Kingsport Spirit

One of the last articles I wrote must have sounded too much like a eulogy, because I got phone calls asking what happened. I said, “Oh, I’m sorry. Nothing happened. It was a milestone birthday and I’ve learned to tell people how you feel before you can’t.”

When we moved to our home in 2002, we were promptly greeted by Mrs. Bus. She has a strong French accent even after all these years living in the states. Her husband, Mike (Miklos), a Hungarian exile, was a retired engineer from Eastman. Being of Appalachian descent for multiple generations and sort of clannish (it’s one of our cultural traits), I didn’t quite know what to do with that information. To my knowledge, I had never met someone who moved here from a foreign country (although I learned of many more as I matured and became more enlightened).

It’s hard for me to believe that was 22 years ago. We had young children. She had children our age. We saw her as an elder. Now we are that age. I don’t feel like an elder, but I suppose my younger neighbors think I am.

Over the years we’ve had multiple conversations while out in the yard mowing, planting, or raking leaves. We’ve both been summoned to jury duty at the same time and greeted each other with a “Hey, what are you doing here?” and a chuckle. She watched my children grow up–and now my grandchildren. She always asks about my kids, where they are, and what they’re doing now. And I ask about hers. One of mine is here and one lives in Colorado. One of hers is here and the others live in the Carolinas. She has great grandchildren now. Her kids (and mine) went to Dobyns-Bennett, participated in all the extracurricular activities like band and sports, then moved on to have happy, fulfilling lives. It’s still hard to be an empty nester and live farther from your children than you’d prefer. But parents don’t just love their children every now and then, it’s a love without end, amen (borrowed lyrics from a George Strait song).

Yesterday as we were pulling out of the neighborhood, I noticed her gas cap was off and the fuel door was inadvertently left open. I knew she was too responsible to take a call while driving, so I followed her to her destination and took care of it. I accurately predicted that she was on her way to Waverly Road Presbyterian Church, because she is faithful to her very core. I didn’t want to startle her, so I patiently waited while she put her “Delivering Meals on Wheels” placard in her front window. I told her why I was there. She thanked me profusely with a big hug and a smile.

From time to time, we talk on the phone. Months can pass in between, but I always enjoy the familiarity of her voice. It’s calming and reassuring to me for some reason. Maybe it’s because she’s my mother’s age and her beautiful white hair and diminutive size remind me so much of my late mom.

When I called her recently, we talked about Meals on Wheels. I told her I had been volunteering for 10-12 years, I couldn’t remember exactly. I asked how long she had been doing it. She said, “Oh, I don’t know, maybe 50 years? I’m turning 88 this year, so I’m probably going to have to start thinking about giving it up at some point.” My jaw dropped.

It occurs to me that I am surrounded by people like her who have given and given with no expectation. It’s a sense of duty. That is indeed the Kingsport Spirit. I was born into it, but she and Miklos brought it here from overseas and became naturalized U.S. citizens. They witnessed things in postwar Europe I’ll never see. They chose to live here, leaving everything that was familiar to them and embracing their new community.

I’m just sad it took me 22 years to piece the story together, because one thing’s for sure: she’s too humble to tell me herself.

With all of the noise on the news these days, we could draw inspiration from people like her. Rather than withdraw and become jaded and cynical, we can simply choose to serve. We could add to the noise by becoming a keyboard warrior and spouting off whatever’s on our mind. Or we could show some grace, like she does, and direct our energies toward doing something positive in our community. It doesn’t have to be a monumental feat. Just a few hours each month makes all the difference. Everyone has different interests and talents. There’s a volunteer opportunity out there if you just look for it. If an 88-year-old can do it, why can’t we?

I went to Ancestry.com and the newspaper archives like I always do and discovered stories of a first-generation American family–one who had seen the atrocities of war, a self-described freedom fighter. And what a story it is! Most of our families immigrated here at some point, there’s is just more recent. I cannot imagine leaving my home country at age 23. The fear and uncertainty must have been immense, wondering what might happen but knowing you have no other viable options.

The good news is that we can look back on that story now and see rich and fulfilling lives as American citizens.

Kingsport wasn’t just built by people like J. Fred Johnson and John B. Dennis, it was built by citizens like Germaine & Miklos Bus and hundreds of others like them. Whether from France or Hungary or Hawkins County or Southwest Virginia (like my family), Kingsport is a rich melting pot of people from near and far with a shared spirit of community. They worked hard, built homes, raised families, coached little leagues, nurtured garden clubs, and did their part to boost our town.

Next time you see Mrs. Bus out and about, give her a big hug and say thanks again.