Newcomers To God’s Country

move to country bad idea, angry rural neighbors, rural life hilarity, rural living problems, religion as a weapon, angry Christians,

We left behind gangs and sexual predators when we moved to the country. After city living, settling our family on a small farm seemed like coming to the Promised Land. Even the weather was welcoming as we made more and more repairs to the house we could barely afford. No matter. We hiked through the woods and crouched by the pond, watching frogs, fish and goggle-eyed insects with a sense of gratitude that felt as solid as a good decision.

Then we got to know our neighbors.

Though we’d moved less than an hour away it seemed we’d crossed an unmarked border. Lovely pastoral stillness was regularly broken by target shooting, 4-wheelers careening around pastures, and barking from a not-too-distant dog breeding operation. People chose to burn garbage rather than pay the fee for trash pickup, which explained the toxic stench of burnt plastic hanging in the air. And we quickly learned that some neighbors didn’t talk to other neighbors due to longstanding feuds. Allegedly these conflicts had escalated to bodily harm, lawsuits and the big threat, eternal damnation.

That was the most overtly foreign to us, religion right out front as a beacon or bludgeon. Religious paraphernalia was evident everywhere on bumper stickers, yard signs, and lapel pins. “Where do you go to church?” was often the first question people asked upon meeting us.

Realizing the only correct answer would be the exact denomination of the questioner, I gave vague relies. If pressed I said that we headed back north each Sunday to go to our old church before spending the afternoon visiting relatives. Then I quickly changed the subject. This conversational maneuver seemed to leave my new neighbors unsure of whether to save my soul or shun me. Left in the dreaded middle ground, many of them parted with helpful advice about sins I should take care to avoid.

“Don’t vote for the library levy, because you know the library is an agent of Satan. It has that Internet thing.”

“Don’t talk to the woman in the yellow house, she uses a hyphenated name. Probably a feminist.”

“Don’t celebrate Halloween. That pleases the devil’s minions.”

But we couldn’t remain anonymous for long. Our children ventured down the street to scout out playmates. They were back quickly. Apparently neighborhood children posed a quiz before agreeing to make friends with newcomers. When our children were confused by the “born again” question they weren’t allowed to stay.

Soon after, I was invited to a neighbor’s house for a visit. While ranging around her kitchen swatting flies and yelling at her children, this woman crisply explained why those who didn’t ascribe to her exact version of Christianity were destined for hell. With joyous fervor she started listing houses on the street by the sins of the occupants. That did it. I said something about seeing the light in each person. She swiveled her full attention in my direction, fly swatter in hand, and asked me where I went to church. No middle ground left, I told her that I belonged to a Unitarian Universalist fellowship.

She was shocked. “Oh, you people believe anything goes,” she gasped.

“Not intolerance,” I said.

She kicked me out of her house.

It seemed that my admission branded me, and not in the correct tattoo-for-Christ way. Word spread quickly. A man who lived a few doors down called soon after. When I answered the phone he asked to speak to my husband.

“Let your wife know she shouldn’t be hiking in the woods,” he said before adding gruffly, “I target shoot there and I don’t look first.”

I hoped school presented better possibilities.

Our children were assigned to two different rural elementary schools, miles apart. I picked our kindergartener up every day at lunchtime. Other parents also waited in the school hallway. It was immediately apparent that there were two factions leaning against opposite walls. This presented a difficult choice. If I spoke to the woman with frosted lipstick and tight shirt who stood on the less populated side, the woman with the heavy necklace and shag haircut on the other side would glare at me. And vice versa.

Frosted Lipstick talked to me more often. She told me about her well-muscled prayer partner and how she felt called to meet with him alone even though this made her husband jealous. She told me that Jesus gave her too many challenges. She told me I would be a lot cuter if I wore lipstick.

Shag Haircut was more interesting or maybe I just enjoyed her sardonic commentary. One day Shag Haircut told me what was behind the hallway glaring. A group of mothers were trying to remove Frosted Lipstick from membership in the school’s parent/teacher organization over a dispute concerning craft supplies. Ribbon and scissors worth something like $36 had not been returned. Shag Haircut and her cohorts considered Frosted Lipstick a thief.

I made what I hoped were reasonable suggestions. No luck. I’ve taught conflict resolution for years but peace was no match for the entertainment value of scandal. A few weeks later the superintendent acted. Weary of the dispute, he threatened to eliminate the entire parent/teacher organization. Both sides of the hallway were deliciously shocked.
Frantically, Frosted Lipstick asked me to baby-sit after kindergarten so she could meet with him and solve the problem. I was relieved that she seemed to be taking my advice about meeting with the other “side” in his office to talk the problem out. I agreed, but explained that I needed to pick up my third-grader at the other school by three-thirty for a dentist appointment.

I assumed that she would drop off her kindergartener to play with my child. I was wrong. She appeared at my door with three additional boys. When she saw my surprise she said, “Everyone knows I operate a home daycare business.”

Everyone but the newcomer.

She went back to her minivan and returned with a woman she called Grandma. This woman was not her relative. Frosted Lipstick was branching out in the daycare business and had taken in an elderly confused person who needed supervision. Frosted Lipstick left quickly after I reminded her I needed to leave at three sharp. I made additional places at the table and invited these guests to lunch.

It became apparent that the boys were not accustomed to eating while sitting, or eating without throwing food. They also used God’s name in vain frequently, an ironic tendency for five-year-olds normally in the care of a woman who talked so much about her prayer life. Quickly I gave up the silly idea of showing them how to make sandwich shapes with cookies cutters and simply tried to impose order. It wasn’t working well. Grandma wouldn’t sit. She smelled as if she might have damp undergarments but her waistband was fastened with some kind of dementia-proof catch. I couldn’t figure the thing out.

The afternoon deteriorated rapidly. My five-year-old normally enjoyed eating while I read to him, then he played Legos after lunch, but these boys were only amused by diversions such as hitting each other and slamming themselves into furniture. Grandma sidled along the walls with her hands up touching everything as if her entire body read a form of Braille expressed in window frames and light switches. At one point she escaped through the locked front door. Like hostages, my son and I exchanged repeated sympathy glances at each other as the home invasion dragged on.

Despite the chaos around me I was cheered by the knowledge that a greater good was being served: the conflict was being talked out at the superintendent’s office. In fact I was beginning to feel a sense of peace about the whole ordeal. Three o’clock was approaching. Frosted Lipstick would ring the doorbell and then I’d be free to retrieve my third grader. I felt a generous amount of sorrow for Grandma, left here with strangers when she’d already lost so much. By now my son had retreated completely from the boys, who were bouncing around in a frenzy like ping pong balls. I couldn’t imagine the inner clamor their behavior was expressing.

Three o’clock got closer and closer. Frosted Lips still didn’t arrive. I was losing my smug sense of peace. Finally, instead of arriving, she called. Her tone was casual. She said she couldn’t make it but had made other arrangements. She told me to drop off the kids and Grandma at the school’s aftercare program, she knew everyone there. I had no time to sputter about my older son who would be waiting for me in the other school office. I loaded the boys and Grandma in the van, checked seatbelts and turned onto the road. In moments the boys had taken off their seatbelts and were beginning to crawl over the seats. That did it. I pulled over, trucks hurtling past, and told the boys to get their seatbelts on using the slow dispassionate voice that my own children know indicates true rage. As I merged back into traffic I realized my vindictive thoughts were an indicator of how far I had to go before calling myself a pacifist.

In moments I was hurrying across the school parking lot holding many hands at once. We crammed into the tiny school office. I stood at the counter assuring the secretary that arrangements had been made for the boys to stay in the aftercare program. She seemed confused. Then I uttered Frosted Lipstick’s name. The school secretary’s face slackened into disgust. I leaned over the counter, trying to hear her response but the boys were arguing and shoving the hard-backed chairs back and forth on the linoleum. Grandma was running her hands along the corporate-sponsored posters on the walls. Clearly none of us wanted to be in this office but my own child was waiting miles away and I needed to assert some control over the situation. A chair tipped over, one boy slapped another.

I turned to the boys, hissing furiously over the din, “Stop it right now or I’ll tie you to those chairs!” Unfortunately just at that moment the principal came through the door with what appeared to be a new family. Upon seeing her, the boys stopped the noise immediately. Their sudden silence made my threat a broadcast. Grandma strolled right into the principal, her upraised hands roaming across the guests’ faces, along the door hinge and onto the next wall. I’d been in the township less than two months and now I was heard threatening to use restraints on a poor confused woman and three disorderly little boys.

The secretary said there was no protocol for leaving the boys without parental consent slips, and of course the elderly woman whose name I didn’t know could not stay. Trying to keep from hyperventilating, I asked the secretary to call the other school about my child, now surely left in the office. She tried. She told me no one was answering and her tone assured everyone in the room that I was indeed a bad mother.

So I did what I had to do. I subdued my hysteria, gathered my charges and walked down the hall toward the aftercare program. Both women there said they knew the boys and the grandma, as most people in the township seem to know everyone else. I informed them that Frosted Lipstick had told me to leave them for just a few minutes till she got back.

“Even the old lady?” asked one of the aides.

I nodded, wishing I had never stopped in the school office.

“Okay,” said the other aide. The first woman looked skeptical, but the moment the word “okay” left the mouth of a human being able to watch these four I took my son’s hand and ran from the building—past a janitor, several parents and a blur of faces in the school office. I wondered if I abandonment charges were possible.

We pulled out of the parking lot and almost immediately found ourselves behind a line of traffic on the way to the other school. Cars, vans, trucks and at the front, a school bus. It takes a single school bus to clog a rural road for miles. Worse, directly in front of us was a tractor pulling a manure spreader. Dark clumps fell onto the road and the heavy odor drifted in through our closed windows.

That drawn-out stinky scene wasn’t the final act of our little drama. Nor was it the sight of my third grader waiting for me in front of his school building, his face confident but his backpack sagging. No, it was the phone call from Frosted Lipstick later that evening. At the sound of her voice I was confident I would hear that the day’s calamities had been for a good cause.

“So did you resolve your differences?” I asked her.

“I went there to serve them with papers,” she said. “I’m suing the superintendent, the school and the officers of the parent/teacher organization. God told me to seek vengeance.”

Originally published by Penduline Press, issue 4

About Laura Grace Weldon

Laura Grace Weldon is a writer and editor, perhaps due to an English professor's scathing denunciation of her writing as "curious verbiage." She's the author of "Free Range Learning," a handbook of natural learning and "Tending," a poetry collection. (lauragraceweldon.com) She's working on her next book, "Subversive Cooking" (subversivecooking.com). She lives on Bit of Earth Farm where she is a barely useful farm wench. Although she has deadlines to meet she often wanders from the computer to preach hope, snort with laughter, cook subversively, talk to chickens and cows, discuss life’s deeper meaning with her surprisingly tolerant offspring, sing to bees, hide in books, walk dogs, concoct tinctures, watch foreign films, and make messy art.
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15 Responses to Newcomers To God’s Country

  1. Wow – what a horrifying story! Did you move from that house? Or have things gotten better?

    • Laura Weldon says:

      We’re still here. That was our last attempt to make school work but we’re determined to make this our community. My mother’s advice to “kill them with kindness” is truly the right approach. I may not have much in common with my neighbors but I love it here.

  2. COD says:

    Horrifying? I thought it was hilarious – especially the ending. But I’m weird like that :)

  3. sarah says:

    Oh my, what a story!! I am amazed you decided to stay. You are a more tolerant person than I. Mind you, if any of your neighbours read this post, you might be wanting to leave after all!

  4. “As I merged back into traffic I realized my vindictive thoughts were an indicator of how far I had to go before calling myself a pacifist.” Ohmigosh! I loved this!

    We crossed some invisible line when we moved into our hometown, too. We’re comfortable now finally–but it took years and years and years…

  5. Kimerly says:

    Horrifying? Hilarious? Both! That reads like “The Help”….and I do hope your neighbors read your blog. Maybe they’ll learn something.

  6. Christen says:

    Loved this story. It was beautifully written. It reminds me of living in the Middle East. I think I see Americans who are culturally different than me with more compassion now that I can see it as cultural difference and not just being weird :) My last blog post had to do with seeing who people really are under all the cultural and personal layers. I wish I could say I see the light under all the layers when I’m being looked down upon by people who I think are clearly wrong, but I more often feel ashamed and anxious instead. I’m working on seeing that of God in each person though! Thanks for sharing this!

  7. Good grief. I really don’t know if I believe there are people are like that. All of them. Seriously?

    • Laura Weldon says:

      It was a shock to me too Karyn. We moved here in a bit of a trauma state after a whole pile of difficulty (disabling accident, crime against one of our children and bodily harm against another, unemployment, and so on) ready to leave trouble behind us. The folks we met here initially were indeed a surprise. In contrast to what we’d been through it wasn’t all that bad.If nothing else, a decent challenge to my conflict resolution skills…. Interestingly, in a few years every one of those condemning neighbors moved away. After we began homeschooling I never heard from Frosted LIpstick again either.

  8. Carole Davis says:

    I live in the country, in a sweet little town in Oregon surrounded by beautiful mountains and rivers, and just a few hours from the Oregon Coast. We have a very tolerant christian community here … they have to be, they’re outnumbered.

    • Sounds lovely. I have a feeling your very tolerant Christian community is exactly where they need to be. I got this insight after taking a trip recently to a very progressive area. With significant shock, I realized I agreed with bumper stickers on cars (and bikes and strollers) passing by. I saw no styrofoam coffee cups or plastic store bags or slapped children. A man slumped in a doorway turned out to be a street musician taking a break from the heat before getting up to dance while playing some lovely blues on his clarinet. I’ve lived so long keeping much of myself in the closet that it felt bizarre and I wondered if I’d be the same person at all if everyone around me shared my politics, my concerns, my spiritual longings, and my strange sense of humor. Chances are, I’m right where I’m supposed to be.

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