Mr. Nobodies

I am the oldest of four children.  We lived in the country and I had no near neighbors my age.  There were always toddlers and/or babies in the house who needed an afternoon nap.  And my mother appreciated a little quiet time. 

Even though I was supposed to rest too, I was allowed to do something quiet.  On occasion, I would work on a craft like weaving pot mats with Jersey loops. My favorite quiet thing to do was to sit cross-legged on the floor in the doorway of Mother’s closet and go through her box of family photos.

Her oldest album had a picture of her and four of her brothers and sisters seated on successive steps of the church in Centerville, South Dakota, where her father was the pastor.  Their ages ranged from about 7 on down. (At present, all five are still alive.)  The caption under the photo says “Mr. Nobodies.  They’re the ones who say they didn’t do it.”

The photo in front of me was taken in 1963 during a family trip to South Dakota to visit my grandparents.  My mother wanted to stop in Centerville to visit some of her old friends still living in the area.  It was hot. She had us stop at her father’s old church.  It wasn’t locked.  We got to see the inside. 

After our tour of the small, white, wood-framed building, she lined the four of us up from oldest to youngest on the same steps where her picture had been taken all those years ago.  I look hot and annoyed.  I was squinting in the bright sunlight.  The other three hadn’t spent time in the old photo box and didn’t recognize the connection, but I did.  I wasn’t sure I wanted to have a picture of me with the caption “The Current Mr. Nobodies”. 

What I remember most about that trip was that I could drink any water along the way – up to and including artesian well water - and my innards were perfectly fine until we got back to northern Illinois.  The water from home upset my system for a few days.  I thought it was odd that I got sick on home water.