PRISONER EXPRESS

In the sixties, communities were small. Law enforcement actually did what they were paid to do. And the mortar that bound people together was the desire to be a good neighbor. To be a neighbor, one had to be accepted as a neighbor. The first neighborly act was to call out the welcome wagon. Once the new arrival to the hood was inducted, they were expected to maintain certain responsibilities. It wasn't uncommon for neighbors to become extensions to the family. And in some newly developed urban areas where government intrusion had not corrupted the natural laws of selection, neighbors became family through youthful romance. If neighbors were such close knit groups in metropolitan America, the bond was even stronger in the rural scene where survival was a major issue.

Rural neighbors had a quite unique bond. Many times their survival depended on those whom they shared the land with. This rural relationship was a privilege that took precedence over one's own family. The neighbor worked hand in hand to help get fields plowed, crops planted or harvested. Women joined forces in gardening, canning, and childcare on days the wife was helping her husband in the field. Roundups on the traditional farms were neighborly affairs.

In the early sixties in the haze of the great 'dust bowl' on a farm east Tahoka, Texas the rural families converged on one farm for a seasonal share-croppers event, the slaughter of a hog. Such events were not glamorous events in the public eye, yet it demonstrated the unity of the rural neighbor. The children built a fire, teenagers rolled the cast iron cauldron onto the fire in preparation to melt the lard or pig's fat. The women laid out the salting and pickling ingredients. At sun up, the hog was dragged up to the hangmen's bar; a rope was tossed over the bar, in the early hours a hog's squeal slowly faded. By ten, the hardest part of the job was complete. The ribs were put on a spit over the fire and everyone's attention turned to the other events. It was at once of these events I experienced my first rodeo fall. Competing against the neighbor's kids, each of us was put on a ram. The ram was released and the ride began. My ride ended when I was thrown. I landed in a fresh cow paddy which to this day curls a nose. This was neighbors being what they were, neighbors.

Neighbors in those days didn't ask what you needed, they just provided it. In the shadows of the dust in the wind, those neighbors stepped forward to provide food and clothing when my so-called father decided to go look for greener pastures alone. With their help my brothers were able to keep plowing and planting while going to school. One neighbor provided me a place to stay while my mom worked at a diner for ninety five cents an hour plus tips. Neighbors in those days didn't look for ways to destroy each other; they worked together for the good of the community.

When it happened and why, no one can say, but somewhere in the very near past the neighbor lost their integrity. The relationship that once forged the nucleus of the community dissipated to two very different relationships, the first being that of total estrangement. In this, the people next door are just people you exchange pleasantries in passing. The second type of neighbor which is most common on the streets of America is the McGruff neighbor. Those neighbors who in self-righteousness try to destroy their neighbors by calling the police every chance they get.

In the wake of forced cultural integration and propagandized fear, America has lost its most valuable resource, its neighbor. They, like the American dream have faded into the political tapestry of control. Now a man's best neighbor is either an empty house or Mother Nature.