Pinckneyville

My father is from a small town in southern Illinois. So was his father, and his father before him. In fact seven generations of Smiths and their married offspring, stretching back to the mid-1800s, have lived and died in a town with one tenth the population of my neighborhood. My grandfather sleeps in the same room he was born 90 years ago, and I believe he intends to die in that room when his time comes. My dad and his twin brother found their way out after college, but my aunt stayed. So have my cousins, and since their kids are too young to take off just yet, they’re still around too.

Growing up, it seems we made our way down to Pinckneyville once every other year or so. At each arrival we would rediscover the selfsame scene that came to define my impression of what that place was: An L shaped world about 2 blocks long; beginning on one end with a railroad crossing, turning a corner around a flat green lawn, and ending three houses down at Aunt Mary and Uncle Bill’s. The midway point was my grandparent’s handsome house with a light colored roof and strong corners on the front porch. The detached garage out back; an oversized thermometer facing the kitchen door; the corrugated tin roof covering an open shed; each became as familiar to me as a favorite recurring dream – immediately recognized and judged as unchanging with every encounter.

As I grew older, the intervals between visits grew longer, until sometime around high school I stopped going. Neither through resentment nor disinterest did my attention wane, but like the recurring dream, its absence weighed very little on me. Being out of the country, I even missed my grandma’s funeral in late 2005. That was the last time my family went down together.

Half a lifetime hence, now armed with a wife, a drivers license, and a receding hairline rental car, I came back to celebrate my grandpa’s 90^th birthday. Though I hadn’t visited since I was a teenager, the only thing that changed was me. My L shaped world was exactly as I left it; still warm under the heavy setting summer sun, its stillness pierced by the cicada drone from unidentified treetops. Perhaps some details shifted slightly – a missing hedge here, a new car there, but by and large everything was just how I remembered. And so began the schism – the separation of the two Pinckneyvilles: One that I unquestioningly absorbed as a child; and one that I now keenly observed behind eyes that have finally seen some sheeit.  

Firstly, Pinckneyville is not simply the 100 yards between the family houses. It’s much larger than that. Like, 20 times larger. In two directions. Secondly, there’s more to do than just sneak around the attic and garage roof while we think grandpa isn’t looking. There are restaurants but no movie theater. There’s a tire shop but no dry cleaners. You can buy a gun in town but not a bicycle. And for better or worse, everybody knows you. Even if you have never lived there. The last time I visited, as a teenager, I walked past a flower shop and the owner (who was well in to her 150s) popped outside and declared that I was a Smith though she didn’t know which brother had sired me. She was already halfway back in when I caught my breath and wheezed “Al, ma’am”.

This visit was no different. In my email to the B&B where we were staying, I mentioned how long it had been since I last visited. Our greeting was something to the effect of “Are you Eric? Shame on you for taking so long to get here! Your room is upstairs”. She wasn’t kidding, but it didn’t hurt any. I’ll just go back sooner so I don’t get scolded again. Neither this establishment nor any of its rooms had functioning door locks.

But that “small town” coin has two sides, and nighttime in a small town is wildly different. We spent an evening with my cousin’s family eating at Dixie’s Cup, the only diner open after 11:00.

 <Tangent> I opened the menu and dropped into a sticker shock, of sorts: Burger and fries for $4; “Steak” “dinner” for $8. I couldn’t not sound like a dick as I tried to explain what an all-night dive in Seattle looks like. Bottom line is our burgers have suggested wine pairings. </Tangent>

Since my high school boasted a larger population than the free residents of Pinckneyville, and I didn’t know half of my own graduating class, I wondered if my cousin knew everybody in town, or at least everyone who happened to be in the diner. She looked around to see if anybody was listening, and then proceeded, in a matter of moments, to dissolve the illusion of quiet, private small town life.

             “See the fry cook? That’s (her daughter’s) former best friend until a few weeks ago. They got in a fight. The woman next to her is her mom. Our server lives with her husband, and boy friend. And ten year old son. The guy on the grill just got out of prison for meth. The cashier is a pedophile. If you look outside, there is a car parked across the street. That’s the hostess’s paranoid and jealous husband who watches her work”.

She could have continued with every single patron in the restaurant had she been facing them. As it happened, she was seated the wrong way. But that’s the essence of it; when residents on opposite sides of a small town aren't separated by more than 2 miles – walls, doors, and windows become more metaphorical than physical (since they never lock anyway). And equally ineffective.

Though the world of Pinckneyville both expanded and collapsed during this visit, I am by no means fulfilled, and I can’t imagine letting another 12 years slip past before returning. I believe there was wisdom in the bi-annual visit cadence, and Wells Fargo willing, I’ll keep going back to enjoy watching the next seven generations unfold in all their small town glory.