WHAT'S A POOR VILLAGE IDIOT GOING TO DO?
There they go again blaming parents and society for the tsunami of young
miscreants threatening life and limb in the streets of our fair town, while we
are assured that our governments are doing all they can. With a little
historical perspective, though, we might find an understanding, if not a
solution to this perennial problem.
It has been repeated ad nauseam that the ten percent who form the yahoo group
have always been with us. True. But traditionally they have been put to fairly
good use. Picture, if you will, life before anyone reading this piece was
born.
The nation was dotted with little villages and towns, a big one here and
there; nestled in agricultural entities called farms and ranches. Resident in each
village we found an assortment of characters: the village doc, the druggist,
lawyer, barber, the blacksmith, the general store proprietor, judge, the
village busybody and gossip, the pastor, the town drunk, the cop and so on.
The school marm was important. The odd person was mentally challenged, though
that politically and socially correct term was not in vogue then. Indeed, life was
made easier for all by that most necessary member: the village idiot, who
usually had a funny name such as Buggy or Hoody. If female, Hoodette.
Driving a democrat or buckboard into town on a Saturday afternoon you'd
inevitably be greeted in the square by Hoody, leaning on the hitching rail
with the town dog, (hence the term one-dog town) grinning for all and sundry,
offering to load supplies for a nickel or so.
"Hear they're goin' to put a man on the sun pretty soon, Hoody."
"Ah, shucks you're joshing me." He would smirk. "It's too durn hot up there.
He'd fry."
"Nah. They're goin' to wait 'till dark, and everything cools down."
"Well, I'll be darned. I never thought of that!"
Hoody scurried around taking messages, racking up balls at the pool hall,
swamping out the ice cream parlor, fetching cigars and whiskey for the poker
codgers in the shack behind the saloon; packing buckets of beer to the
whittlers seated on cracker-barrels at the general store betting on their
'baccy shots at a distant spittoon. He swept hair from the floor before the
barbershop quartet parctice. Now and then he would work the bellows for the
smith. On the weekend he'd erect chairs in the hall for the vaudeville, or
movies; then over to do the same at the church. Stacking wood and hauling
coal, taking out ashes. Hoody kept pretty busy.
Likewise most farms had a Hoody for chores of all sorts. They called him "the
handy man" or "the hired man." There were also a multitude of jobs for the
Hoodetts. Not only were there cows to be milked, cream to be churned; but on
many farms, stills to be tended. When travellers came by they were given a
hearty welcome, offered a jar of sour mash lightning served smilingly by
one or two charming Hoodettes to make the journey a more pleasurable experience.
Sometimes she was known as "the Farmer's daughter."
Life then was not without its Hoody problems. Sometimes one or two would get
together and roll the town drunk. Howling on a Saturday night they sometimes
shot up the street lanterns just for fun, or rampage in the graveyard, dig up
some local hero, and display the cadaver across the town monument. Perhaps
steal a few chickens for a barbecue. Shocking. Scandalous. But all-in-all the
Hoodys and Hoodettes served us well. It was a happy time.
Few blamed the parents for the condition of their offspring. Now and then the
town gossip might scowl, but only to be rebuffed: "Don't be cruel. The Lord
has given that family a burden." In church the pastor would lay hands on Hoody's
brow and we'd all pray for healing. This great nation prospered as did our
village idiots. We were indeed a happy bunch, not realizing that doom lie just
ahead.
Daily. Year by year, things changed. The blacksmith, the livery faded as the
service station came into play. The dry goods emporium became a department
store, then a mall. Pretty soon you couldn't buy a hamburger or a soda in the
drug store across from the school. The saloons closed down and the poker
houses with them. No barn dances any more. The feds shut down the stills. The
telephone made messages easier to convey. Everyone went to college. Folks had
to work faster. In a world where if you stop for lunch you become lunch, Hoody
was running out of running room. When unions and governments raised wages few
folks could afford to hire this ambitiously-challenged chore person. The
village idiot concept disappeared, and rightly so, most people agreed. But
poor Hoody. Poor Hoodette. There was nothing left for them to do.
Nevertheless, tradition being what it is, some parents continued to produce
Hoodys for many generations, and health care also being so efficient -a cure
for the pox and typhoid and such- we now find ourselves in a Hoody crisis.
Knee-deep in Hoodys, as it were. Some claim that the Hoody's are ruining the
world, but probably it will survive. Hoodys can be warm and friendly when you
give them something, although I find the current crop takes criticism rather
badly. It's no one's fault, really.
Our governments in their wisdom have kindly gone into debt to subsidize the
raising of our Hoodys and Hoodettes. Churches, new age healers and a plethora
of sympathetic groups continue to feed, clothe and entertain them. Seldom do
you hear folks tell them to "get a life", the cruel phrase so much used during
the last decades. Towns now are rife with psychologists, therapists, and
social workers devoted to their problems, to share their inner pain and lead them to
emotional solace and spiritual strength. Teachers are involved in guiding them
through the pitfalls of learning, quietly instilling them with self love and
worth. Judges and parole workers give them warm depths of understanding,
repeated opportunities to rejoin society in a caring and productive mode.
There is an abundance of alcohol and drug workers bonding with them, and coaches to
aid them in art and athletics. The media excrutiatingly invents kind
euphemisms so as not to hurt their tender feelings.
We are assured, that with just a little more love and understanding everything
will be okay. The Hoodys of the Valley will turn into sterling characters,
hard-working sober individuals.
Given a little historical understanding, then, we can all relax. The situation
is well in hand. Nostalgia aside, we may well see the end of our Hoodyville.
