they called me "worldly"

adj 1: characteristic of or devoted to the temporal world; "worldly goods and advancement" [ant: unworldly] 2: very sophisticated especially because of surfeit; versed in the ways of the world; "the blase traveler refers to the ocean he has crossed as `the pond'"; "the benefits of his worldly wisdom" [syn: blase] 3: concerned with secular rather than sacred matters; "lords temporal and spiritual" [syn: temporal]

So this third uncle of mine, twice removed, once divorced and never remarried says to me, "You, girl, are some worldly folks." And I spend the rest of the weekend wondering about what he meant when he said it, how much of the true definition of worldly he intended, how much of the negative connotation that sprang to mind was true to his intent, his hat-tipping tone, his fly-batting handswing. Most of the folks I met this weekend in Amidon, North Dakota, where Fred Stegner, Sr. staked his claim on a parcel of farmland signed off on by Theodore Roosevelt, were related to me by some portion of blood, more or less, give or take, a thimble-full or a mosquito, it seemed to matter not.

My mother, aunt, grandfather, and I drove the 8 hours from Fort Fun through Wyoming and the Dakotas to this tiny town where my grandfather was born and lived for six years until his father decided that Colorado was the place to be. By that time, Fred Sr. had a son old enough to run the North Dakota farm, and a wife stubborn enough to drag all of her chickens down to Colorado in a coop hitched to the back of the wobbly Hudson with spoked wheels that came off of their own accord and brakes so absent they required meticulous downshifting. And every time I thought of my origins there in North Dakota those same origins were moving south to Colorado.

It didn't take long to feel like an alien. No, Aunt Jill, I don't talk to God, but neither have I suffered the torture of breast cancer. No, Uncle Floyd I don't have a boyfriend and I don't plan on marrying, but neither have I witnessed a marriage worth emulating. No, Cousin Bryce, I haven't cultivated a special dish to attract men, not like your Yvonne and her hamburger casserole. No, Cousin Gordon, I'm not afraid of the city and I don't believe in God and she's my girlfriend goddammit not my roommate. Farm life didn't glow with timelessness for me, but I could see how it could. Though they told me they were proud, my precious education didn't mean much up there, but that seemed as it should. My teal eyeshadow was likened to a dye job on a cow, but somehow I knew it would.


I met (Georg(e)tte) on the fuzzy lip of Amidon, just past Georgia's and the Owl, the most famous (only) restaurant for miles around. I didn't have a car, he/she did, but neither of us were going anywhere. It didn't take me long to realize that a transexual mannequin faux-cop like (Georg(e)tte) knows something about worldliness. He/she spent some time describing recent additions to his/her car, how he/she received a scarf in winter, the new glasses stolen by an ex-partner who'd run off to Bismarck.

We sat with the spiders in the squad car, watching cars race then slow then race on by. It was when I decided to go home that (Georg(e)tte) offered me the consolation prize: a short celebration of the necessity of surprise, discomfort, indignation, and humor. As I lingered outside his/her window, he/she slumped over suddenly, striking the car's horn with his/her pointy powdered-looking nose.