Prob’ly die in a Small Town
For more than two decades now, I have lived in cities. There was one year following our wedding when we lived in a small town, but aside from that, it’s been asphalt jungles. Some cities were smaller—Würzburg, my college town, most notably—others were huge, like New York or now Bongo. There’s nothing wrong with living in a city. That’s what people do these days. On e-bay, there are entire (small) towns that have been put up for sale, since there doesn’t seem to be any use for them. Heck, one jokester from Australia even tried to sell New Zealand once. But in the 21st century, the mass migration to the cities continues, for better or worse.
That said, I remember what it’s like to live in a small town. Heck, I grew up in one. I remember working in a factory, the town’s main employer, and sweating on the assembly line with the best of them. I remember how the town had changed, only that it didn’t necessarily grow. You could pick out the clubs you could go to on the weekend (there really weren’t any), and when all else failed just buy a case of good German beer and camp out by the river for the night, or until the case was empty. I can pick out the accent of my region from miles away. Unfortunately, I also recall distinctly how badly I wanted to leave the place.
Today, I can say that I am at peace with my hometown. There were times when I vowed I would never return there, but for the most part I love going back. I like walking the streets that used to be my stomping grounds. I love the lack of pressure since I no longer am a member of the community and am not under the same scrutiny as people who actually live there. Today, I merely go back as a tourist, ride a bike into the countryside, and show my kids a few places where their old man used to roam. No matter how one might look at it, I think my hometown is a gorgeous place, and that people are blessed to be living there.
That said, I remember what it’s like to live in a small town. Heck, I grew up in one. I remember working in a factory, the town’s main employer, and sweating on the assembly line with the best of them. I remember how the town had changed, only that it didn’t necessarily grow. You could pick out the clubs you could go to on the weekend (there really weren’t any), and when all else failed just buy a case of good German beer and camp out by the river for the night, or until the case was empty. I can pick out the accent of my region from miles away. Unfortunately, I also recall distinctly how badly I wanted to leave the place.
Today, I can say that I am at peace with my hometown. There were times when I vowed I would never return there, but for the most part I love going back. I like walking the streets that used to be my stomping grounds. I love the lack of pressure since I no longer am a member of the community and am not under the same scrutiny as people who actually live there. Today, I merely go back as a tourist, ride a bike into the countryside, and show my kids a few places where their old man used to roam. No matter how one might look at it, I think my hometown is a gorgeous place, and that people are blessed to be living there.
I now consider my home to be in the foothills of North Carolina. There is an inner peace I find there that I have not felt anywhere else. Ironically, Liebi—who had made the same promise herself to leave her hometown for good one day—grew up fifteen miles from where we bought our house. So she did leave her hometown, only to settle in Tryon in the end, some 15 miles away. A good choice in the end, I would say.
Driving around this area, I loosen up a little. My hands don’t clutch the steering wheel like in Dar, I can leave the car doors unlocked and the windows open. I believe it makes a difference in the end between driving beside trees and hills rather than highrises and potholes. We have probably had five inches of rain since I’ve been here, but that doesn’t bother me at all. It’s nice watching the rain drip down from the maples and red oaks here.
And the first thing you will realize the moment you’re back in a small town is how chatty people get. Liebi and I went to a grocery store, and people—from the cashier to the customers—will talk about anything for as long as you let them. And yet you see there is no harm in this whatsoever, that this is what people do in small towns, that there is no shame in taking the time to chat up perfect strangers, if need be. I remember there were places in cities where the store owner or receptionist couldn’t wait to get you out of the building and on your way. I imagined each of them with a finger on a button that would activate a trapdoor right where I was standing if I lingered. That’s all right, too. I get it. You are there mainly for a business transaction. That does not legally bind you to have a chat with anybody.
Three stores here with the kids. The first guy, the manager of a hardware store, lets the kids ring the bell at the counter until they get bored doing it. Within ten minutes I know he’s from Georgia and has a daughter going to UGA. Go Bulldogs. The next one is a customer just hanging out at a wine and beer shop, her hands delicately stroking a beagle and inviting the kids to get to know the dog. The supermarket has somebody working in the produce section who finds Bash ‘absolutely adorable’. Must be the strawberry blond hair.
The point is, you will get involved with people in small towns, just like you get to avoid them in the city, even though there are millions of them. The irony is as thick as a mountain fog.
Driving around this area, I loosen up a little. My hands don’t clutch the steering wheel like in Dar, I can leave the car doors unlocked and the windows open. I believe it makes a difference in the end between driving beside trees and hills rather than highrises and potholes. We have probably had five inches of rain since I’ve been here, but that doesn’t bother me at all. It’s nice watching the rain drip down from the maples and red oaks here.
And the first thing you will realize the moment you’re back in a small town is how chatty people get. Liebi and I went to a grocery store, and people—from the cashier to the customers—will talk about anything for as long as you let them. And yet you see there is no harm in this whatsoever, that this is what people do in small towns, that there is no shame in taking the time to chat up perfect strangers, if need be. I remember there were places in cities where the store owner or receptionist couldn’t wait to get you out of the building and on your way. I imagined each of them with a finger on a button that would activate a trapdoor right where I was standing if I lingered. That’s all right, too. I get it. You are there mainly for a business transaction. That does not legally bind you to have a chat with anybody.
Three stores here with the kids. The first guy, the manager of a hardware store, lets the kids ring the bell at the counter until they get bored doing it. Within ten minutes I know he’s from Georgia and has a daughter going to UGA. Go Bulldogs. The next one is a customer just hanging out at a wine and beer shop, her hands delicately stroking a beagle and inviting the kids to get to know the dog. The supermarket has somebody working in the produce section who finds Bash ‘absolutely adorable’. Must be the strawberry blond hair.
The point is, you will get involved with people in small towns, just like you get to avoid them in the city, even though there are millions of them. The irony is as thick as a mountain fog.
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