My People

Last summer I drove back to Indiana, a place with which I have a pretty tortured relationship.  This is probably best displayed by the fact that I still list Rising Sun, a town where I lived part of the time through first grade, and not Lawrenceburg, where I graduated from high school and where my father still lives, as my hometown.  I guess I've never been a good fit as a Hoosier for any number of reasons.  First off, I just don't like basketball, even though it was the only sport I could play with any sort of middling proficiency - that alone is ground for excommunication (especially if you're tall).  Plus, the state is so distressingly conservative, and, well, obviously I'm not.  Over the years several of my old high school classmates have tracked me down on Facebook, which is actually OK, although I've had to defriend a couple of them because of their ridiculously arch-conservative - bordering on reactionary - if not racist - rants.  The point of Facebook is to remind me of birthdays and for my friends to post pictures of their dogs and kids and grandkids (preferably in that order), not for serious political dialogue (and this is why I spend more time on Twitter).  Finally, Hoosiers just don't leave the state, and I love to travel.  For all of these reasons I always have very  mixed emotions on returning to the state.

Now, it doesn't mean that Hoosiers aren't friendly, because they are remarkably nice folks - and certainly much more pleasant and honest and open and real than Vermonters.  When Sanford and I made our Trip of Excellence to Oklahoma a few years ago he left quite convinced that Indiana was the friendliest state, best exemplified by the postmaster in North Vernon who ran after our car to tell us about a restaurant she thought we should visit.

What made this trip so rewarding was that I was able to spend some time with my people.  Any Southerner, and the hills of southern Indiana are much more than quasi-Southern, knows that "my people" means your family.  So, for instance, if a man tells a woman that he wants her to meet his people, then things are progressing nicely. On this particular trip I was able to spend time with my Mom and Dad and Aunt Em (yes, I have an Aunt Em) and cousin Jana and my brother Eric and his girlfriend Linda and their various and sundry kids - including talking fantasy football with my nephew Cam and chatting with my nephew Cole.

I was also able to make it out to the cemetery in Rising Sun to spend time with family members who have passed, which, naturally, was a bittersweet moment.  I was afraid that I would not be able to find the tombstones but was pleasantly surprised that I remembered.

There is something remarkably heart-warming about a well-maintained tombstone, complete with flowers and flags, in a country cemetery. 

My Dad's mom, and the person, other than my father, that I am most like.  She was smart as a whip, did not suffer fools lightly, and had no trouble telling you what she thought.  I can remember my Dad waking her up one time in the hospital to ask her the name of my first grade teacher, which she immediately told us, before passing again into some medicated sleep. I can still clearly remember the last time I saw her in the old house on Mulberry Street.  My son, who was very young, and I went down to visit.  Just as we were leaving Maude began to cry (my father cannot remember another instance of her crying) and I asked her if she was OK.  She replied, "Everyone has their favorites."  In a classic Southern sense she married into the Scudder family and quickly knew more about them than anyone else - of course, she summarized the Scudders as nothing but a lot of "horse thieves and defrocked ministers." She played a very active role in the Scudder
Association for years (sadly, I know little about her family background). Even though she was a straight A student she never had the chance to attend school beyond high school, even though she was the smartest of all of us.

My Dad's Dad, who we always called Jum or Papa (pronounced PaPaw).  I've always opined that Jum was the only Scudder worth a damn.  Like many of his generation he fought in World War II, in his case in the Pacific.  He brought back a nutcracker in the shape of a woman's legs, which, much like the Major Award in A  Christmas Story, formed the basis of a decades-long battle with Maude.  For decades he worked at Seagram's Distillery and also cut hair on the side.  He was a gentle, gentle soul - I think the harshest thing I ever heard him say was that someone (probably me) was so dumb that he would starve to death with a ham sandwich in his pocket.  Jum had a lot of tools in the basement and would patiently allow me to "build" things, which mainly consisted of me pounding nails into boards.  To this day the one item I would run into a burning house to rescue is the walking stick he made me.  He was a beloved figure and his passing was felt by many.

My Mom's Mom.  Another sainted figure.  Very few people ever called her Alice.  We mainly knew her as Phoodey, which, I think, related to her tendency to say "Phoodey-Doodey" to mark exclamation or exasperation.  I may have helped give her that nickname, not because I remember it but because it sounds like something I would do.  I have very vague memories of the farm that she and Bud used to run.  My clearest memories are associated with a country store they ran, at which I would spend weeks in the summer "helping" her operate - in this "helping" related to having access to the candy section and probably eating her out of house and home. Years later, and after Bud had a stroke, they lived with my parents for a few years.  During the summers during college when I was working night shift at the cardboard box factory - and thus not getting up until late morning - she would fix me a big country breakfast every day to fortify me for the day.  She made the best bread and rolls, which I can still taste.

Phoodey's second husband, Bud.  I never met my Mom's actual father, who she was separated from and who no one ever discussed (like one of those family secrets that Lucinda Williams would sing about).  I was mainly afraid of Bud, not because he ever did anything mean to me, but mainly because he was more gruff and, truthfully, it was tough to compare to Jum.  I wish I had known him better.  If nothing else he never yelled at me for drinking all of his Choc-Ola from the country store.