"Values From The Heartland: Stories of an American Farm-girl," by Bettie B. Youngs, is a book full of heartfelt stories about what is enriching and meaningful in family life. As one reviewer comments, "Our world is hungry for mental, emotional and spiritual fuel for purpose and direction. In these pages, Youngs truly fills that need. . . . Warmly and lovingly she provides down-to-earth answers as she shares herself."
Youngs' book touches on the feeling of family support and of community that, for most, are in days gone by. She was raised in Iowa, and it was not until her very busy adulthood (an author of 14 books, two doctorate degrees, many awards, for example), that she began to appreciate her youth in the heartland and to experience keenly that "If institutions showed the strains of shifting social mores, they were second place to the erosion felt in the homeland. And, illusive as they seemed, inner joy and happiness quickly began a downhill slide on a personal level as well."And," she continues, "I could feel it, too: In the city where I lived rarely did neighbors (more and more transient) introduce themselves to each other. Children, it seemed, had lost their status as `gifts from God,' and childhood no longer existed as a special period in life when we adults took the needed time to guide children, to teach patience and gentleness, and model love and tolerance in action. In fact, if children wandered into someone else's yard, they had a greater likelihood of being ignored or scolded than being walked back to their own yard and returned to their parents."
Youngs' stories involve the heartland, a place that was community-centered, where the African proverb, "It takes a village to raise a child," was alive and well, where the community itself was invested in living a principle-centered life, and where adults looked not only after their own children, but those of others.
"When I was young," Youngs reflects, "I couldn't wait to leave a community that knew of every coming and going. Now I find comfort in living in a small town where my friends and I (and my dog) are greeted on a first-name basis, and where there is community concern and involvement for the health and well being of its people and the environment of this little plot of Mother Earth."
For example, one of Youngs' stories tells of Youngs' mother asking her to set the family table with "the good china," the family heirloom passed down from generation to generation to generation and held in highest regard. One evening when Youngs was setting the table, a neighbor, Marge, dropped by unexpectedly. Viewing the beautiful set table, Marge remarked, "Oh, I see you're expecting company. I'll come back another time. I should have called first, anyway."
"No, no, it's all right,' replied Youngs' mother. "We're not expecting company."
"Well then," said Marge, with a puzzled look on her face, "why would you have the good china out? Gosh, I'd never trust my son to handle my grandmother's dishes. I'm so afraid they'd get broken. I use them only twice a year, if that."
"Because," Youngs' mom answered, laughing softly, presumably because she found it silly that Marge should use her china so infrequently. "I've prepared my family's favorite meal. If you set your best table for guests and outsiders when you prepare a special meal, why not for your own family? They're as special as anyone I can think of."
"Well, yes, but your beautiful china will get chipped," responded Marge, still not understanding the value Youngs' mother had assigned to her family. "And then you won't have to pass it on to your children."
"Oh, well," said Mom, casually, "a few chips in the china are a small price to pay for the joy we get using it. Besides," she added with a twinkle in her eyes, "All these chips have a story to tell, now don't they?" She looked at Marge as though a woman with a family of her own should have known this.
Marge still did not get it.
Youngs' mother walked to the cupboard and took down a plate. Holding it up, she said, "See this chip? I was 17 when this happened. I'll never forget that day." Youngs' mother's voice softened and she seemed to be remembering another time. "One fall day my brothers needed help putting up the last of the season's hay, so they hired a strong young man to help out."
Youngs' mother paused and then continued, "My mother had asked me to go to the hen house to gather fresh eggs. It was then when I first noticed this very handsome young man. I stopped and watched for a moment as he picked up the large and heavy bales of freshly cut hay and slung them up and over his shoulder, tossing them effortlessly into the hay loft. I tell you, he was one gorgeous man: lean, slim-waisted, with powerful arms and shiny, thick sandy-blond hair. He must have felt my presence because with a bale of hay in midair, he stopped and turned and looked at me, and just smiled. He was so incredibly handsome," she said slowly, running a finger around the plate, stroking it gently.
"Well, I guess my brothers took a liking to him because they invited him to have dinner with us. . . . Well, anyway, he handed me his plate and asked that I dish him a helping. I was so nervous that my hands shook. When I took his plate, it slipped and cracked against the casserole dish, knocking out a chip. I handed the plate back to him."
But, "as he was leaving the house he walked over to me, took my hand in his and laid the little piece of chipped glass in my palm. He didn't say a word, just smiled that incredible smile. One year later I married that marvelous man. And to this day, when I see this plate, I fondly recall the day I met him." She carefully put the plate back into the cupboard - behind the others, in a place all of its own.
Later, Youngs found the chip to this plate in a precious keepsake box, where it had been carefully stored for more than 50 years, demonstrating that for all the love stories about her family that her mother might have told Marge about the plate, none was quite so marvelous as the legacy she had assigned to this plate.