This isn’t about weddings. It’s about roots that run deep, things that change, and things that never change.
I have always been introspective about life in general. But these days, I find myself thinking about where I fit in to this community and here is fair warning: just get me started and I will regale you with tales of the characters in our little town and in neighbouring towns who have come and gone, leaving memories and stories behind them. Such was the nature of small towns decades ago, when *new* residents were few and far between. Everyone knew everyone, their parents, great-grandparents and more: everyone knew all of the sins and missteps of others. Of course, there are also many stories of the folks whose reputations were unimpeachable. It is out of all of these relationships, which ebb and flow over the years, that an indefinable yet firm feeling of being connected to each other emerges. The commonality of our past connects us. Our forebears went to the same church, showed livestock at the fair and met up in the general store.
Sometimes I think of all of the personalities who lived out their lives in our community. When I was working at my first real job at The Review, at age 18, everyone knew my name — or my last name, at least. Older ladies would stop in to pay their subscription and tell me I looked like my father. “He was a good dancer,” they would say. “And he always dressed nicely.”
This glimpse into the past opened the door to a part of my father’s life he had never talked about. I learned that my grandfather (known to tip a few at the Windsor in his time), was good with horses. These little snapshots of my family members trickled into my life and made me feel I had found my place. I had always felt I was *from here*, but the fact that I was kind of recognized by so many, confirmed it.
I was young but nonetheless hoped that any sketchy behaviour of my ancestors would not follow me. I tried to be efficient, pleasant and helpful to everyone.
It is now decades later and I still feel the thread of my history twisting and trailing into the distant past. The more we think about the past, the less tenuous is our hold on the present. Today is so fleeting, after all. Our habits, priorities and in some cases, values are changing. Our need to socialize in person has changed; we are more reclusive and yet: set us loose with others and the talking never ceases because we all have so much to say.
I understand why–for some newcomers–it is difficult to penetrate the invisible mesh that connects all of us who are *from here*. The innate community trust, understanding and acceptance is not as easily offered to newcomers. We welcome them, talk to them and follow their trajectory in our community as they try to find their own people, so to speak. Fortunately for them, there is a wealth of choice: from writing workshops, to curling, cross-country-skiing, working with youths, volunteering at our hospital or for our many volunteer organizations. We mean it when we say there is something for everyone.
It is easy to feel the pull of the people I know so well. But I put a lot of energy into sharing the lengthy list of what do do, where to go, my favourite events, places to eat, groups to join, etc with newcomers. I hate the thought of anyone feeling like an outsider.
We may live on the inside of our lives, but there are times we have to step out. My mechanic stopped by my house today on his regular walk to say that an opportunity had arisen suddenly and he had decided to seize it — and retire from his profession, take a few months off and pursue–well–he doesn’t quite know what just yet. I am sad to see him go, because he has been part of my circle for almost four decades. His Dad would always take a vehicle out for a spin before I purchased it; and his son became my mechanic and continued to take care of me. The trust. The network. The continuing connections. They are at the heart of small-town life.
And so: when I meet new people looking to move here, I recognize the look in their eyes and I hear the need in their voices when they want inside. I can’t blame them. It’s pretty cozy in here. Help, empathy, acceptance and honesty are just steps from my door or a phone call away. Not to mention a good roast beef dinner in a church hall, live music or an octogenarian birthday party at “the local”, or the chance to visit a small rural business, pick flowers in a country field and make my own bouquet.
I can forget Trump’s tariffs by thinking about the future of our little town, even while I soak up every minute of the present, because it’s just so darn good. In the present, everything feels the same as always. And it is just right.
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