When Neighbors Were The News

 

          When Neighbors Were The News

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Back when I was in high school, and, yes, that was an eye-rolling long time ago, I eagerly awaited the day when the weekly Harlem News was delivered to the mailbox, a mile down our driveway. We also received the daily GF Trib, but that was not as fun to read as the local.

Based on my own self, I’m confident that Everybody read Every Article, front headlines to back page sales ads. I might modify that to Almost Everybody read Every Article, since, after all, I read cereal boxes if nothing else was available. (Books were not allowed at the meal table.)

Of course, we read every scribble. The news was all about our neighbors, and what is more fascinating than our neighbors.

Each week, prior to press deadline, women sat down in front of their telephone with a list of reliable informants, other women, because back then, men were out in the fields or were  running the hardware store or insurance office and such, and dialed down the list, querying what was happening within the family and the area, jotting down every tidbit of gossip, I mean, news, which then made it into print, perhaps with judicious editing.

This homey style news reporting went on for years. When did such neighborly news quit being gathered? I knew that everyone in Harlem heard when Paul Ashton’s daughter, Sondra, living in Great Falls or Santa Cruz or Denver or Chicago or Missoula or Poulsbo, Washington, visited.

I suppose social media, in all its forms, replaced the neighborly news. It’s not the same. We do not all indulge.

I enjoyed knowing that relatives visited, that friends gathered for Sunday fried-chicken dinner after church, that somebody hosted cards Saturday evening, that neighbors gathered to harvest a crop when the owner broke a leg or was otherwise incapacitated. It’s small news, but important when our neighbor’s son or daughter at an out-of-state University wins a accolade of some sort. We need to know who might need a casserole delivered during tough times.

In the spirit of old-timey news, I report the following from my own back yard neighborhood:

It’s been a rainy, wet, week at Rancho Esperanza, but the daily storms did not curtail neighborly visiting, card playing, quick visits back and forth or over the fence.

Last Tuesday, Nancie, with her daughter, Julie, and Julie’s husband, Dan, arrived to spend a week at Nancie’s Rancho casita. Nancie is my cousin, so I have been doubly delighted to spend time with relatives.

Thursday Janet, from next door to me, invited those few of us here, for homemade ice cream. With her new-fangled modern ice-cream mixer, Janet can be dubbed our ice cream lady. Janet served a choice of vanilla with mango sauce or butter pecan. Several guests enjoyed a scoop of each. Those attending were the hostess, Janet, Lani and Ariel, Leo, Nancie, Julie and Dan, and my own self.

Sunday afternoon, following yet another storm, the above group, along with Leo’s two young nieces, met in town at the Mi Casa Restaurante for a bon voyage feast of traditional area foods. On Monday morning, Nancie, Dan, Julie and Lani fly off to homes in Washington State. The group table was soon cluttered with plates and bowls, empty of pozole, tostados, flautas and enchiladas. A good time was had by all.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

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