. The Capital Times
A Little Place I Call Home by Jesse Gutierrez
In the darkness, the town was calm
Few porch lights cast shadows of the
leafless oak trees onto the lightly
traveled dirt roads. The moon was full
Little clouds floated before the stars
that appeared to be sprinkled in the
sky. Fall is so peaceful. It’s a well
deserved break from the treacherous
summer heat. In South Eastonville, not
many homes have a good roof on
them, let alone an air conditioner.
Rundown, South Eastonville is a town
of hardworking caliused hands. They
are just blue collar, American, people.
They might not drive the new cars or
have the fancy house, but a twelve
hour work day puts warm food on the
table. That is the reward. After a long
hard days work, the people of South
Eastonville adjust rabbit ears, lay out
tomorrow’s clothes for the children and
prepare for the next day. Out to the
farm, back to the garage, or back to the
site is a routine that folks have fallen
into. Very rarely do you hear a com-
plaint. Back breaking work is the only
work. There is no need for suits or ties
or high-rise buildings here in South
Eastonville. The people there stay out
of the city, just as the people of the city
stay out of our little town. Unless,
unless it’s time for a nice big pumpkin
for hallows eve or a healthy pine for
Christmas. To the city folk, the people
in South Eastonville are a dime a
dozen, but our crops are well known
and have drawn a regular, seasonal,
crowd from all around. Everyone in
town is so proud.
Here, everyone knows your name.
There is no reason to leave, everything
you could possible need is right there.
There is Doctor Wigert, who has
delivered about half of the towns
population. There is Miss Shewberts
Deli and Grocery, Bill’s Gas N’ Go, and
the school. The school is sufficient,
kindergarten through twelfth- all in one
room. Children attend when their
chores are caught up and there is
enough deer meat in the ice box to last
the winter. Not too many people have
left that town. There is nowhere to go,
really. A few have left to play baseball
for a college, but that usually didn’t last,
Academically, the people from town
weren’t the brightest apple in the
basket, but back home they could build
you a fence and clean the stalls before
the dinner bell rings. I know of a few
that had left when their number was
pulled. Young, hard working boys
FICTION Monday, November 16,1998 7 I
pulled off the farm, leaving mom and
dad with all the work, to go “stop the
spread of communism” in a country
that no one could point out on a globe.
I heard that once you come home from
Viet Nam, you’re different... maybe
even crazy. Wally Dellano lost his older
brother just as Maggi Stevens lost her
husband and the father of her four
month old son. We are all still waiting
for Mark Patterson, the police chiefs
oldest son, to return. We all heard that
he was a hero, getting an award for
saving someone’s life. The war was
talked about a lot. People would all
meet in the church after the sen/ice on
Sundays. Reverend Norton would allow
meetings to be carried on in the
church, where the towns people could
gather and talk about the town and its
residents. This was usually followed by
a picnic or a Bar-B-Que.
Life in town wasn’t all that exciting.
Not for me anyhow. I would go to
school about every other day- if that,
Ever since my father had his heart
attack, driving his tractor was about the
extent of his activity. It was then up to
me and mom to help bring in some
money. I had to stack the hay, feed the
chickens, and tend to the cows. Mom
got a job in the city cleaning offices
over night. Dad never did approve of
her job in the city, but he never ob-
jected to her income. Money was still
tight though. I could only handle about
half as many cattle as dad, and only a
few of those were worth taking to the
auction.
In spite of the peaceful advantages
that South Eastonville had over the big
city, every once in a while I was a little
curious about the possibilities of a
different life. What would it be like?
Eighty-seven thousand people stuffed
into a grid of smog and congestion
must like something about it. Oh well,
the sense of belonging that South
Eastonville delivers is comforting and
assuring.
One fall night it seemed there was
something in the air. It wasn’t a smell, it
wasn’t a sound... it was a feeling. The
cows all huddled tight together in the
corner of the pasture. The dogs were
barking- back and forth, they too knew
that something was present. I knew
that it wasn’t a storm because dad
wasn’t complaining of pain in his
knees. It was a calling... that night was
the night.
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