Awake past my 8 year-old bedtime, I sat cross legged on my bed and watched jagged lightning fill the April sky. I loved spring storms, an indicator that summer would be here soon. Suddenly the pressure in my room shifted. I heard glass shatter and the sound of a train barreling through our house. Across the hall from me, my sister yelled, “Go to the basement!” I opened the door to my bedroom to see a gust of shattered glass.I slammed the door, got down on the floor, covered my head, and prayed.
Minutes later, complete stillness. Now that I am a mother, I have often thought about my mom running up a flight of stairs to my sister and me–what it was like to see a carpet of glass everywhere and two little girls in their nightgowns, faces white and shiny with tears–alive, standing at the end of that hallway.The only windows that hadn’t shattered were the ones in our bedrooms.
I have snapshots of the rest of that night: peeking out the window to see flashes of police car lights illuminating the faces of my parents and our neighbors gathered in our front yard. Splinters of glass embedded in my chocolate Easter bunny. Getting to sleep in my big sister’s bed underneath the bulky quilt my aunt had made. Our sweet cat found and snuggled in with us.
And one snapshot even more vivid today: alongside my dad, our next door neighbor Mr. Christenson in his faded Levi’s, tan work boots, and toolbelt hammering boards across our shattered windows. He and my parents weren’t close, weren’t even friends. But we were neighbors.
Over a decade later, I found the neighborhood that would become my new home when I moved to Rice County for a year of service as an AmeriCorps VISTA Literacy Coordinator. I fell in love with my new community. During a public forum on city growth, the outside consultant wasn’t expecting hundreds of community members to show up, let alone engage in passionate, respectful debate regarding city planning and what should happen moving forward (“Why do we have to grow?” bellowed a particularly zealous elder). Not everyone agreed, but we were neighbors first.
Recently during a conversation with a United Way board member, she shared with me a story from the week that she moved into her current neighborhood in Faribault. After taking the trash out, she realized she had locked herself out of her house. Within minutes, she had met all of her neighbors, who immediately rallied and worked together to get her safely back inside. They continue to look out for her to this day.
Today in Rice County our neighbors need our support more than ever. ALICE, a tool utilized by United Way, is an acronym for Asset Limited, Income Constrained, Employed—households that earn more than the Federal Poverty Level, but less than the basic cost of living for the county. Many of our neighbors continue to struggle, especially as wages fail to keep pace with the rising cost of household essentials–housing, child care, food, transportation, and health care. Many of us have been ALICE, have loved ones who are ALICE, or are ALICE. In Rice County 41% of households fall below the ALICE Threshold—ALICE households plus those in poverty. Our neighbors can’t afford the essentials.
I was drawn to the United Way because I believe we can play a powerful role in supporting our neighbors in Rice County: United is the Way. When those of us who are able contribute what we can–it might be $10 a month–we create a network of combined giving that creates positive change right here where we live. I hope you will join me today in making a donation to Rice County Area United Way. Our neighbors are counting on us.
Laura Riehle-Merrill, Executive Director, Rice County Area United Way