Lots of Love for Small Towns

There’s something to be said about living in a small town.  It’s been more than a couple of years since I’ve lived in a ‘wave to your neighbors’ town.  The last town I lived in, if someone waved at you, it meant ‘are you a hooker’?  Lord love Las Vegas I guess.  Someone has to. 
I live in a bitty town, big enough for a bar, that also pumps gas, and serves as the general store.  Suffice to say, it’s a popular place.  We have no post office, bank, or our own telephone exchange.  Cellular phones do not work.  And we like it that way.  I can’t take a walk down the street to my mailbox (that’s over a half mile away) without every car that passes stopping to make sure I don’t need a lift.  This may seem pretty Green Acres, but I assure you, there are rules.  Or at least, one major one.

I haven’t actually met any of my neighbors, but if on any street in the ‘town’ (I think it’s technically more of a hamlet) that has let’s say six or less cars passing on the hour, you are required by neighborly law to give a courtesy wave.  I enjoy the courtesy wave myself, so I don’t mind.  It’s kind of nerve-wracking at times though.  Through most of the winter, my concentration tends to be on getting to the main road (more than six cars an hour travel on it.  Sometimes.) alive.  It can get pretty slippery, and slushy, and icy and all three of the aforementioned at once, on a ‘paved’ road, that’s more potholes than pavement.  All this, in a rear wheel drive SUV.  (again we explore the amount of blond hair coloring was added to the purchase of said vehicle). 

The short version is, it’s difficult to get in or out.  Especially when another car is coming.  But, hot damn, if you forget the courtesy wave, you’ll have neighbors coming out of the woodwork to stare at your house like ‘what are those dirty scoundrels going to do next’ yet, if the courtesy wave is given, even in times of visible duress, the same neighbors may just show up with fresh cinnamon rolls, instead of a scowl.  So, you see, it is pretty important. 

I Hope I don’t Look Like Sasquatch When I’m Eighty

I live about a mile from a road allegedly appropriately named Bear Creek Rd. Guaranteed, I’ve only lived here a week, but I haven’t seen any bears. I’ve been telling myself that it’s because all of them are suppose to be good little bears and hibernating in the winter. And yet, I’ve still been warned not to put any trash outside because the bears will destroy it. Apparently, we have bears that are up past their bedtimes in these parts.

There are also allegedly elk, moose, wolves, coyotes, buffalo and everything else known to man roaming about the area. All I’ve seen is my eighty year old neighbor that lost an ear drum in a freak fishing accident. Not to say you couldn’t mistake him from a scary monster coming down from the mountain. And by scary monster, I mean he looks a little like Sasquatch. Not the fun sloth-like sasquatch from The Pick of Destiny, but scary history channel giant eared, wrinkly covered in white hair sasquatch.

Not to say that sloth aren’t scary. They have these three fingers that are shaped like sausages that have been sitting on someone’s counter too long. That’s not really the scary part though, I think the scary part is the seeming one giant fingernail that hooks them all together. And really, one of the deadly sins is named after them. I guess they’re not too cute after all.