ROCKWALL COUNTY, TX (July 8, 2014) I’ve been called a lot of things in my life and sometimes, admittedly, my feelings were hurt. However, when I was called a “U-Haul” at a community gathering soon after my move to Rockwall, well, I simply had no reaction. “What is a U-Haul?” I pondered.
With a slimmer than average figure, I was certain it wasn’t a physical description. Thank goodness, because, that would have probably made me cry. My car was in the sporty class of automobiles, so I knew it wasn’t that, either. For the life of me, I had no idea and hence, no reaction. None. Okay, I was puzzled.
The sweet, little elderly woman who was the mouth of the new label for me was beautiful – stately even. I had been admiring her during my first Rockwall County Historical Foundation Brown Bag lecture I was attending at the Historic County Courthouse on the Square that spring afternoon. I had attentively listened to her interject story after story of “the old days of Rockwall” during the main-speakers presentation.
Her stories came to life for me as she recalled with great fondness “hoots-and-hollers from prisoners on the top floor of the Historic Courthouse, when the jail was still housed on the top floor.” Open-barred windows allowed the bad-guys, as she called them, to whistle and call-out to the pretty young girls passing by. She had been one of those girls- pretty and young. To me, she still was that girl. That is how beautiful oral history can be at times.
When the lecture ended, I eagerly made my way to this lovely woman who had brought life to days long gone and mostly forgotten. Adoration probably oozed from every pore of me as I approached her, almost sinfully I suspect now looking back on it. She knew every person in the room, except for me. And everyone knew her, Annabelle. Even her name seemed charming to me. “Annabelle”.
“Thank you so much for sharing your delightful stories!” I gushed as the surrounding gaggle gazed at me, seemingly startled by my words.
The pause was dramatic and became uncomfortable for me. At times like this, stares and silence become like daggers through my flesh. Nevertheless, again, she was cordial and old school, taking my hand in hers; she pulled me in closer to her soul. I realized instantaneously that I had made it apparent to her and all her gawking relatives and friends gathered around her that I might have been the only one on earth who had not heard these recollections of hers before. She had a new audience in me.
“Darling,” she said, “I don’t know you, do I?”
“I’m new to Rockwall. I just moved here from the Park Cities.” I chimed with all of the anticipation of a third-grader looking for a friend.
“Oh, you’re a U-Haul.”
“No, Ma’am, not Utah. I’m from University Park in Dallas, not Park City, Utah.” I spoke slowly for her, perhaps a little louder this time thinking her age had affected her hearing.
The spectators to our interlude exchanged glances, giggles, and even a few smirks. Instantly, I became the outsider. I was not unfamiliar with this feeling of being the human-in-a-cactus suit. Remember, I lived in “The Bubble” for over 9 years. A single mom is a leper in that world. I had endured that alienation solely for the benefit of my son’s early education in a privileged school district. I longed for belonging, which had prompted my relocation to Rockwall, and the fear of rejection began to rear its ugly head.
But, Annabelle wrapped her frail arm around my shoulder and the others were suddenly silenced. Annabelle was the matriarch in the room and I knew with her one loving gesture to me that I had nothing to fear. She was gracious knowing perhaps my ignorance of the inside joke had come across the wrong way and so she dutifully explained.
“Sweet girl. You are what the natives of Rockwall County refer to as a “U-Haul”, you know like the moving trucks.”
I listened intently as she continued to recall another part of her past and the memories were so vivid for her. She continued, as my inquisitiveness was evident.
“Back in the old days when the big bridge connecting Rockwall to Dallas was built over that big old lake they built, we were young. This was a small town and just for entertainment, we watched them build that big old bridge. And afterward, we sometimes counted all the U-Haul trucks cross that bridge as people began to move their families to our town from the big city. We’d say, ‘well, there’s another U-Haul!’”
The “Ah-Ha! Moment” had arrived and we all laughed as I discovered indeed I am a U-Haul. I don’t mind so much being given a label that is accurate.
Now, I count the U-Hauls. I know that each family that moves to this beautifully historic town has a story of their own, just like me. Every U-Haul is filled with someone’s life just like wagons of the pioneers that were making their way westward toward Peter’s Colony (now Dallas County) but were stopped here in what was then Mercer’s Colony, in the late 1840’s by the flooding of the East Fork of the Trinity River, long before that “big old bridge” was built.
Submitted by Blue Ribbon News guest columnist Robin Shackelford, an independent consultant and curator for The Museum at Harry Myers Park and The Rockwall County Historical Foundation, a non-profit organization dedicated to preserving the history of Rockwall County and the education of all individuals of its rich history.
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