Hotel People
This is the time of year when I remember the hotel people, those permanent residents who considered my family to be their family. This time of year brings them to mind because my family usually included them in our fall wild game feeds, and even Thanksgiving dinner, when we stretched out two or three banquet tables, in our apartment living room, to accommodate everyone. While my family attended the Christmas Eve children's program at church, one or two of the old men usually played Santa, moving our presents from their hiding place in some storeroom or convenient hotel room, to our apartment, where they carefully placed the gifts under our Christmas tree.
I was only five when we moved to the Oxnard Hotel in Norfolk. All of the permanent residents there were lonely, old men, mostly retired from their lifetime livelihoods. I was too shy to talk to them, but my brother, Dan, who knew no strangers, got to know them well. They got a kick out of his large vocabulary and willingness to carry on an intelligent conversation about almost anything, even at the age of three. When Laura was born, the old men were anxious to sneak a peek at the blanket-wrapped infant in my mom's arms. The retired minister, who happened to be of African descent, gave Mom his old, wooden, rocking chair, which was probably the only piece of furniture he owned, so she could rock the baby. That rocker still sits in Mom and Dad's guest room, and has since been used to rock several grandchildren, and even some great-grandchildren.
The Asian chicken-sexers, a husband and wife team, weren't really permanent residents, but they spent several weeks at the Oxnard every spring, while they worked at the local chicken hatchery. In recent years, I've been told they really liked to party when they weren't working but, obviously, I was too young to be aware of it at the time.
The retired butcher followed our family from Norfolk to the Hotel Mary-Etta in Fairbury, and taught Dad how to cut meat so well that he, too, could have worked as a butcher. After that, Dad cut most of the meat for the hotel and the Stable, the restaurant Mom and Dad opened a few years later.
A single mom rented a furnished apartment, just down the hall from my family's fourth floor apartment, for herself and her two young children. I ended up babysitting for those children several times a week, for the paltry sum of 35 cents an hour, while their Mom and her current boyfriend partied until two or three in the morning. I remember being somewhat appalled at the smell of urine that permeated the single bedroom, since the children frequently wet the bed. I was even more disturbed to see how little that family owned--just a few clothes, and no toys or books. The kids seemed to be starved for the attention I gave them, telling long, drawn out bedtime stories and singing them to sleep. After a few months, they moved on to who-knows-where, hopefully closer to family who were able to offer some emotional support for the kids.
Several college students waited tables or worked at the front desk in exchange for their rooms, and spent free time with my family, hiking, hunting, or fishing in the lakes close to Fairbury, and often joining us for a meal. Some of the girls, now with children and grandchildren of their own, still seem like family.
For a year or two, the local junior college rented a block of rooms for their overflow of students, before they finished building the new dorm. Mom and Dad installed several sets of bunk beds in a couple of rooms at the end of the hall, connected with a Jack-and-Jill bath, and encouraged the students, mostly very tall, very polite, black basketball players, far from home, to repaint the rooms to their liking. I still laugh when I think about the young man who signed a charge slip for a gallon of dark purple paint (not a typical hotel color) at the local paint store, across the alley from the hotel. The paint store clerk called Mom before she let him take the paint, because the young man had signed the charge slip with his name, which happened to be Sherwin Williams.
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When I was growing up in the hotels, I didn't realize that I was getting a real education about different lifestyles and cultures. Even at a time of great racial unrest throughout most of America, skin color and ethnicity didn't matter much to me. I didn't know much prejudice, because I knew and respected people from many different backgrounds, and they, in turn, always treated me with respect. I have rarely felt intimidated by non-violent people with mental health diagnoses, because I knew some of them when I was young.
Mom and Dad were excellent role models, quietly counselling young adults who lived at the hotel or worked for them, sharing what they had, and offering real help to those who needed it. They directed at least one young, unmarried woman to an agency that could help with her unexpected pregnancy, providing her with some of the maternity clothes she needed, keeping in close contact while she was living with a family in another town as she waited for her baby to be born, and welcoming her back when she returned after giving that baby boy up for adoption. They provided jobs for the unemployable, teaching them to work, and providing food and shelter that they desperately needed. When permanent residents died, Mom and Dad made funeral arrangements for those with no family besides ours.
This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for the people I would have never known if my childhood had been a normal, typical experience, and I am thankful for my parents, who provided a good example for all of us.
Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke? Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter— when you see the naked, to clothe them, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood? Then your light will break forth like the dawn, and your healing will quickly appear; then your righteousness will go before you, and the glory of the LORD will be your rear guard. Then you will call, and the LORD will answer; you will cry for help, and he will say: Here am I. If you do away with the yoke of oppression, with the pointing finger and malicious talk, and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed, then your light will rise in the darkness, and your night will become like the noonday. The LORD will guide you always...
I was only five when we moved to the Oxnard Hotel in Norfolk. All of the permanent residents there were lonely, old men, mostly retired from their lifetime livelihoods. I was too shy to talk to them, but my brother, Dan, who knew no strangers, got to know them well. They got a kick out of his large vocabulary and willingness to carry on an intelligent conversation about almost anything, even at the age of three. When Laura was born, the old men were anxious to sneak a peek at the blanket-wrapped infant in my mom's arms. The retired minister, who happened to be of African descent, gave Mom his old, wooden, rocking chair, which was probably the only piece of furniture he owned, so she could rock the baby. That rocker still sits in Mom and Dad's guest room, and has since been used to rock several grandchildren, and even some great-grandchildren.
The Asian chicken-sexers, a husband and wife team, weren't really permanent residents, but they spent several weeks at the Oxnard every spring, while they worked at the local chicken hatchery. In recent years, I've been told they really liked to party when they weren't working but, obviously, I was too young to be aware of it at the time.
The retired butcher followed our family from Norfolk to the Hotel Mary-Etta in Fairbury, and taught Dad how to cut meat so well that he, too, could have worked as a butcher. After that, Dad cut most of the meat for the hotel and the Stable, the restaurant Mom and Dad opened a few years later.
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| The Hotel Mary-Etta in Fairbury, Nebraska, around 1964 |
The Mary-Etta was a larger hotel than the Oxnard, with a cafe and party rooms and an adjacent tavern, which meant multiple employees worked at various jobs to keep the business running smoothly. Some of those employees were also hotel residents. Mae, who rented a small apartment with her wheelchair-bound husband, worked as a desk clerk, and often took charge of us kids when Mom and Dad went deer-hunting for a few days every November. Frances was an older woman who suffered from some form of mental illness, probably schizophrenia, hearing voices others couldn't hear, and carrying on conversations with her invisible friends. She had few social skills, and rarely spoke to real people, but she was able to sweep floors and carry out other necessary tasks at the hotel, because Mom took the time to work with her and help her learn what to do.
A single mom rented a furnished apartment, just down the hall from my family's fourth floor apartment, for herself and her two young children. I ended up babysitting for those children several times a week, for the paltry sum of 35 cents an hour, while their Mom and her current boyfriend partied until two or three in the morning. I remember being somewhat appalled at the smell of urine that permeated the single bedroom, since the children frequently wet the bed. I was even more disturbed to see how little that family owned--just a few clothes, and no toys or books. The kids seemed to be starved for the attention I gave them, telling long, drawn out bedtime stories and singing them to sleep. After a few months, they moved on to who-knows-where, hopefully closer to family who were able to offer some emotional support for the kids.
Several college students waited tables or worked at the front desk in exchange for their rooms, and spent free time with my family, hiking, hunting, or fishing in the lakes close to Fairbury, and often joining us for a meal. Some of the girls, now with children and grandchildren of their own, still seem like family.
For a year or two, the local junior college rented a block of rooms for their overflow of students, before they finished building the new dorm. Mom and Dad installed several sets of bunk beds in a couple of rooms at the end of the hall, connected with a Jack-and-Jill bath, and encouraged the students, mostly very tall, very polite, black basketball players, far from home, to repaint the rooms to their liking. I still laugh when I think about the young man who signed a charge slip for a gallon of dark purple paint (not a typical hotel color) at the local paint store, across the alley from the hotel. The paint store clerk called Mom before she let him take the paint, because the young man had signed the charge slip with his name, which happened to be Sherwin Williams.
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| Left to right: the 3 Iranian students, Dad, Mom, Laura, and me; Dan must have been taking the picture. |
One year, three college students from Iran, including a young married couple, lived at the hotel. They spoke English quite well, but were obviously homesick, missing their families in Iran. Mom and Dad took them under their wings, so to speak, inviting them to join our family for meals and fishing excursions, like the one pictured above. When they moved to a tiny apartment the next year, they kept in touch, even inviting our family over for Sunday dinner, consisting of lots of rice and one small chicken to feed all eight of us.
<<<<<< >>>>>>
When I was growing up in the hotels, I didn't realize that I was getting a real education about different lifestyles and cultures. Even at a time of great racial unrest throughout most of America, skin color and ethnicity didn't matter much to me. I didn't know much prejudice, because I knew and respected people from many different backgrounds, and they, in turn, always treated me with respect. I have rarely felt intimidated by non-violent people with mental health diagnoses, because I knew some of them when I was young.
Mom and Dad were excellent role models, quietly counselling young adults who lived at the hotel or worked for them, sharing what they had, and offering real help to those who needed it. They directed at least one young, unmarried woman to an agency that could help with her unexpected pregnancy, providing her with some of the maternity clothes she needed, keeping in close contact while she was living with a family in another town as she waited for her baby to be born, and welcoming her back when she returned after giving that baby boy up for adoption. They provided jobs for the unemployable, teaching them to work, and providing food and shelter that they desperately needed. When permanent residents died, Mom and Dad made funeral arrangements for those with no family besides ours.
This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for the people I would have never known if my childhood had been a normal, typical experience, and I am thankful for my parents, who provided a good example for all of us.
Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke? Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter— when you see the naked, to clothe them, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood? Then your light will break forth like the dawn, and your healing will quickly appear; then your righteousness will go before you, and the glory of the LORD will be your rear guard. Then you will call, and the LORD will answer; you will cry for help, and he will say: Here am I. If you do away with the yoke of oppression, with the pointing finger and malicious talk, and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed, then your light will rise in the darkness, and your night will become like the noonday. The LORD will guide you always...
Isaiah 58: 6-11a
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