The golden rule of the country..don't talk about your neighbors as everyone is somehow related!

I started in earnest working on the broken down house I bought here in Eaton at the first break in the weather back in April of 1984. I soon realized there was no water in the well, that the house was miles from a hardware store even though there was a place in town that seemed to sell new and used stuff of all variety, and that in getting away from it all, “the city”, just moved me into a new place to try and get away from!

That week I met an interesting older woman named Nellie. She got her Volkswagen stuck in the mud (mud that was everywhere because it is also a flood area; I didn’t know that either: basically water, water, but not a drop to drink), so I wandered over and helped her get the car out.  A few hours later she came strolling down to my house and knocked on the door.  In her hand was a cardboard container with freshly made rhubarb muffins still hot from the oven.  

I can still picture her with floppy sun hat, flannel lined blue jeans and flannel shirt looking pretty natty in her work clothes.  She leaned against my doorframe and said,  “I’m going to give you a little advice if you want it.”  I, of course, said yes.  She said, “Never talk about anyone to anyone here in Eaton because everyone is related to each other and it will get back to them.” I tried to remember that rule.  Once I forgot this rule, and it came back to bite me.   What was more interesting is that I forgot the rule with Nellie!

I was working at her house on the side of her garage making some etched glasses, and an old man the town’s people referred to as “Old Zeb” came walking by.  I had tried to give the bent over old man with white whiskers who walked with a cane a ride in the past, but he would never take it.  He said he liked to walk and look for cans, which he would pick up, and put in the five-gallon bucket he carried with him everywhere. Later I was shown a picture of him next to a dump truck he had filled with cans!

Everyone knew him in town and told stories about him.  That day, he went walking by and struck up a conversation with Nellie.  I tried not to listen, but they got into an unbelievably hot discussion, which ended in a fight.  I had never seen Nellie like that.  Zeb walked away shouting and jumping up and down yelling, ”I’ll live to dance on your grave, old woman, dance on your grave.”

Nellie went into the house and after a while yelled to me to come in to eat.  As we sat eating I inquired, “Who is that strange old man they call Zeb?”  She gave me a grave look of disdain and replied, “He’s my gol’ dang brother, young Bill!” I had broken the golden rule and inserted my foot in my mouth, and this time it went all the way in.