Let George Do It

Newcomers. That’s what we were when we moved to the Heights.

I was nine, the oldest of five (at the time) children. We moved from our house in Pontiac to Caroline Street on July 11, 1959. I remember the date because it was Steve’s fifth birthday, and he had the flu with a high fever. Mom juggled five children in the move, including twin infants, three months old. Dad worked the afternoon shift, so did what he could before he had to leave for work.

A thunderstorm blew through that night.

“Run for pans,” Mom hollered.

My brother and I helped her locate the plink-plinks to set pans and large bowls underneath the leaking roof.

I learned later that Mom called Dad at work, in tears. No wonder. She was 27 years old.

It didn’t take long for us newcomers to become such a part of the Heights, it lives in me still.

Most of the neighbors had been settled and knew each other. In our small Oak Grove Subdivision, gossip and interest flew back and forth like birds feeding their young. That meant, though, when hardship came, or illness, or broken bones, everyone shared it.

When one of our neighbors fell into any of those categories, homemade hot dishes, pies, and cakes were delivered, and a collection was taken up to help. Everyone gave something toward the collection, no matter how small. After all, we were neighbors.

Of course, someone had to volunteer, or be volunteered, to walk up and down the streets with the envelope.

Mom knew that she was accepted when she was asked for donations, and later, to help collect.

Collecting for charities was a different matter. Though the need was as great, it wasn’t as local, and nobody enjoyed knocking on doors with those envelopes, even wearing the badge that identified the charity. Mom had taken more than a few turns with the money-gathering game, and was called more and more often because she was friendly and willing.

The next time money was needed for a neighbor’s funeral, Mom was suggested.

“I really can’t go door-to-door this time," Mom said, truthfully, to the requester. "I have sick babies."

The two women agreed that it was difficult to find volunteers, and that giving money was easier than asking for it.

“Well, you know what they say," Mom told her. "It's always, let George do it."

They parted, and Mom told Dad she was confident that someone would be willing to go door-to-door.

The next day there was a knock at the door.

“Why, George,” Mom said, “what are you doing?"

He held up a big envelope. "I'm collecting for the funeral." He threw his shoulders back and smiled. "Ma came home and said that everyone told her that I should be the one to do it, and here I am."

His pride was so obvious, Mom didn’t bother to explain about expressions common in other areas.

When my children were young, I did my share of collecting, but by then, many of the old regulars were gone, and young families moving in didn’t yet know each other.

Sad to say, I can’t imagine any of that happening in the area where I now live, even though this is a small community.

Maybe the Heights wasn’t Andy Griffith’s Mayberry, but it sure came close.