Almost ten years ago my family and I moved to a small town.
I grew up in the 1970s, so the world I knew was of biking to my gramma's and to the pool, of climbing trees on undeveloped land. A childhood spent in sneakers, walking to the library and to school. Many cold weather days with snow blowing all around and piling up all winter -- perfect for building igloos and for "snow pizzas." We lived in what had once been a rural small town. It became a "suburb," and many of our parents commuted to work by train or car, but it retained that small town flavor that was in its own way magical for children.
When my husband and I noticed that much of suburban life in the 21st century meant driving around in our car -- to daycare and to the store, to the park and to the doctor, dentist, etc. -- we left it all behind for a place much like the 1970s. In the rural town where we now live, many people also commute to work by car. But lots of us choose to walk or bike as much as possible, no matter the weather. We walk to the grocery, sometimes several times a day. We pop into the library, we walk a mile to school when our kids forget something or when there are evening conferences. We go on foot or by bike to concerts and lectures and out to dinner. We hike in the woods, watch our children run barefoot, and tell ourselves that we are giving them a unique and wonderful life.
What I hadn't realized in moving to this particular small town is just how we would become enmeshed in its fabric. We wanted to be part of a community -- and we are. I have served on numerous non-profit boards and write as many press releases as I do student letters of recommendations; my husband is on the zoning board of appeals and was recently elected to the school board. We attend the middle school's Chili Cook-Off and the local street fair. In October at street fair my husband sat in the dunk tank to raise funds for the local baseball team. Our daughter writes letters to the editor of our small-town newspaper and wins contests at the library; our son once rode 15 miles on his five-foot unicycle with a group of friends to raise money for scholarships at his funky elementary school. Both end up in the paper for their various activities, from drama to track to basketball. We are known.
More importantly, we have come to know and love the other "villagers." We have a lot of characters -- a number of our neighbors (like our son) prefer not to wear shoes. Some of them are peaceniks and have been protesting U.S. military engagement every Saturday since the second Iraq war started.
Quite a few of our neighbors are famous in one way or another, and I am amazed at their skills, their knowledge, their talents. They are writers and filmmakers and potters and artists and comedians and magicians. They are yoga teachers and massage therapists and college professors and professional musicians and actors. They are mothers and fathers and aunts and uncles and grandparents. In fact, we remain envious of the tight family networks in and around town, but we have our own close friends now who function as extra aunts, uncles, and grandparents to our children.
Many of our neighbors are fiercely independent. I think of one elderly couple who were out in the 7 degree weather the other day, she on her three-wheeled bicycle, wearing her purple down coat, and he walking alongside to make sure the snow and ice didn't get in the way of her daily exercise. We have all been feeling cabin fever, given the "polar vortex," but they had somewhere to go and were going to get there no matter what.
We have been here for almost a decade, and now I feel like we truly belong. One measure of that, I think, is the longevity of our relationships with other villagers and the history we now share. Some of the people we have come to know and love are cranks. I remember some of my first impressions of certain folks whom I now adore and, with a certain humility, I have come to embrace the expression "an acquired taste." I too, I imagine, am an acquired taste, and I chuckle when I hear people invoking some of my own cranky behavior over the years.
I'm feeling particularly lucky, and melancholy, because yet another of our beloved villagers passed away the other day, utterly unexpectedly for me and for many. This was a man who lit up your day when you saw him, who had immense energy for life, who was kind and thoughtful and funny and not very old. We learned of his death in our weekly newspaper, and fittingly enough he wrote to us himself to say goodbye. We are truly in mourning.
But this is the cost of community. If we want to live in a place, really occupy it, and form those relationships and bonds, then we will mourn when marriages go bad, when children die in car crashes, when cancer claims another victim.
Even as I write with tears in my eyes, though, I wouldn't trade knowing Tim for anything. My life is richer because he joked with me, smiled at me, helped me out. Talking with others about how he touched their lives brings us together as a community. We were lucky to know him. He will be missed.
Lately I've mostly been writing about food and teaching. This post is a shout-out to those folks I've met since I moved to Yellow Springs. Losing one person is hard. But thinking about the value-added of the one who is gone makes me value even more those who remain. The casual conversations on the sidewalk or at the grocery, the baskets of fruit, cards, and homemade applesauce exchanged at the holidays, the quick grin and wave of the hand as we pass each other have a deeper meaning. They form the fabric of our lives.
I grew up in the 1970s, so the world I knew was of biking to my gramma's and to the pool, of climbing trees on undeveloped land. A childhood spent in sneakers, walking to the library and to school. Many cold weather days with snow blowing all around and piling up all winter -- perfect for building igloos and for "snow pizzas." We lived in what had once been a rural small town. It became a "suburb," and many of our parents commuted to work by train or car, but it retained that small town flavor that was in its own way magical for children.
When my husband and I noticed that much of suburban life in the 21st century meant driving around in our car -- to daycare and to the store, to the park and to the doctor, dentist, etc. -- we left it all behind for a place much like the 1970s. In the rural town where we now live, many people also commute to work by car. But lots of us choose to walk or bike as much as possible, no matter the weather. We walk to the grocery, sometimes several times a day. We pop into the library, we walk a mile to school when our kids forget something or when there are evening conferences. We go on foot or by bike to concerts and lectures and out to dinner. We hike in the woods, watch our children run barefoot, and tell ourselves that we are giving them a unique and wonderful life.
What I hadn't realized in moving to this particular small town is just how we would become enmeshed in its fabric. We wanted to be part of a community -- and we are. I have served on numerous non-profit boards and write as many press releases as I do student letters of recommendations; my husband is on the zoning board of appeals and was recently elected to the school board. We attend the middle school's Chili Cook-Off and the local street fair. In October at street fair my husband sat in the dunk tank to raise funds for the local baseball team. Our daughter writes letters to the editor of our small-town newspaper and wins contests at the library; our son once rode 15 miles on his five-foot unicycle with a group of friends to raise money for scholarships at his funky elementary school. Both end up in the paper for their various activities, from drama to track to basketball. We are known.
More importantly, we have come to know and love the other "villagers." We have a lot of characters -- a number of our neighbors (like our son) prefer not to wear shoes. Some of them are peaceniks and have been protesting U.S. military engagement every Saturday since the second Iraq war started.
Quite a few of our neighbors are famous in one way or another, and I am amazed at their skills, their knowledge, their talents. They are writers and filmmakers and potters and artists and comedians and magicians. They are yoga teachers and massage therapists and college professors and professional musicians and actors. They are mothers and fathers and aunts and uncles and grandparents. In fact, we remain envious of the tight family networks in and around town, but we have our own close friends now who function as extra aunts, uncles, and grandparents to our children.
Many of our neighbors are fiercely independent. I think of one elderly couple who were out in the 7 degree weather the other day, she on her three-wheeled bicycle, wearing her purple down coat, and he walking alongside to make sure the snow and ice didn't get in the way of her daily exercise. We have all been feeling cabin fever, given the "polar vortex," but they had somewhere to go and were going to get there no matter what.
We have been here for almost a decade, and now I feel like we truly belong. One measure of that, I think, is the longevity of our relationships with other villagers and the history we now share. Some of the people we have come to know and love are cranks. I remember some of my first impressions of certain folks whom I now adore and, with a certain humility, I have come to embrace the expression "an acquired taste." I too, I imagine, am an acquired taste, and I chuckle when I hear people invoking some of my own cranky behavior over the years.
I'm feeling particularly lucky, and melancholy, because yet another of our beloved villagers passed away the other day, utterly unexpectedly for me and for many. This was a man who lit up your day when you saw him, who had immense energy for life, who was kind and thoughtful and funny and not very old. We learned of his death in our weekly newspaper, and fittingly enough he wrote to us himself to say goodbye. We are truly in mourning.
But this is the cost of community. If we want to live in a place, really occupy it, and form those relationships and bonds, then we will mourn when marriages go bad, when children die in car crashes, when cancer claims another victim.
Even as I write with tears in my eyes, though, I wouldn't trade knowing Tim for anything. My life is richer because he joked with me, smiled at me, helped me out. Talking with others about how he touched their lives brings us together as a community. We were lucky to know him. He will be missed.
Lately I've mostly been writing about food and teaching. This post is a shout-out to those folks I've met since I moved to Yellow Springs. Losing one person is hard. But thinking about the value-added of the one who is gone makes me value even more those who remain. The casual conversations on the sidewalk or at the grocery, the baskets of fruit, cards, and homemade applesauce exchanged at the holidays, the quick grin and wave of the hand as we pass each other have a deeper meaning. They form the fabric of our lives.
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