In The Big City

Main Street in my home town.

We’re in the big city this week, visiting colleges with my daughter and hanging out with my husband’s family. While we’re here, we're taking advantage of the shopping. If you’ve never lived in small town, you may not understand what a treat this can be. The closest chain store (other than the discount drug box store that’s in every town, no matter how big or small) is over an hour away from our home.

I appreciate our small town stores. The merchandise is unique, usually hand selected by the owners, and reflects the personalities they infuse in their shops. Last time I went shopping for my sister's birthday, I dropped in on Hope and Glory, a cute florist-slash-country-kitsch shop. Jerri, the owner, chatted with me about my sister, my kids, her kids, church and other random hometown happenings as I looked around and selected a few items. She even wrapped them up with pretty paper and ribbon so they would look nice. 

While in the Big City, my 17-year-old daughter was on the hunt for a prom dress. Of course, while we were out, I had to visit the local big chain bookstore. It was wondrous with rows and rows of books and best sellers, cute journals and fancy pens, even a coffee shop and free wifi.  But when I needed help finding a book, there wasn’t anyone to be found. When I finally flagged down someone walking around with a harried but official look, she told me she was busy with other customers and to please go to the service desk. When I went to the service desk, no one was there until the same harried and official lady came up to the desk to help the other three customers already in line.

Our Main Street has an independent bookstore called the Bookworm. It’s small and carries a few best sellers along with a couple locally published indie writers.  It also has an eclectic stock of small gift items, postcards, and locally crafted jewelry. They may not have every book stocked, but they’re happy to order whatever you need or want.

At one point, craving a pick-me-up, we stopped in at one of those chain coffee stores that are on every block in the city. No kidding—there are more of these coffee shops per square mile than we have cows in our ranch town. The coffee always tastes a little burnt to me, and the menu boards carry the same stock items. It’s all good though, and the product is predictable and tasty. But I missed the college student baristas of my favorite hangout at home and choosing my selection from an artistically hand-written chalk board. 

We finally found my daughter a prom dress. It was no easy feat. (People really spend $200 on a prom dress that’s worn once?) We had to visit three or four stores, but we found a dress that makes her look like a womanly princess and didn’t break the bank. Of course, there's no way I'm letting her go to a dance looking like this. I hear rumor they actually let boys go to these things.

While cruising through the stores, we saw lovely shoes, clothing, earrings, necklaces and other things I had no idea I wanted until I saw them. I’d forgotten the allure of stuff. It’s much easier to feel content with what I own when I’m not being confronted with all the things I think I might wish I owned.

We decided to cut our trip short and head home tomorrow. Turns out Spring is still fighting for life and Winter is still winning. Since our drive home involves a couple mountain passes, we want to get ahead of the weather. I've enjoyed my time here. It was fun shopping with my daughter. But I'm ready to get home to our slower pace and forget about the material goods I might have wanted to buy. 

Next time I need a gift, I'll look forward to visiting Main Street. I know when I push open the shop door and a bell jangles my arrival, a familiar voice will call out to me, ask after my family and help me find the perfect little gift. It will take me twice as long to buy something-- I'll need to plan for visiting time. But I know I'll be in fine company.

In The Company of Critters

Photo from Microsoft Clip Art

When I was growing up in the suburbs of Pittsburgh, we had our share of wildlife sightings. Squirrels scolding us from tree branches were plentiful as were the rabbits hopping through the yard. Cute chipmunks, which my father was forever trying to exterminate, ran freely in the wood piles. Occasionally in the woods that used to be at the top of the street, we’d see graceful deer. There were probably other animals around--skunk, woodchucks--but I don’t remember seeing them very often in our domesticated neighborhood.

I always wanted to live in the mountains, so when the opportunity came up for my husband and I to move to western Colorado, we were thrilled. Being a citified gal, it never occurred to me to think about what beasts might be lurking in our less tamed wilderness. We were fortunate just shortly after moving, to rent the quintessential mountain home. It was log with thick beamed ceilings, hand made stained glass windows and a rustic balcony. A gurgling stream with a quaint covered bridge ran behind the house, followed by acres of fields dotted with grazing cattle, all against a backdrop of mountains. How serene. How bucolic. And yet…

One of the first warnings our landlords gave us was to watch for our dog with the coyotes. I didn’t understand. “Well, he explained, they like to call your dogs out in the evening, tricking them into thinking they are part of the pack, just playing. Then, when they have ‘em in the field, they’ll surround your dog and attack him.” I gulped. Evidently the Wile E. Coyote name was well-deserved but not near as cute.

Keeping his cautions in mind, I began to watch for the canine-like animals. In the early morning hours, they wandered to the creek behind the house for a morning drink. In spring, the high-pitched yips of pups learning to imitate their elders would wake us up. If we were lucky, we'd catch a glimpse of their scrawny, still adolescent bodies. How did a critter start out so cute and end up so menacing? 

Eventually, we were able to identify a few of the coyotes. One was easily recognized by his three-legged appearance. He’d lost a leg at some point in his life-journey. Maybe he'd got caught in a trap. It wasn’t unusual for the ranchers to set them. I hated to think about it—the spring-loaded claws seemed so cruel, but I knew it was a reality in many ranching communities. We nicknamed this hearty fellow, Tripod. Many mornings we’d stare out the window until we saw him. “Here comes Tripod,” one of us would call out.

My first encounter with a coyote in the wild happened while hiking with my husband. We had moved from the log house and into our new home. It backs up against undeveloped acreage managed by the Bureau of Land Management providing open wilderness as far as you can see. On this particular hike, we trekked along a trail following a creek with our newly acquired Weimaraner, Blue. We ventured out as far as the trail would take us, enjoying the water and marveling at the rock formations. Being able to go no farther without bushwhacking our way through low brush, we decided to head back home. We crossed through an open area and heard the familiar yip and howl of a coyote. Quickly glancing up, we scanned the landscape until we recognized the tawny and lean dog-like animal halfway up the hillside watching us. 

We made sure Blue stayed near us and kept a wary eye on the critter. Not only did the coyote keep up its howls, he began to follow us, slowly easing down the hill as he traveled, getting nearer and nearer. My husband urged the dog and I ahead of him and grabbed a couple big rocks, muttering that next time he’d be sure to bring his gun along. I picked up a couple large rocks too. Blue looked up curiously from time-to-time to see what was making all that unnecessary noise, but he didn’t seem too eager to join the coyote or too disturbed by him either. We kept walking, nervously eyeing the bold animal. We must have finally reached a point where he lost interest or felt we were no longer encroaching on his territory. To our relief, he quit trailing us and turned back around.

When I think about mountain life and the people I know in this small community, I don’t usually stop to think about the critters who also live among us. But when I do--when I meet a bear or fox or coyote along a trail--I try to keep in mind and respectfully remember, this is their home too.

Six Degrees Or In My Biz

According to Wikipedia, the source for all that is factual and true, the phrase “six degrees of separation” is the theory that everyone and everything is just six steps away, by way of introduction, from any other person in the world. If that’s true, then living in a small town keeps everyone just two steps away from knowing everyone else...where they work...if they've been divorced...where they live. And when that small town is nestled in an isolated mountain community, people might as well accept we're all really just one, baby step away from knowing all these facts about each other, plus pet names, car models, preferred coffee and latest physical ailments.

I came from big cities where I was lucky to even know who my neighbors were two houses down. If it wasn't for the circle of people I knew in my church or school, I’d have easily been a loner in a crowd of suburbia. As it is now, I try hard to be a hermit in the midst of 5000 people I know or at the very least recognize.  

When my kids were small, we ventured to California for the requisite Disneyland visit. In the midst of the enchantment of castles, dressed characters and throngs of milling people, we ran into a family we knew from our home town. What were the odds? Well, apparently the odds dramatically increase in a small town where there is nary an unfamiliar face, compared to a huge city where the circle of friends is limited.

Within our alpine village knowing a person goes beyond just recognizing their face, it also extends to knowing their vehicles. I learned this lesson early on. For years my husband was a church minister in town—the opportunity for folks to know who we were before we learned who they were rose exponentially. One day I stopped at the local liquor store to restock my cooking wines, one each in red and white. Before the week was over, some well-intentioned saint let me know he'd seen my car out and about. “Oh really,” I asked, still naïve and therefore a bit surprised.

“Yeah, saw you were at the local liquor store.”

I peered at the good brother. Was that meant as a judgment? I never was quite sure, but from then on I resorted to bootlegging our alcohol. Out-of-town friends and family soon learned to ask us before a visit, “Can I bring you anything from the liquor store?”

With a hand cupped secretively around the mouthpiece of the phone, I’d whisper in conspiratory tones, “Yes. Please. Some beer and a bottle of cooking wine would be much appreciated. Use the back door.” 

Years later, when my little red Toyota was a fixture in town, friends and colleagues at work started teasing me about seeing me in my car, waving and being ignored. “I swear,” I protested, “I never saw you.” But my apparent sightings increased and people continued to inform me about my supposed snubbing. Funny thing is, I noticed people waving at me with enthusiasm and smiles from inside their cars, and yet I couldn't have said who they were. But maybe I just wasn't in the habit of recognizing people by their cars yet.

Even my husband joined in, “I saw you in your car today and gave you a wave. You totally looked at me and looked away.” I was stumped. Was I that zoned out to people around me once I got into my car?

Finally after several weeks of this, there was a crack in the case of The Car Snubbery. I pulled into my work parking lot just as another little red Toyota pulled in next to me. The driver stepped out—a young woman with long blonde hair…just like mine. As I gazed at her, blinking, I started to put the pieces together. “We have similar cars,” I said in way of a greeting. She smiled patiently at my astute observation. “Do you ever get people you don’t know waving at you?” I asked, hoping she’d help me solve the mystery.

Her eyes widened slightly as she too put the pieces together. “Yes, I do,” she said. 

“One of us needs to cut or dye our hair or something,” I said. We introduced ourselves. Turns out, not only did we drive similar cars and were mutual victims of mistaken identity, but we worked at the same college, just a building away from each other. And now, I was one degree closer to knowing and waving to all her friends, a whole new subset of fine company in this small town.

What're the odds? 

The First Kiss

We stood behind the elementary school. He was wearing jeans and tennis shoes that made his feet look too big, like paws on a St. Bernard puppy.  His red hair was spiky and uncombed and the freckles on his face stood out even more against his flushed skin. I pulled my shirt down over my too-pudgy belly and pushed a pigtail behind my shoulder.

“Do you wanna?” he asked.

Well not really, I thought. But the dare had been issued. It was 1974, and we were in fifth grade. Steve liked me. I liked him. Or at least we declared our romance for that one afternoon. Now here we were, hiding like lovelorn refugees, contemplating the dare to kiss. 

“I guess,” I shrugged.

Before I knew it, he leaned forward. Two fleshy feeling worms hit my mouth before I could even pucker. Steve ran squealing off to find our friends. I stood there fully aghast for a few seconds. I didn't realize before now, lips felt like big worms.

I regained my composure, or as much as I could, and ran after him laughing nervously.

“Did you guys do it?” Our friends, who now are locked faceless and nameless in my memory, were dying for the details. We had been dared, and we didn't back down!

“Yes,” we both giggled nervously. 

“You can’t tell anyone!” I tried to extract promises that would never be kept.

I don’t really remember the rest of that afternoon or even the days or weeks after. Like all good grade school romances, it was probably over before it began. Steve faded from my life and my memories, except that one moment behind the school.

There were no more kisses for me, an awkward girl turning into a teenager, struggling with self-esteem, never quite fitting the pretty, thin mold of my peers. I wanted to be popular, a cheerleader, the kind of girl who could toss her hair and flirt, but the coy gestures and confidence escaped me.

In the summer before high school, I went to my first real girl-boy party.  It was a warm summer night, and we stood outside on the back porch in the waning light. Elton John blared from the speakers. Teenagers wearing disco jeans milled around, laughing, drinking pop. Suddenly in hushed tones, someone suggested we play a game of Spin the Bottle. A couple of boys laughed, nudging each other with bravado, and the group moved indoors to the basement. (Where were her parents? I don’t remember.)

We sat in a circle. My heart pounded. Other than Steve behind the school, I’d never kissed a boy. Would they use tongue? What if they did? How did I kiss like that? I was in a panic. A boy stepped into the middle of the circle and gave the empty glass bottle a spin. It wobbled like a romantic compass needle, balancing on the arched glass, until it stopped, pointing to a girl. They stood up and faced each other. He slung an arm over her shoulder and she casually hung one around his waist. They kissed for a couple of seconds before sitting back down. She didn't even look phased! 

It was Adam’s turn next. He reached down, a suave crooked smile on his face and gave the bottle a spin. He was like the most popular boy in school, blonde wavy hair, tall, and already filling out with muscles. The bottle stopped, pointing towards… me. I stared. I can’t do this. Not for the first time. Not with Adam. Would he refuse to kiss me?

He stood and walked towards me. I could smell his cologne, heavy with some musky scent. And his breath was sweet, like the soft pink chunks of bubble gum he had been chewing. He leaned in. I closed my eyes, met his mouth, my pulse racing and stomach lurching. My first French kiss.

It kind of felt wormy too.

As the game carried on, my nerves calmed. I felt so worldly now. I even tried tossing my hair, or as much as you could toss hair lacquered with half a can of VO5. The next time the bottle pointed my way, it was to kiss a boy named Graham—a short, skinny kid, still pre-pubescent, a wild mop of red hair and freckles all over his face and arms. I sighed. Perhaps this really was my destiny. 

Carnivals, Scary Rides, and A Mother Bear

Before moving to our small town, I was a city girl, born and raised in the hills and suburbs of Pittsburgh.  Rodeos weren't a part of my life. But now, I appreciate and look forward to our annual Cattlemen's Days Rodeo and the wondrous sights of beautiful horses, 4-H animals, and a man in a well-fitted pair of Wranglers.

Alongside the rodeo grounds, a carnival sets up adding to the festivities. It's the typical travelling fair, Ferris wheels, rickety Tilt-A-Whirls, funnel cakes, rigged carnival games and high school girls dressed in summer shorts, flirting with boys.

One year, when my son was five, we took him to his first carnival. We bought the requisite cotton candy and let him ride the harmless kiddie roller coasters and fly down the big wavy slide on a burlap sack. My son soon spied a school chum walking hand-in-hand with his mother. The boys asked to go on rides together so we joined the pair and strolled the dusty, popcorn-strewn grounds searching out new thrills.

Eventually, we found our way to a looming ride called the Rainbow. People climbed steps up to a staging area to board a big platform fitted with rows of seats. With bright lights and music, the platform rose in a clockwise motion before reaching the apex and dropping quickly, riders squealing and screaming with delight. A few brave souls even raised their hands above their heads to maximize the thrill whenever it made its downward loop. 

“Let’s do that one!” my son's friend exclaimed.

My son looked up at me expectantly, “Can I, Mom?”

Every instinct in me knew this was a bad idea. “I don’t think so, Sweetie. Is there another ride you’d like to try?”

The two boys looked at each other. “Please, Mom?”

“Once you're on, you can't get off,” I countered. The ride looked scary for little guys.

“I won’t be scared, I promise. Pleeease?”

The other mom smiled at me indulgently, “I’ll go with them. They’ll be all right.”

Ugh, now the peer pressure, not for my son, but for me. Against my better judgment, I relented. The ride stopped and my son, along with his friend and mom, climbed up to the platform and buckled up in their seats. My heart was in my stomach. I berated myself for being so foolish.

The carnival worker stood above me on the platform and pushed the lever. Up the ride lifted. So far, so good—my son was all smiles. The ride hit the top, seemed to suspend a partial second, then dropped. His face expression quickly changed. By the second circle around, he was in tears, gripping the mom's arm.

Without thinking, only feeling with a mother’s heart, I reached up and grabbed the young carnival worker’s ankles. He turned with a start, and looked down. “Stop this ride,” I said, or more precisely, growled.

He hesitated. I reiterated my desire with conviction. “My son is on this ride and terrified. Stop it. Now.”

My husband, his mouth slightly gaping, stared at me--his wife-gone-mad.

In the face of a crazed mother with a death grip on his legs, the wise worker let the ride complete its last loop before bringing it to a full stop. “Thank you,” I said, releasing him. My son climbed off, his face still red. We moved to wait for him at the bottom of the steps. He climbed down, his legs shaky, his face struggling to find composure.

“That was fun, Mommy,” he offered in a tremulous voice, bravely trying to find a smile.

It was a lesson for all of us. For a poor young carnie, just trying to make a few bucks for the summer, he learned to never cross a frantic mom and perhaps to stand a few feet out of hand's reach. I learned to trust my instincts, always, and never let someone else influence my parenting. I hoped my son learned to listen to his parents, but he probably really just learned the vital lesson every kid should know: how to save face. And my husband's lesson…well probably, that he married a woman with an inner lunatic lying just barely below her surface. 

Java Locale

It’s a quirky little place. The menu—sandwich and wrap selections, coffees and specialty drinks—is hand-written in brightly colored chalk on blackboards hanging behind the counter. Like most coffee shops, the sound of hissing and smell of freshly brewed beans adds to the ambiance. I glance at today’s selection of coffee flavors, also written in chalk on a small board leaning on the counter: hazelnut, organic Kona and the regular, fair trade option. But today I’m tempted by a mocha. Why not treat myself a little?

Tucked among a string of small businesses that come and go, victims of a sick economy, the Steaming Bean thrives on Main Street. We have two coffee shops in town. Both offer clusters of tables, free wifi, and an assortment of baked goodies along with their java choices. But I like The Bean, as it’s known by. It’s a little funkier, darker, cozier. I grab my steaming mocha in the ceramic mug and head up two steps to the platform area to sip, write and people-watch, one of my favorite pastimes.

A good coffee shop nestled in a small town or neighborhood takes on a Cheers-like quality, where everyone knows your name. I recognize a few people, smile and give the nod of recognition. Others walk in and strike up conversations with folks sitting at the table beside me. The music, a selection with a Latino beat, pulses in the background along with the soft conversation and sounds of the espresso machine. Someone has ordered a bagel with black bean hummus "shmere", and a smoky smell of burnt bagel crumbs wafts out from the toaster.

A few people are reading. Others, like me, are typing away on their computer, sipping a warming brew, just right for a cold day. A trio of school-aged girls arrive talking in the excited voices. They are commenting on the wall art, an ever-changing gallery for local artisans. Today’s art features a male African American dancer wearing a brightly ornate costume, his legs toned and muscular, his lips full and nose broad, several portraits of Native American women, rich with ethnic features and native costumes, and glowing with beauty. I know the artist. He is an older student at the local college, a Native American and has a passion and obvious talent for depicting beauty as it is, not as the media would gloss it over to be.

I am watching the time. Soon the neighborhood-watch officer will be by to mark tires with chalk, making sure parked vehicles abide by the two-hour time limit for street parking. I've already been here for two hours but am so comfortable and relaxed, I’m hesitant to leave.

I’m skeptical of chain coffee shops—a Starbucks on every corner, in every grocery, in every discount department store.  Men and women in suits, hurrying to order their double cappacino, no whip, skinny, grandes. Sure these cookie-cutter  franchises can serve up a frothy concoction, but can they offer a familiar smile, a smattering of local publications to peruse and the quirky creations of local artists?

If I’m in the big city, I’ll seek out the small neighborhood coffee shop—the one with homemade pastries and fair trade coffees. I’ll look for the cozy shop with a young barista wearing a slogan t-shirts and dreadlock hair held back by a faded bandana. I know if I find a unique corner nook like this, I'll sit down and order a cup-- not to go, but to stay and savor. I'll pull out my computer or flip through a local paper, do a little people watching and relax. If I know my coffee joints, we won't be strangers for long.

Anne and Harold

Mom and Me

This past week, I moved my mom into an independent living facility. It’s a lovely place, full of well-earned luxuries and friends she already knows. And I feel better knowing she’s in an apartment with a daily check-in and health facilities directly on campus.

After our big moving day, we enjoyed dinner in the company of two of her friends, Anne and Harold Hall. Harold is 90-years-old and Anne wouldn't elaborate beyond telling me she’s in her 80's. It is a woman’s prerogative, after all. With a cozy knit hat pulled over her head and a warm coat and thick sweater on, even in the warmth of the restaurant, she cut quite a figure.

Clusters of four to five people sat at the various tables, each dressed up, some more than others, the ladies' hair fully coiffed. Some were quite able-bodied; others were stooped or used a cane or walker to help them negotiate. But as they sat at the tables, they were just friends. Laughter and soft talking settled on the air adding to the dining ambiance. Scattered here and there were a few of us “young folks”—visiting family. When you eat with people in their 80's and 90's, 48 gets to be young!

Anne sat next to me, never removing her coat, picking over the roll and butter, dubious of how everything was cooked. Harold and Anne have been married for over 60 years. He is hard of hearing, but he didn’t need to hear his wife’s words. They communicated through looks and smiles.“She doesn’t like anything on the menu,” he says with a small smile. “They don’t quite cook anything to her liking. I think it’s all right, though.”

She rolls her eyes, a tip of her tongue darting out and makes a face at him. She turns to me. “We used to live in Denver, you know. When was that, Harold?” she asks. 

He looks up, calculating the years and decades that have gone by. “Well, it was shortly after we were married.”

“I was pregnant and had one child already. We had six kids, you know.”

“That was over 60 years ago,” he finishes. “We lived out where that theater shooting occurred.”

“Aurora,” I complete for him, remembering the tragedy that has forever changed so many lives.

“Right,” he says. “Of course, at the time, there was nothing out there. We were the first development. I think our house is still there. We built it ourselves.” It’s hard to imagine that area of Denver ever being remote or undeveloped.

Anne moves on to another topic. “Harold flew cargo planes in WWII,” she tells me. “He flew from Washington to Alaska to deliver supplies. We were lucky. He never saw any combat. But he wasn't allowed to talk to the Russians stationed there. They could never talk to them.” 

I try to pry for more information. This is a part of our history almost completely gone. But Anne has moved on to poking at her pork loin. “They didn't bring me the gravy I asked for."

I look around at the balding and gray heads, the lines finely etched in their faces, and envy the easy friendships they share with each other. As people pass by, Harold or Anne grab and arm or a hand and introduce my mom, the new kid on the block.

I wonder what I’ll be like should I be fortunate to live into my 80's or even, like Harold, to be 90. He still goes to the business he started and owned, the one his sons now continue. Every morning Anne gets him up, feeds him breakfast, and someone comes by to pick him up so he can put in a day at the office. Maybe this sense of having to be somewhere, watching his sons carry on the family business, gives him a reason to keep smiling.

“Are you going to get the ice cream?” Anne asks me. “It’s Hershey’s – the very best.” She launches into a story about, Mildred, her best friend for over 60 years, who recently passed away, and their youthful adventures of going to Isaly's, a Pittsburgh institution, for ice cream sundaes. “We’d get every topping they had—caramel, chocolate, marshmallow.” She smiles, and I can almost see the kid in her again. But her eyes flicker briefly with sadness. It must be difficult to lose life-long friends. The hazard of living long enough.

I hope as I age, my stories aren't lost. I hope I find myself among fine company and mostly, I hope my kids tolerate my quirks and oddities. I might just wear my winter coat and hat to the dinner table too.