July 14th Update
What’s Big About Small Town Life?
By Betty Apelian
Having grown up in a large city where no one knows your name – well, most don’t know it – I was surprised when, after moving to accept a career position in a much smaller town, folks not only wanted to know my name, they wanted to know where I was born! I suspect they suspected I wasn’t one of the locals.
I set up house in an even smaller community and soon discovered that strangers thought nothing of smiling and waving at me. At first I wondered if I were being mistaken for someone. When it began happening more frequently, I realized it wasn’t that I had a doppelganger; the greetings actually were meant for me.
So unaccustomed I was to this attention that I felt myself cringe, embarrassed someone had somehow spotted me , as though I were an unusual specimen of bird that strayed into their front yard, lit onto their tree. Now they were cheerfully identifying and categorizing me. If I were a bird I would have frightfully pooped and fretfully flitted away. However, I was behind the wheel of my car with nowhere to go, but forward. I pressed on, hitting the gas pedal with a heavier foot, all the while smirking sheepishly and waving back. “Yes, I’m the strange bird. Hello! Hello there! Here I am!”
After several months passed, and upon further review of the neighborly hand waving, I found myself feeling less frazzled by the gesture and now I began initiating my own waves. I waved at the senior gentleman who oftentimes walks his Scottish Terrier as I make my way to work. I waved at the Mexican teenager who bicycles down the roadside early mornings on his way to somewhere; a job, I supposed. I waved at the tall, 55ish, beanpole of a man who saunters to Piggly Wiggly nearly every day, or I might catch him with a wave on his return trip home, grocery bag in hand. I waved at people who walk their dogs in the street fronting my house. That’s how I met Sally and Sergeant, a slow moving old Sheepdog with cancer. Sally faithfully walked Sargeant every day. Perhaps, all along, she was preparing him for his final trek to Rainbow Bridge, that happy afterlife place where pets go to romp and play with others while awaiting the arrival of their very best friend, their owner.
With all this waving and getting to know people in these small ways, my urban mindset transformed from “stranger danger” to “warmer and fuzzier.” And, it isn’t that people in big cities aren’t friendly, or that people in small towns are especially friendly, or that living in a big city warrants hyper-vigilance – though in some cases, it might – or, that people in small towns can leave their doors unlocked. However, there is something about small town living. Small town folks? For starters, they want to know your name.
###
Betty Apelian is a freelance writer and sales counselor for Luther Manor Communities’ The Residences of Asbury, IA. The Residences is a maintenance-free townhome community for active seniors age 55+.
What’s Big About Small Town Life?
By Betty Apelian
Having grown up in a large city where no one knows your name – well, most don’t know it – I was surprised when, after moving to accept a career position in a much smaller town, folks not only wanted to know my name, they wanted to know where I was born! I suspect they suspected I wasn’t one of the locals.
I set up house in an even smaller community and soon discovered that strangers thought nothing of smiling and waving at me. At first I wondered if I were being mistaken for someone. When it began happening more frequently, I realized it wasn’t that I had a doppelganger; the greetings actually were meant for me.
So unaccustomed I was to this attention that I felt myself cringe, embarrassed someone had somehow spotted me , as though I were an unusual specimen of bird that strayed into their front yard, lit onto their tree. Now they were cheerfully identifying and categorizing me. If I were a bird I would have frightfully pooped and fretfully flitted away. However, I was behind the wheel of my car with nowhere to go, but forward. I pressed on, hitting the gas pedal with a heavier foot, all the while smirking sheepishly and waving back. “Yes, I’m the strange bird. Hello! Hello there! Here I am!”
After several months passed, and upon further review of the neighborly hand waving, I found myself feeling less frazzled by the gesture and now I began initiating my own waves. I waved at the senior gentleman who oftentimes walks his Scottish Terrier as I make my way to work. I waved at the Mexican teenager who bicycles down the roadside early mornings on his way to somewhere; a job, I supposed. I waved at the tall, 55ish, beanpole of a man who saunters to Piggly Wiggly nearly every day, or I might catch him with a wave on his return trip home, grocery bag in hand. I waved at people who walk their dogs in the street fronting my house. That’s how I met Sally and Sergeant, a slow moving old Sheepdog with cancer. Sally faithfully walked Sargeant every day. Perhaps, all along, she was preparing him for his final trek to Rainbow Bridge, that happy afterlife place where pets go to romp and play with others while awaiting the arrival of their very best friend, their owner.
With all this waving and getting to know people in these small ways, my urban mindset transformed from “stranger danger” to “warmer and fuzzier.” And, it isn’t that people in big cities aren’t friendly, or that people in small towns are especially friendly, or that living in a big city warrants hyper-vigilance – though in some cases, it might – or, that people in small towns can leave their doors unlocked. However, there is something about small town living. Small town folks? For starters, they want to know your name.
###
Betty Apelian is a freelance writer and sales counselor for Luther Manor Communities’ The Residences of Asbury, IA. The Residences is a maintenance-free townhome community for active seniors age 55+.
Get Your Photos In Our Monthly Slideshow
Email: Pictures@TheGoldenViewOnline.com
Betty Apelian is a freelance writer and sales counselor for Luther Manor Communities' The Residences. The Residences is a maintenance-free townhome community for active seniors, age 55+.
January 6th Update
American Pawn
Saturday closing time at the American Pawn on Central Avenue in Dubuque is 4 p.m. It’s not an arbitrary time - it’s time for rest for its tired entrepreneur. He suffers long hours of indenture.
On this Saturday, Stanley Samuel waves the customer through the door because he cares. He learned his business at a nearby pawnshop where a food mission fed the poor. He understands that people need help, that Sunday comes, that a break from the ever-present pain of an economy that hasn’t recovered is good business. He uses the “Rocky” mantra about going the extra round.
Research suggests that the stress of poverty affects health and development, including the intelligence quotient. It’s like a virus. Children in poor neighborhoods develop slower and often don’t catch up.
The shop owner has six children. He tries to accommodate his customers.
“What can I do for you today?” he asks.
Samuel has watched people with cancer unable to pay for medicine. He has known those who can’t pay rent. He has listened to those who don’t have enough to eat. He has been asked if he could lend a $5 bill because someone needed a meal.
The American Pawn shop serves every socioeconomic group but the wealthy.
Stan works long hours, the 70- to 100-hour-plus weeks that make his eyes water, that make bags form in tiny, black half moons of fatigue, draped below each eye. He’s from India and says he chose the name he uses because, “You couldn’t pronounce my given name.”
He will sometimes give a loan for an heirloom he knows has little value because he sees the hurt in his customer’s eyes, understands they need a meal or the extra money to pay a bill.
Today the pawnshop is the business that loans to the impoverished. There is an army of impoverished souls. Stan understands. India has many poor.
“Come on down” he tells a customer on the phone, sounding like Monty Hall of the old TV show “Let’s Make a Deal.”
His empathy in an economy admitting to 40 million souls in poverty may handicap the short, civil man from India. Customers say he has a big heart.
He came to America to study at Emmaeus Bible College. He met his wife there.
“The thing I learned, the thing that matters, is that you have to care,” he says.
Everyone on the street knows him. Each day, someone calls as they enter the door, asking from a distance if he can give them 50,100. “You know I’m good for it,” they say, carrying jewelry, a drill press, a reciprocating saw, a computer under an arm, pushing a bike, a lawn mower.
“What have you got?” The gentle man asks. “What can I do?”
Youth saunter to his counter wearing a dozen tattoos, skulls on their hands, Bible passages on their arms. Bikers stand at attention, waiting to ask the shopkeeper if he’s interested in a unique item they found in storage. A white-haired, pony tailed man uses a walker. He wants to trade. A young African American asks if his computer needs repair and how much for the white one at the jewelry display.
At 4 p.m., a dozen people are standing. Stan waits on an elderly woman who’s looking for a present for her grandson. Stan spends a half-hour searching through his cabinet. He finds a silver bracelet with diamond crosses etched along its coupled ringlets.
“How much?” she asks.
“Thirty and it’s yours.”
The biker with the tattooed knuckles whispers that it’s $200, new.
The poor survive without home equity, without collateral, without insurance, without enough to manage their bills. Research shows they would pay their bills if they could.
The dream at the American Pawn in Dubuque is a simple one: stay even with the bills. Sometimes, for 40 million people, that’s all that matters. In Dubuque, a simple Indian immigrant helps to keep that historical, eternal and difficult dream alive.
On this Saturday, Stanley Samuel waves the customer through the door because he cares. He learned his business at a nearby pawnshop where a food mission fed the poor. He understands that people need help, that Sunday comes, that a break from the ever-present pain of an economy that hasn’t recovered is good business. He uses the “Rocky” mantra about going the extra round.
Research suggests that the stress of poverty affects health and development, including the intelligence quotient. It’s like a virus. Children in poor neighborhoods develop slower and often don’t catch up.
The shop owner has six children. He tries to accommodate his customers.
“What can I do for you today?” he asks.
Samuel has watched people with cancer unable to pay for medicine. He has known those who can’t pay rent. He has listened to those who don’t have enough to eat. He has been asked if he could lend a $5 bill because someone needed a meal.
The American Pawn shop serves every socioeconomic group but the wealthy.
Stan works long hours, the 70- to 100-hour-plus weeks that make his eyes water, that make bags form in tiny, black half moons of fatigue, draped below each eye. He’s from India and says he chose the name he uses because, “You couldn’t pronounce my given name.”
He will sometimes give a loan for an heirloom he knows has little value because he sees the hurt in his customer’s eyes, understands they need a meal or the extra money to pay a bill.
Today the pawnshop is the business that loans to the impoverished. There is an army of impoverished souls. Stan understands. India has many poor.
“Come on down” he tells a customer on the phone, sounding like Monty Hall of the old TV show “Let’s Make a Deal.”
His empathy in an economy admitting to 40 million souls in poverty may handicap the short, civil man from India. Customers say he has a big heart.
He came to America to study at Emmaeus Bible College. He met his wife there.
“The thing I learned, the thing that matters, is that you have to care,” he says.
Everyone on the street knows him. Each day, someone calls as they enter the door, asking from a distance if he can give them 50,100. “You know I’m good for it,” they say, carrying jewelry, a drill press, a reciprocating saw, a computer under an arm, pushing a bike, a lawn mower.
“What have you got?” The gentle man asks. “What can I do?”
Youth saunter to his counter wearing a dozen tattoos, skulls on their hands, Bible passages on their arms. Bikers stand at attention, waiting to ask the shopkeeper if he’s interested in a unique item they found in storage. A white-haired, pony tailed man uses a walker. He wants to trade. A young African American asks if his computer needs repair and how much for the white one at the jewelry display.
At 4 p.m., a dozen people are standing. Stan waits on an elderly woman who’s looking for a present for her grandson. Stan spends a half-hour searching through his cabinet. He finds a silver bracelet with diamond crosses etched along its coupled ringlets.
“How much?” she asks.
“Thirty and it’s yours.”
The biker with the tattooed knuckles whispers that it’s $200, new.
The poor survive without home equity, without collateral, without insurance, without enough to manage their bills. Research shows they would pay their bills if they could.
The dream at the American Pawn in Dubuque is a simple one: stay even with the bills. Sometimes, for 40 million people, that’s all that matters. In Dubuque, a simple Indian immigrant helps to keep that historical, eternal and difficult dream alive.
January 1st Update
To Get to The Other Side
Read The Rest of This Article Here
Hurstville Happenings
Jackson County Conservation
Jennifer Meyer, Naturalist Intern for Jackson County Conservation Hurstville Interpretive Center, 18670 63rd St. Maquoketa, IA 52060 Phone: 563-652-3763. Fax: 563-652-2191
www.jacksonccb.com intern@jacksonccb.com
