Like Alice through the Looking Glass, I returned to Small Town, USA. Having been away, except for brief visits home to see Mom, Dad and my siblings, I previously paid little attention to the lack of growth in the town itself.
Main Street still had stoplights consisting of one blinking and one full three-color. The material barn where, as a child, I spent lots of time finding summer clothing for a quarter, still reigned supreme on its corner although the owner passed away some time ago and now his son ran it. A small hardware store held sway against the larger chains moving into nearby towns and cities. It was soon to meet its end as the owner passed away. Too many stores looked onto the street with blank, empty eyes.
It seemed every other open building tried its luck as a restaurant. Big business in the next city swamped the merchants of Small Town driving them to move and enlarge stores or perish. Did I really want to do this? Move back in time instead of pushing forward? Did I want to remove my daughter from her friends, school, and nearby attractions such as bowling and miniature golf? Did I have the guts to pull back into the life like my brother and sister enjoyed?
I sprang forward before my inner voice talked me out of what might prove to be a big mistake. A new home, a spec home, caught my attention while out looking at an older house found on the Internet. It showed well with its beautiful kitchen although it was smaller than my last home. Too quickly I decided it would be livable if it could be completed in three weeks, which I was assured it would be. As things turned out, it was almost complete, sufficiently enough to move from hotel to our own piece of Small Town.
The neighbors streamed over to introduce themselves. Who couldn’t immediately fall for friendly folk who hug you and profusely welcome you to the neighborhood? But I had seen this in my last home. It didn’t last past the first party where everyone came to check out the remodeling. Would this?
Trash day arrived. As it turned out, the trash collection company dropped off one plastic can to be set out every Thursday night for pick up sometime on Friday. Anything placed in the can also had to be in a plastic trash bag. There was no special service for those moving into the town. That could mean I would never get caught up on the bag after bag loaded with moving supplies if they had to go into the can.
“Hey, I’ve got room in my trash can if you need it. And another neighbor is out of town for a week. You can use hers, too.” My neighbor, across the street and slightly to the left offered a life ring for garbage day. Before nightfall, the neighbor beside him drove up.
“Hi, I’ve got loads of room in my trash can so I’m collecting your bags to add to mine.” Turns out this beautiful lady went to school with my brother. She’s a little nutty, but in the best possible way. No one can be around her for longer than a minute before laughter fills the air.
The builder came into the garage and, poof, stacks of boxes and the remaining bags disappeared into the back of his truck. Later he told me of a recycling place located behind the fire department. What a relief!
Was this a mistake? Or the smartest move I made lately? Time will tell. Can I get used to everyone knowing what I’m doing before I do it? Maybe not. Can I revert to a softer, gentler person as the role of a Southern woman dictates? Doubtful. I’ve spent far too long having to be almost brutally frank. I don’t pinch chubby cheeks of children, although I’ll play with and read to them all day long.
I don’t dilly dally around the point I want to make. I speak out. I don’t treat grown men like fragile flowers or children because they aren’t. And that has already caused a rift or two in business relationships. I don’t sit back and wait for someone else to decide when a house, that’s already paid for, should be finished. The builder and I butt heads on that. Maybe a gentler approach would work, but I really don’t know how to do that. If I try it, anyone who knows me sees ‘fake’ a mile away.
On the other hand, the high school football team spirit is all over the place in signs declaring ‘Panther Country.’ If I walk into a store, just about anyone will strike up a conversation and I dearly love that aspect of Small Town. Everyone has a list of people to see for medical, dental, beauty salon, dog grooming and every other service imaginable and happily share the information.
If you see the same cashier twice, he or she recognizes you the third time. This is the only place I’ve visited a bank to clear up a problem and stayed for a ten minute conversation with an admin who happened to live in my area. Familiar with the new subdivision where I bought, she tells me the history of most everyone living there – including her parents.
Yes, there will have to be changes in my thinking and possibly in my actions. However, by the time I revert to Small Town Maggie, I may be too old for anyone to care one way or the other. Or maybe I will be labeled the town eccentric and forgiven my trespasses. Right now I am intent on making a go of it here. My siblings and I are not getting any younger. It’s nice to see them a couple of times a week instead of once a year or never.
I’ve come home. All that remains to be done is, as a president once said, become a kinder, gentler person who can now give up the war of survival waged in places where it was necessary.