I’ve been reading J.D. Vance’s book “Hillbilly Elegy” the
last couple of days. Putting it down is difficult. While I’m not from the hills
and backwoods of Kentucky, our families have similarities, and his words spark
plenty of memories of my childhood with extended family members.
The most important person in Vance’s life seems to have been
his Mamaw. First of all, I’m glad that he expounded on the special names for
his grandparents. My parents’ parents were also called Mamaw and Papaw, and we
distinguished between the two sets by adding their last names, Rector and
Balch. It must be a hillbilly thing.
Those folks were important parts of our family. Mother’s
parents lived just over the hill from us. Sometimes, Papaw Balch would walk to
our house to visit, and on a few occasions, he traveled with his horse and plow
to turn the ground for a garden. My brother Jim and I shared a case of the
mumps with Mother before we entered school. Mamaw and Papaw came to our house
to take care of things until Mother recovered.
My other grandparents lived in Lonsdale. Daddy worked at the
paper mill there and visited every day. We usually traveled to their house on
Sunday afternoons. Papaw Rector died when Jim and I were six, and what little I
remember about him wasn’t good. His hateful disposition kept us at arm’s
length. Mamaw was different. She came to stay with us boys a couple of times,
and I best remember sitting at the kitchen table as we broke a bushel of green
beans. Believe it or not, we had a good time, and I liked her a great deal more
afterwards.
Like Vance’s grandmother, my grandparents weren’t ones who
gushed with emotions. They went about their lives and “tolerated” their
grandchildren. I understand that more now. These folks were born before the
turn of the 20th century. Life had been hard, and money was most
always short. They had little education, and the prospects of ever getting rich
were less than slim.
I suppose they loved us, but that love was much different
from the kind that we seniors display for our grandchildren. The old saying,
“Children should be seen but not heard,” applied. We young people were
second-class citizens, and our mamaws and papaws just didn’t have the time nor
the energy to engage us. They were there to make sure we didn’t kill ourselves
and to provide aid if we nearly did.
As I grew older, my respect for those hoary haired seniors
grew. I understood their wry senses of humor and noticed that childlike spark
in their eyes as I struggled with witty comments they uttered. I learned about
past generations of family as they told stories from their childhood. Most of
all, I appreciated the hard work they gave to support families and the
sacrifices that they made.
J.D. Vance’s mamaw and papaw played greater roles in his
life than mine did. However, even he probably cringes at the way today’s
grandparents interact with their heirs. I doubt that his grandmother would have
traveled great distances to watch him play some sport or ventured out in the
evening to watch a child perform in some dance recital. Yes, we baby boomers go
a bit overboard; perhaps that’s because we want to make sure that in some way
we contribute to the making these young ones better people. I’m not sure that
we are any more successful than past generations.
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