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when you're giving directions and you say, go up the road a piece, around the curve, and turn left at the big tree...
and they find you.
Part of the direction to my house are "turn left when it looks like you're going to drive into lake, veer right when it looks like you're going to drive into the church and take a right at the first stop sign, watch out for moose." When people get here they always say something like "it's exactly like you said but you didn't tell me it would take 45 minutes to find a stop sign!"
Quote:
Originally Posted by GregW
you know you are living in a rural area when you cut and bale your lawn.
Part of the direction to my house are "turn left when it looks like you're going to drive into lake, veer right when it looks like you're going to drive into the church and take a right at the first stop sign, watch out for moose." When people get here they always say something like "it's exactly like you said but you didn't tell me it would take 45 minutes to find a stop sign!"
You know you're moving to a small town when you ask your real estate agent about a certain house and he tells you everything about everyone who's ever lived there.
You know when you live in a small town when the Fed ex guy delivers you your package when he sees you at the bank or the UPS guy stops when he sees you about and asks if you are expecting a delivery.
When we were looking at our house we now own we called the realitor from our cell phone, his sign was in the yard, and we tell him we'd like to see the inside of the house. His reply was just go on it--it's not locked! He knew all about the previous owner and his daughter was best friends with the previous owners wife! It gets better, our neighbor helped to build our home. Our other neighbor's daughter is the one that previously lived here. That neighbor is now divorced but his best friend married his x-wife and they now live only a few miles away!!! Whew!!!
I remember the first ever radio job I had in a small, rural Missippi town. Keep in mind I'm from a suburban New England town.
I was standing in the lobby of the station one day looking out the door to our driveway and the street infront of the radio station and saw some old guy passing by the station on his John Deere green lawn mower.
And I thought to myself, "Wow, that's something you don't see everyday" and laughed.
My grampa used to ride his lawn mower to the store down the road from his house. He was disabled from a stroke and couldn't drive a car, so the lawn mower was the next best thing.
Small Town Enthusiast South Westerner here. That said, I presently live and work in Las Vegas and go home to S. Utah on the weekends because there just isn't any viable work in the area I live in. If I could have it all, I'd telecommute .
On Friday nights my husband and I drive like bats out of hell north to our "vintage" 1868, 850 sq. ft. country home. We get out of the city boundaries and instantly our shoulders relax, the traffic abates, and we can set the cruise control till we hit 1956 in the little town of New Harmony, Utah. Once there the whole world of troubles seems to disappear. Crime takes the form of someone setting Lucy Flint's trash can on fire for being too outspoken at the town meeting. The key is under the mat (with instructions to turn the hot water heater down when they leave) in case anyone gets company and needs an extra bed or two. The whole town knows this and yet every time we come home our old tv, our old couch, our old chairs and tools are still right there where we left them. Someone stops by to tell me that they hauled my trash cans in after the big windstorm blew them out into the street. We go to THE post office and catch up on the gossip and pick up our Smithsonian and share it with the sweet flood of regulars on a Saturday morning. Our gas station, the only one for miles is the "Mall" and we exchange politics and deer repellant information and get our nutritional supplements (chips and Utah near beer) at outrageous prices and are greatful they had a $5.00 bottle of katsup so we didn't have to go clear to Cedar or St. George to get it.
Rolaine stops by to ask me an art question and since I actually went to art school I'm considered the end all expert on all art matters. Being a big fish in such a small pond is quite exhilerating. Wearing shorts and a tank top on Sunday morning to wash my car while the McMormons file past in their Ford Aerostar vans on their way to their three hour church meetings makes me exotic and a little wild. Anywhere else I'd just be a middle aged woman wearing inappropriate clothing.
If my husband could retire tomorrow and I could convince my boss that I'd be just as effective e-mailing him the plans from my home as I am e-mailing them from my desk 10' away from him I'd be back in New Harmony before you finished reading my post. I'd leave the nice tract home with an automatic dishwasher and smooth walls. I'd leave the access to Home Depot and 200 grocery stores all competing for my money. I'd leave the traffic jams of smoggy 1 per person cars in miles and miles of 3 mph chains for a traffic jam of sheep clogging main street on their way to summer pasture up the mountain. I'd leave Applebees, Outback, and P.F. Changs for DeAnna Groke's tater tot casserole at the church potluck. I'd leave the smoggy brown wretching stinking toxic air for the crisp mountain horse **** scented air of the country. I'd leave the shrill whine of a siren at all hrs. of the night for the pulsing din of crickets all seeking sex in rythmic orgys in the country. I'd leave the city so fast you wouldn't even smell my parting flatulence. That's how much I hate the city and love the country life. I can hardly wait. I dream of small town life every day. I count the hours till we can go home each week, starting on Monday mornings. There isn't a nightclub, a fancy show, a glitzy car, or a shopping spree that can compare to sitting on the front porch and watching the country folk parade by on a summer night in their dusty homemade dune buggys, walking their mongrel dogs, riding by on atv's or clipping by at 8 mph in a tricked out golf buggy. That's a parade. That's life at it's best. Screw the city, man....
You know you're in a small town when your favorite gossip chain is 10 times faster than the internet for transferring information.
You know you're in a small town when you get to choose your own address (look at the house on the right, the one on the left, and go with a number somewhere in the middle).
You know you're in a small town when the welcome sign says, "No Services Available" but that's only for strangers.
You know you're in a small town when visitors come without enough gas to get back to the freeway and you lead them to Farmer X's tank, fill them up, leave a note and $30.00 under a rock on the tank platform, and send the visitor on his way.
You know you're in a small town when you go to the bank and the teller NEVER asks for your ID. (In Utah, old ladies routinely use their Mormon temple recommend as proof of credit or in liu of a drivers liscence).
You know you're in a small town when you go to pay for something and realize you left your wallet home, and the clerk says, "It's ok, We'll put it on your tab.", or "Have X bring it in when she comes to get her groceries.".
You know you're in a small town when the stress, the competition, the anxt of having 2 million strangers all around you 24/7 leaves and is replaced with calm, with a slower pace and a general sense of peace. $3.60 for a gallon of gas is worth every penny.
More small town musings. I'm absolutely thouroghly enjoying this fabulous thread. It deserves it's very own blog site.
You know you're in a small town when...
Being the town princess is an assignment rather than a selection process.
As town princess you're required to wear the passed down crown and often the dress from your sister or cousin who HAD to be the princess last year.
I love imagining this conversation between mom and newly assigned reluctant butchy town princess... "But mom, I hate this dress and it won't fit!!! It's a size 6 and I'm big boned!".."Now honey, just suck in your stomach, the parade is only 4 blocks long and you can suck it in for that long. We'll just pin the back closed and you can wear this shawl that the neighbor lent us. Besides, the dress was dry cleaned last year... or at least the year before, but it's not that dirty. Now put it on and DO YOUR DUTY!!!"
you know you're in a small town when you've lived in your home long enough to pay the mortgage off but it's still known as "The ol Grant home", even though it hasn't been in the Grant family for 70 yrs.
you know you're in a small town when after 12 yrs. of living, working, raising your kids, etc. you're still "a newcomer".
when painting the trim of your house red is considered "artsy fartsy".
when they have an opening prayer before the 4th of July hot dog and hamburger cook-off and the guy blessing the food prays that it will nourish and strengthen our bodies, and that the evil doers will be chased out of EYE-rak (how'd OUR oil get under their sand?).
I was in Fillmore California where the hospital I work for has a medical clinic. I remember asking the office coordinator of the clinic for the phone book so I could look up the number to a hardware store. She told me to just dial 4082 and I would reach the clinic. I asked her how dialing the four digits would get me to the hardware store. That is when she let me know that everyone's phone has the same three digit prefix and most folks just give out the last four digits in Fillmore.
I lived in Fillmore California for three years about 18 years ago. It was the sweetest place on earth except for very very poor schools and the occasional earthquake. We had a daughter die in infancy there and even now I can call the very florist you mentioned and tell her my first name, and they instantly know to send a boquet of daisies and roses to our former neighbor who will place them on Jasmine's grave for us.
My kids still think of Fillmore as heaven. Close enough to the beach to go play, small town country life, funky grocery and five and dime type stores, great mexican food, cool old houses and tree lined streets, farmers markets, mountains nearby with trails and fun places to walk the dog without a leash, and close enough to the big city that you can get a bargain if you need it. If real estate in Calif. wasn't through the roof I'd go back in a heartbeat.
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Small Town Florists
