Poverty and Perception

My memories of life on Elliott’s Island are perfection. I had freedom to roam the island with my dogs at will. Nature was my playroom and all of my elderly friends filled my head with stories that furthered my endless imagination. I thought our life was wonderful. I was oblivious to the reality of what life on the island was like for my parents or brothers. 

To say we were poor is so inadequate. When I visited the island about three years ago (after many years away) I was so excited to be there and immediately nostalgic. I still see it through child-like eyes and see the immense beauty. I innocently posted the pictures on Facebook. To my shock, people were astounded by the poverty. "Where the hell are you?" people asked. That may have been the first time I looked at the island from an objective perspective. Recently someone looked at pictures I had taken and commented, "Oh, like you were really poor. Like Appalachia poor. " I guess so. The fact that this is a shock to me when people say it is still strange. 

The thing about growing up dirt poor as a small child, is you don't know it until someone points it out. Talking to my brothers and my parents in the last ten or so years, I can get a sense of how tough it was for them. My brothers were teenagers and living on the island just plain sucked. The isolation was smothering. They didn't want to be seen as different, poor or weird. Neither of them wanted to sponge bathe in the kitchen by the sink. I remember David telling me about going so long without a shower and sitting on the school bus after a rainstorm watching how the rain had made the dirt run down his arm. 
 
My parents loved the island with all of their being, but it didn't make it any less hard. Neither of my parents worked the water and my stepfather wasn't working as a hunting guide anymore, so they both needed to commute off the island to make a living. The island road was a single lane pressed gravel path through marshland that was below sea level and frequently flooded. It barely functioned and was brutal on vehicles. 

As I've mentioned before we caught/grew/killed most of our food supply. But still some groceries needed to be bought. Mom pinched every single penny and made it spread as far as possible. Without running water all laundry for our family of five had to be hauled up to Cambridge to the laundrymat. Mom made friends with the owner who would open early so she could use every washer to get the work done as efficiently as possible. I guess we could have used our Swiss Family Robinson style well and hand washed the mountains of clothing, but my mother hadn't the energy or interest for that. 

We all worked our tails off during deer season when we would trek up the road each day to East New Market to work on my stepfather's family farm in the butcher shop. I remember Mom and Jack picking up extra money helping farmer's bale hay in 100-degree humid heat or doing whatever they needed help with. The most shocking job I remember hearing about (not until I was an adult) was that Jack would crawl into dark grain bins and shoot rats for one of the farmers. This still impresses me greatly. 

I remained oblivious for so many years. Once I was in elementary school as the years went by the teasing increased. I began to realize I was different and that we were indeed poor. But still I felt we were so rich. I can remember saying, "We may be poor in money but we are rich in love." I was living in an idealistic world and didn't want anyone busting my bubble. My memories are still so joyous that it remains a continuous shock when I see or hear another's perspective of my dear island.