About a week ago, Rob and I went to dinner at our favorite Thai restaurant in town. We, too, were shocked that a quaint little rural town filled with local boys with big rigs would not only have a Thai restaurant but one that outshines anything we ever found in the Bay Area.
When we walked in, one of the two sisters who run the place gave us a “great to see you again” smile and motioned us to take a seat anywhere. We quickly realized we knew a couple sitting towards the back. We took the table next to them and had a nice table-to-table chat over chicken fried rice and pineapple curry.
It was a fascinating exchange of perspectives, this chat. The husband is probably in his 60s and grew up in our town. They live on 20 acres but the city limit line is quickly approaching their house. Across the street from them, two new schools are being built. Literally across the two-lanes-and-no-sidewalk street. They’ve been tracking the daily construction based on the jackhammers and back-up beeps of large trucks. It’s been a long, disruptive, noisy slap of progress and growth for them.
The husband looked very sad as he talked about his “new” town, the one that needs two new schools, the one that has four stop lights, the one that has a Starbucks. He looked on the verge of tears as he remembered when it used to be all of four cars a day might pass through town. It was such an event, everyone waved at the celebrity driver. A trip to the post office took at least a half-hour, usually longer. Not because of the distance but because everyone knew everyone and wanted to chat. His hometown is just too big now, too many people, no sense of community anymore. He hinted that their 20 acres might be for sale someday, not at all what they had planned. It was to be a homestead passed down to the kids and grandkids. There just didn’t seem to be a point to that now.
Such a different set of eyes he had. In my eyes, here I was in a local restaurant where they know me. They know Rob’s order, they know we like Diet Pepsi, not Diet Coke, and they know that whatever I order, I will ask for it to be flame-throwing spicy. Here I was in a restaurant where I randomly ran into people I know and spontaneously joined them for dinner. Here I was in a restaurant where the live entertainment was a young high school exchange student whose nickname is “Boss” because nobody can pronounce his real name. I know this because we attended a Christmas concert at the high school and he was introduced as one mean xylophone player.
I feel completely warm in my blanket of community. I go out and bump into people I know. I feel a part of something. I feel connected. I’ve gained so much contentment by leaving an anonymous lifestyle and coming to a town that I view as small, rural, quaint, and friendly. For the first time as an adult, my community reaches beyond the walls of my house and those of friends. My dinner friend, however, sees how much he’s lost and longs to find exactly what I’ve found right here.
No comments:
Post a Comment