Hooverville
My middle school friend Ellen who lives down the street called.
"Hi.” says she warmly.
"Hello Ms. Ellen," I return in greeting.
"What are you doing?" she wants to know in that precursor to gregarious questioning I know to follow.
"I am going to go to Hooverville." I reply.
"Hooverville? Where’s that?" she aks.
"Not a where. It’s a what, really." I say.
"Hooverville is what I call the Laundromat," I continue, "the one down on Main street."
"I need to do some laundry –bad," I ephasize the word b-aaa-d sounding like a sheep in desperation.
"Why do you call the Laundromat Hooverville?" she asks.
“Have you ever studied about Hoovervilles in history class?” I ask --secretly hoping the answer is no so I can feel a useful mentor.
“Nope.” she replies.
Right there I had an obligation, didn’t I, to tell her about the history of actual Hoovervilles during the 1930's, all the shanty towns, the Great Depression and such. Finally, I get to explaining about the folks who inhabit the Laundromat here and why it looks like a Hooverville.
“Huh…that’s not very nice calling the Laundromat Hooverville." she says with a voice I know is accompanied by that posture of her hand on her hip.
"I don’t think people who go there would like that. How do you think they’d feel if they knew someone called it Hooverville.” Ellen says.
Whoops….
