A few years ago, I had another family. No they weren't a secret from my actual family, and no they didn't look a thing like me. We didn't share the same blood, the same upbringing, and there are no photos of us together. We lived our lives at opposite ends of a spectrum so broad that our paths would've never crossed.
At the time, PG and I were easily making the payments on a starter home in the suburbs, and did pretty much whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted. We were 25 (OK, its been more than a few years) and while we worked hard, and lived responsibly, there really wasn't much that we couldn't do. We took trips, bought things, and reached for a brass ring that was always within sight.
And I adopted a family.
My family was a mom, dad, and two teenage girls. They lived in what most of us would call a shack. They had no heat, their plumbing was spotty, and they'd never been across a state line. The lived in a "holler" and from them I learned so, so much. Me...with some college under my belt...learning from people that struggled to read. But I learned about life, about compassion, and about a people so tough that even the hills couldn't drive them out.
It was during this time that I realized that while we lived in the same country, watched the same tv shows, there was a gulf between people right here in America, that was like night and day. A big day for me was going to work, going out to dinner, playing cards at night, that sort of thing. A big day for them was making the ten-mile trek into town to do laundry because their washing machine had long since given up the ghost.
I lived in a home with a sunroom, and a pond. They lived in a home with particle board to keep out the weather.
I would send them things, mostly food, clothes, toiletries. And letters. Lots and lots of letters. And they would send me little knick knacks and things. And letters. Letters written on paper that I'd send them. Paper that made the journey back and forth across this country twice. I could see how painstaking it was for them to write those letters. I could see how much effort it took to spell, how much sweat went into every line about weather, family, and the goings on in the holler. And pride, always pride for their families and their area.
And they sent photos, well, actually, they sent cameras that I had sent them to take photos. Little disposable cardboard boxes that I would have processed immediately, one hour style. And in those photos was a country that was beautiful beyond description, and a reality harsh enough to keep me up at night. Those photos opened my eyes to mountains, so old and beautiful that they took my breath away. And to faces...so much like my own...but so very different.
My mom (as I would call her) spoke differently than I did. At times I had trouble understanding her through the accent that sounded so normal to her. We'd talk on the phone on the weekends and write letters through the week. Her oldest daughter, 17, was getting married soon; a fact that well, didn't sit well with me. But who was I to say? I could only offer encouragement. Yet I'd cry over the future of a 17 year old bride in Appalachia. I wasn't there as judge and jury, I was there as family. And I KNEW how difficult it was to get married young (PG and I married at 21) and knew that kids would soon follow for her. I was watching a cycle repeat itself.
And there were times when I'd wonder just why people couldn't get a leg up there. Were they lazy? Were they stupid? No certainly not either. I mean, they'd walk miles to get somewhere while the rest of us were walking miles to make out butts smaller. They were scrappers...survivors...in an area that offered little in the way of opportunities that some of us take for granted. There could be no college because there was no money to go, no car to get there. Jobs were scarce, again, if you could get to them. I often wondered why they didn't just move? I mean, pick up and move to another area that could offer them more. But, that takes money, and a car, and credit, and references, and and and. And besides, these were the hills their families had been in since whenever. It was their constant in an outside world that seemed pretty scary to them.
After some time, "my dad" got a job and the family stabilized a bit. They didn't need me anymore, though I never really got over needing them. But we lost touch, as people do, and I often wonder if they're OK and how things are there in the holler that I'd come to love by photo and letter. Meanwhile PG and I moved up I guess you could say, and carried on with our lives. Working, playing, laughing, and crying...probably just as they do in the holler.
But I never really got over having a family that wasn't my own.
And so late the other night, when I couldn't sleep, I threw my hat in the ring to get a new family from Appalachia. I told them I wanted a family of 3-5 people, and maybe one with bitty kids. I'm always seeing printable coloring books and things that I can send to small kids. Sure, we don't have tons of extra money laying around (who does in this economy?). But we have more than most I'd say and the first rule we all learned in Kindergarten was to share. Maybe I'm trading toothpaste for stories, and clothes for letters. Maybe I'm wanting more than anything to be "back in the holler" as I was back then. No, I never went there, but I lived there...if that makes any sense.
And maybe someone there will sit on a stump, in the cool foggy morning, in the shade of the ancient Appalachians and think of this suburban housewife as her sister. And I will sit in my kitchen and write letters to someone that I most likely will never meet...but is my family just the same.
(For information on helping a family please check out The Box Project.)
