Small Town

So I still get the weekly newspaper from my hometown. And I love perusing it. Because I might see someone I know had a baby, and also because it makes me feel peaceful. And the news we watch around Chicago makes you think that most people are felons and walk around bus stops with knives and loaded guns ready to shoot you because you are wearing black, or red, or black AND red. But it's not true. Because sometimes, headline news CAN be: Hazzard Car Comes to Town. And then makes sure that just because you were not around for the "Dukes" you are not lowly and out of the loop , and they even clarify that the Hazzard County car was from a TV show in the 70's. And it's perfectly normal if you missed that era of culture and need to know who the Duke boys were. I always thought Luke was better.
I love taking people to the town I grew up in. Because you can leave your keys in the ignition of your car at night and you can ask your neighbor to come over for a beer. You can strike up a conversation with basically anyone and come away knowing that the cashier at Hy-vee is actually a friend of your uncle's brother once removed who you went to high school with. And the people are friendly.
And for every mudflap you see there is also some bona fide quaintness. Plus, massages are only forty-five dollars an hour. Tempts you to ask for TWO... in a row. But it's gluttony so you just don't.
My husband and I just spent a week there over the summer and he was mesmerized. And I was also mesmerized by looking at life through his view.
When we went to get an oil change, the "oil changer guy" was at the gas station next door and came running back saying..." I am coming!" and he had drink in his hand because what you would get fired for around here is deemed as contented there. And of course, when we left the oil change place and went to fuel up at the gas station next door, the cashier revealed that yesterday was such a bad day that she just ended up getting drunk and today was hungover. And wouldn't you know, she was also the OWNER. Of the gas station. But not to worry, it really was just a bad day and really she didn't normally drink on the weekdays but it was a terribly bad day. And she was so real I wanted to reach over the counter and hug her. For being real... not hungover. ( But I am not big on touching so of course, I didn't! )
And then there was our friend Stan. A friend of my parents' who was willing and able at the stroke of a quick phone call to literally invited us over to "show us the farm", because my husband didn't grow up around here and this would be a real slice.
So Stan showed us everything from the tractors to the corn bin and even chewed up kernels of corn right off the stalk to show us how he tests it's readiness. He explained the Japanese beatles were chewing up his end rows of soy beans but that was okay, because he figures that might happen and well, he prepared for them. And when it was over we sat on his porch drinking his Pennysylvania beer ( imported especially because he really liked it) and he didn't mind sharing the last of his special beer with us at all.
And now, back in the 'burbs, I sit here in our condo. Thinking it would be really nice to sit outside on a porch swing and strike up some chit chat with our neighbors. The twilight conversation you get when you live in a small town and have yards without fences. And nieghbors whose pasts you know as well as the back or your hand. And the peace of mind to know that even without your make-up and Mark Jacobs' gear that you are appreciated for exactly who you are. Even in your pajama pants.
It's a really nice life.