“What bobber?”, my husband, JT, asks.
I point out the giant metal bobber propped up on the north side of the lake and explain to him that the Kiwanis put it out near the end of every winter. The town makes bets on when it will fall through the ice and whoever guesses correctly takes home the cash prize.
He laughs and says, “You need to write about that. That’s such a classic small-town thing”.
“Maybe”, I chuckle and resume looking out the window.
We have conversations like this often, me explaining some long-held tradition that I don’t think twice about but requires explanation for someone experiencing it for the first time.
We make our way down the main street, cars lining both sides while the prominent blue water tower looms up ahead – Welcome to Chisholm.
We’re in town for the annual figure skating show – a show I’ve skated in, coached, and now MC each year. As often happens in a small town, it’s one of those things that just fell into my lap. A local high school student volunteer called in at the last minute with a sore throat, I picked up a microphone, and several years later, here we are still rolling with it.
As I walk into the arena watching the moms staple decorations to the boards, the dads constructing the backdrop and testing out the spotlights, and the coaches choreographing the numbers, I am reminded how much I miss this deep connection to community. I spot skaters I once coached who have quickly grown from mere toddlers to young adults, filling out college applications and talking about their plans for the future. Parents and board members shout out greetings as I walk through the lobby thanking me for being there and helping out with the show. We’ve all known each other for most of our lives. There’s something comforting in knowing that you have a group of people who reliably come together each year to do the work that needs to be done. For the past several weeks, I know a slate of parents, coaches, and board members have been volunteering their nights and weekends to make this show happen. And most of them aren’t in it for recognition or a pat on the back. In a small town, it’s somewhat expected and generally what decent people do. Being a small part of this mutual support network is what keeps me coming back year after year.
We often romanticize small towns, picturing an idyllic and peaceful existence. And in many ways, it is. But it’s also a raw way to live, existing side by side with people who know your whole history. The unspoken “go along to get along” mentality is accompanied by significant pressure to keep political opinions to oneself which can be a welcome relief given today’s volatile political climate but also creates barriers when it comes to having the types of honest and open conversations that effect change. On any given day, you could run into your oldest friends, your fiercest enemies, the person who broke your heart, the one who betrayed your trust – each of these people knows every bad decision, every regret, every embarrassment – some of which you may never live down.
It's not surprising that many people leave simply for the relief of anonymity that a larger city can provide. I did. And I don’t regret leaving. At that point in my life, I needed to do something different. I didn’t venture far, but it’s far enough to miss what I once took for granted. And I don’t discount the idea that one day I may come back.
This past Saturday, I found myself back on the Range attending a civic engagement forum where they were discussing how to become more civically involved through boards, commissions, or running for local office. Many of the panelists were long time volunteers, serving on multiple boards and commissions, some even holding the role of elected office. They spoke of the challenges facing their communities and the barriers to becoming involved; challenges and barriers that many towns are experiencing – workforce challenges, lack of affordable housing and childcare, and particularly, a lack of people to fill all the empty roles. It’s often the same people that show up, spreading themselves increasingly thin until they burn out, or - to be frank - die. The pandemic placed our sense of community under serious duress, emphasizing “social distance”, and keeping most of us shuttered in our homes. And without different voices and perspectives coming to the table, we run the risk of becoming insular, stuck in the past, and resistant to progress.
Overall, I’m always touched by the dignity and depth of those who give back, how they often live quiet lives that won’t make them famous or trend setting. They’re the type of lives that we might all be better off living. They’re often the same people who plow our driveways when we’re out of town, the ones who organize benefits to raise money when we get sick, who celebrate our births and mourn our deaths, and who can find just about any reason to bake us a tater tot hotdish. They’re our neighbors, our network, our community. It’s the part of small-town life that draws you in, and it’s good.
Towards the end of the first session, one of the panelists mentioned a relative who had recently passed away. While looking through his belongings, they found a handwritten, cardboard sign titled The Three Different Kinds of People:
Those who make things happen.
Those who watch things happen.
Those who wonder what happened.
They kept the sign and tacked it to the wall as a reminder. I found myself wondering – What kind of person am I right now? And, more importantly, what kind of person do I want to be? I want to be the kind of person who shows up - even on a sunny Saturday even when I really don’t want to. Most of the time, I find that I’m happy that I did. And I’m grateful for those who organize these events, providing us with the opportunity to be a part of something. Because to be part of a place, to make things happen, to build your community, sometimes you simply need to show up, roll up your sleeves, and be willing to do the work.
Comments
Post a Comment