small Town

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Copyright 2012 by Angela J. Mayfield

ISBN 978-0-7414-7091-1 Paperback

ISBN 978-0-7414-7092-8 Hardcover

ISBN 978-0-7414-7093-5 eBook

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011944074

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For Bernie
In life you taught me to love
In death you taught me to live
I miss you.

and

For Doug and the kids

You are my bouquet of daisies
in a field of weeds.
I love you.

I write the truth as I experienced it. Some dialogue is not word for word, and many names have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty. I will never apologize for my perceptions, only for the emotional harm they may inflict on others.

Except for the weather, everything in a small town is predictable the resistance to change, the thats the way its always been done traditions, and a ritualized protocol of day-to-day survival that I hate, and love, about the rural Midwest.

The same people with the same stories, gripes, and gossip go to Brocks Diner every morning, except Sunday, and to the county council meeting every second Wednesday of every month. Everyone looks forward to Friday night. Teens cruise town, park or party up in the state forest on Skyline Drive, or head to the movies in Seymour, twelve miles away. Adults attend the high school football, basketball, or volleyball game, living vicariously through their children to regain lost youth and dreams. Others hang out at Allmans Auction Barn for bargains they dont need or at T.J.s Bar and Grill for beer and socializing they cant do without.

Sundays are reserved for church and family, a prerequisite for success in the Bible belt Midwest. The entire town shuts down, including the gas station and three restaurants, and even the farmers take a day off though one will still see a tractor or combine heading down Highway 50 in the afternoon.

Most are decent folks who work all week, pay their bills, raise their kids the best they can, practice their occasional vices, and repent their sins once a week just to do it all again the next. Reputation is dependent on last names, land, occupation, marriage, and the church one attends. The monotony gets to some, the poverty to others, the gossip chain to most, and the newspaper obituary to all, eventually.

Everyone is famous at one time or another in a small town, whether in high school athletics, church activities, alcohol-related arrests, infidelity, death, or for just being too damn goody-two-shoes or downright queer. Everything is open for speculation. Like the flu, a small towns fever, chills and diarrhea cannot be escaped.

Ive grown accustomed to the rumor mill and the monthly revelations about my personal life. A middle-aged, fairly attractive woman with a nice home and land but no husband is not only considered odd in my neck of the woods, but sinful. If Im seen eating lunch with a man, even if hes a married, elderly co-worker, Im automatically sleeping with him. If Im not seen with anyone for a long time, Ive turned lesbian or skipped town. Ive heard Im selling drugs to keep the place going, running a prostitution house, and even that Im some kind of government spy. I get a kick out of some of the most creative tales. Others are simply cruel and not as easily ignored.

Ive heard speculations that I killed my late husband, had him killed, or drove him to commit suicide. Like a group short story generated by my students in English class, the gossip is embroidered by each person who repeats it, adding a new, more creative twist to the plot. Automobile accidents like my husbands are not nearly as exciting as what can be made up. Unfortunately, trees, trucks, and corpses are not available to set the record straight.

Ive supposedly sold the farm several times and live off the millions I inherited. Math is not the locals best subject, considering I received $100 thousand in insurance and owed $110 thousand on the farm and another $60,000 in debts and funeral expenses.

After several years passed and I didnt sell the farm, the rumors died down somewhat, but the suspicions, paranoia, and my deep hurt and sense of betrayal never did. A relative assisted in quieting the original source for the gossip, warning my husbands brother that I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown and threatening him that if he heard one more negative word out of his mouth about me someone would find him in a ditch dead and it wouldnt be an accident. There are always plenty of people who know whats right, but only a sparse few willing to risk isolation and say so.

My ex brother-in-law spoke to me recently after nine years of snubbing and bitterness because he didnt inherit the family farm, as though that was ever a possibility. How ya doing, Ang? he asked in passing, as though he wasnt disappointed I was still alive.

What do you care after all youve done? I wanted to know.

Oh, hell, that was all just crazy talk. Everyone needs someone to blame. We didnt mean nothin by it, the slug responded.

Well, Im glad to hear it wasnt anything personal, I said, shaking inside and fighting back the urge to deck him right there. The power of property and the endurance of ignorance never cease to astonish me.

My father told me, If you were old, ugly or penniless, people might feel sorry for you, but you find out who your real friends are when it comes to land or money. I inherited Dads sensitive nature and ability to see and tell it like it is, but I didnt inherit enough land to distance myself from civilization completely.

Living in a small town, Ive learned to hide my emotions. If people know where a wound is located, theyll dig at it like a scab until it bleeds, just to see whats underneath. I learned to cry late in the night when no one is around and my children are sleeping, letting everything wrong, painful, or ugly in my life seep into the pillow, smothered before it sets me on fire.

Ive learned to say Im really too busy when friends or suitors call, to pretend not to need anyone rather than risk the pain and fear of discovering I do. Ive learned to laugh like its the funniest thing Ive ever heard when someone says something that hurts my feelings, or during those appropriate times that I know they expect me to laugh if I want to be accepted. Ive learned not to say anything to anyone that I wouldnt put in the newspaper, because everyone knows everyone else, is related to them, goes to church with them, or depends on them for economic or social stability. They will cut a person down like a morning glory in a vegetable garden for one second of fame. Yes, small towns are predictable.