The Charm of a Small Town
There’s something good to be said about small towns. I was born, raised and lived for 40 years in a small city about 40 miles north of Chicago. Waukegan, Illinois, a bustling metropolis of about 80,000 ((not a small town), is best known as the birthplace of Jack Benny and author Ray Bradbury.
In summertime, mom and dad would pack up the family of seven and head on down to Litchfield, Illinois, where my mother was originally from. Litchfield is about 30 miles south of the Capital of Springfield. In the ‘60’s and ‘70’s when I was a kid, Litchfield had a population of only about 7,200, and today it’s actually gotten smaller at about 6,800.
Yes, we were used to living in a busier environment with its factories, churches, banks and most of all, traffic. One would think we’d be bored in a small town like Litchfield, but we weren’t. I had some of the best times of my life there.
My mother was the seventh child of nine, born to Levin and Margaret. She was born on Christmas Day in 1929, just about two months after the stock market crash, right in the throws of the Great Depression. Her father, about 80% deaf, worked as a carnival photographer and was often away from home. Her mother was a homemaker and hospital housekeeper, and they were not in the least very well off. They lived in a small house and often did not know where their next meal would come from, but somehow they got through those tough times.
I loved my Grandma C. (last names withheld) very much. I can remember her as far back as age 72. The one thing I remember most about her is that she always suffered severely with rheumatoid arthritis; took several Bufferin each day, and drank the hottest, blackest Maxwell House coffee you could ever imagine. She hurt constantly, and we kids were always scared to death we were going to make it worse by embracing her or even going near her. I can remember my cousin, Janice, saying, “Don’t step on Grandmaw’s feet, don’t step on Grandmaw’s hurtin’ feet.” She lived until she was 86 years old, the last five years in a nursing home.
I think the members of a community relying on one another are something that a small town has that bigger towns and cities don’t have as much of. Mom had many friends back home in Litchfield. We’d stroll downtown to the Rexall or the Fashion Lane, and at every turn, there was someone to say hello to or enjoy a visit with. That’s how small towns are. Everybody knows each other. They care for one another.
I can remember very much enjoying spending time with my Uncle Earl, a bachelor all his life. Uncle Earl was kind of a kid himself in many ways, and he related to us little ones quite naturally. He was gifted at gardening and painting and drawing and he could play accordian by ear! I can remember him teaching me how peach seeds have to germinate in the sun a certain amount of time before they can be planted. I must have been about eight years old. He really enjoyed we kids. He often would put us all in a wagon and hook it up to the back of his riding lawn mower and give us rides all evening long, all around their yard, which was about a half acre. That was fun. He never got tired of us. Our parents never worried about us when we were with Uncle Earl.
When the carnival came to town, Uncle Earl, was right there with an open wallet and the enthusiasm of a child. He didn’t have a lot of money, as he worked as a dishwasher in a hotel for many years, but he always found plenty to take my sister and me on at least five or six rides. We’d have a ball together.
One time, Uncle Earl walked my sister, Tammy, and I down to Mohr’s Grocery store, about three blocks West on Jones Street. The road had been newly oiled and was scorching hot in the August sun. Tammy and I hadn’t bothered to put any shoes on that day, and we started crying, as our feet were burning like fire. My Uncle Earl, a big man of about 6 feet tall, picked up both Tammy and I, held us each in one arm, walked us to Mohr’s, bought us a 7-cent Popsicle, and carried us all the way back home. He didn’t complain for a minute. I think he would have made a good dad.
When we’d visit Litchfield, if it was summer, we would camp at Hillsboro Lake, about 12 miles East. In winter, we would stay at the family homestead at 914 South Montgomery. It was a 4-room house, with no indoor plumbing, but was always plenty inviting to us. It sure was cold in winter, and every morning about 5 o’clock, my Uncle George would shovel the coal into the big black pot belly stove that stood in the middle of the living room. I don’t think that stove ever generated much heat, but he’d do it anyway – every morning, without fail.
I had about twenty-five cousins and eight aunts and uncles not including the spouses. I can remember enjoying family picnics out at Walton Park or Lake Lou Yaeger. We’d be out there from early afternoon until dusk enjoying each other’s company. The adults all talked at once and we kids would horse around with one another until somebody would get mildly injured and start crying. My dad would make us settle down for a little bit, which was basically taking a time out to rest, but then we’d be right back having a good time.
My Aunt Mary and Uncle Gene were night owls, as opposed to my Aunt Helen and my Uncle Marshall, who went to bed every night by about 8:30 or 9:00 p.m. My folks weren’t ready to settle in for the night by nine, so we would often take a ride over to Mary and Gene’s on Madison to visit. They were always happy to see us, no matter the time. Even after my mother died, and we’d go to Litchfield, we stayed true to form and would visit them later in the evening. Aunt Mary had five children, 19 grandchildren and who knows how many great grandchildren, and her living room and dining room were filled to the ceilings with pictures of all those kids. We had plenty to talk about.
My Aunt Ruth was about 80% deaf, like her dad. She was married to my Uncle Eddie, who was a maintenance engineer at St. Francis Hospital in town. You couldn’t tell Ruth you liked something in her house, because once you said you liked it, she’d want to give it to you. I can remember her forcing dish towels on my mom one time. It may sound cliché, but those were good times. And man, she sure could cook! That lady could make an apple pie to put you on your knees and thank the Lord!
And speaking of cooking, my Aunt Helen was fabulous too. Heck, all my aunts were. We’d go over to Aunt Helen and Uncle Marshall’s place there on Lincoln, and Helen would never sit down to visit. She was too busy taking care of us. She was real hyper, and it made her happy to serve us as guests in her home. I have to mention too that she and Uncle Marshall were nuts in love. Boy, she always thought he was the cat’s meow, and vice versa. They never did anything inappropriate, but you could just tell. Today, at 92 and 94, they are both in the nursing home over on Illinois Avenue, and still nearly inseparable.
There were some not-so-fun times in Litchfield too, as my Uncle Bob was a very ill alcoholic, but I’m not going to dwell on those times. I’m also happy to say that he conquered that problem and was sober the last 10 years of his life. I like to focus on my fondest memories of when Uncle Chris, Aunt Pat and our family would all come down from Waukegan and visit the family in Litchfield.
My Aunt Mary, Aunt Helen, Aunt Pat, and Uncle Earl survive their parents and brothers and sisters today, and I’m happy to say that we’re going to trek on down to Litchfield this August for another visit. It will be one of the first times in a few years we’re not actually going for a funeral. I still have plenty of cousins down there to picnic with, and maybe we’ll take a ride out to the cemetery too.
Litchfield might not be much to some folks, but it’s a world of wonderful memories to me.
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