Thoughts From a Small Town
People are astounded often that I, born and raised in southern New Jersey, am not culturally challenged or just plain intellectually offended by living in a small town in rural Nebraska. I find this amusing. Some people are cultural snobs-- others, just don't know what they have right under their nose.
I live in Gibbon, a town of about 1800 people, depending on who all you count. I've only lived here for 17 months, so some may say that I've yet to have my eyes opened. Gibbon, as you know, (and I confess I didn't until recently) is a kind of monkey. I don't know exactly why people feel the need to tell me this, but the town is actually named after a general from the Civil War. Don't test me on that history, however, I am still learning.
Someone from New Jersey-- other than me-- who is used to six lane highways and getting the finger daily on the turnpike, may not understand the appeal of a sleepy little town where everyone knows your name and your business if you've been there any length of time. I am in love. I confess! I've fallen in love with Gibbon.
If I go to the post office at 9 a.m. every morning, I know who I will see. There's Lee, a volunteer fireman who's married to the owner of the local cafe. There's Bill, who goes to the cafe every morning for the latest gossip and unique fellowship, but his internal clock demands that he leave at precisely 9 a.m. on the dot to get the mail and return home. There is the trio of employees of the local bank, the best dressed people in town-- women with meticulously applied make-up and very fashionable clothes that I would only wear if I was going to a fancy restaurant. I like that about Gibbon-- I can be a pastor and wear blue jeans every day, even to the hospital, and no one blinks. But I digress.
The cafe crowd is unique, and changes, depending on what hour you go. Farmers get there pretty early-- around 6 a.m., which I consider nighttime still-- to gather with their buddies for coffee. They usually get their own coffee, and as the morning wears on, they get up and refill everyone else's cup, even if they don't know you. The men gather in the middle, that seems to be their territory, and all others find a place on the outskirts. You don't go to that middle table uninvited, and its not for the faint of heart. Men in cowboy boots and seed corn hats gather and offer their opinions on the latest happenings of the day in town or across the country. Rumors are started at the cafe, and gather momentum when they're carried down to the Pit Stop-- the other coffee-gathering, and the alternate meeting place on Saturdays and Sundays when the cafe is closed.
Nebraska is known for his blustery winters, with bitter winds and blowing snow that lands wherever the wind loses momentum. During one blizzard that shut down everything, Larry and Sarah and I bundled up and ventured out on foot to see if the cafe was open. It was. Farmers who'd driven there at 6 a.m. were still stranded there at 12:30 p.m. And yet they thought WE were nuts for being there! But finally, they ventured out, seeing as though they didn't bring anything to stay overnight, and we were the only ones there except Bob. The owner of the cafe shoved a mop at mop and told him if he was going to stay he might as well help mop up the melting snow all over the floor that the others left behind. Other times, I've seen a farmer discover that he left his wallet at home, when it came time to pay for his lunch. No problem. He just waved at the owner and said, "just put it on my tab." She knew he'd be back, it was ok. Everyone knows where he lives, after all.
I love going to the local library in town-- they have a better selection of DVDs than the big library 13 miles west. Also I like to go, because the librarians are Methodists. It's a social call whenever I go. We discuss the weather, the puzzle one of them is working on, she gives me her opinion of the movies I check out, and she always asks me how I'm doing.
Sometimes I stop at Foster's grocery store for a drink before I head to the office. Usually when I go, the Baptist lady is working the register, but community is ecumenical, so it's important I speak to the Baptists, too, and try to remember their names. At least a third of Gibbon is Hispanic, because of the Turkey Plant and Beef Plant in town. I love that the little grocery store has a whole selection of Mexican foods and candies that I've never heard of. Or that some of the posters in the window are in Spanish. My daughter goes to the local school, of course, that is K-12 (which boggles the minds of my New Jersey friends), and every communication that comes home is in both English and Spanish. Sarah tried out for the Latin Choir at school, but was disappointed that she had to know Spanish in order to participate.
Our neighbors to the north and west of us are Hispanic. I'm not sure who all lives in those two houses, but the yards are teeming with little Hispanic children in warmer weather, and Spanish music usually blares from the windows of the houses. Little diapered hispanic kids waddle by on our front side walk, others ride past on their scooters and skateboards. I even hear Spanish rap music, which is less offensive than the English version, I guess, because I don't know what they're saying!
Last night I was at a Senior Citizen's dinner (by virtue of my occupation, not my age!) and overheard little old ladies discussing the Husker's and how well they're playing this year. They almost turned off the game last Saturday because we were behind, but they stayed to the end, for the miraculous finish. They offered their opinions of our chances of winning the Division game this year. Football is an intergenerational experience here in Nebraska. It's another religion. People don't plan weddings at game time if they want anyone to show up, and if you go out on game day, the majority of people you see will be wearing red. The game is always playing over the system at the mall, in restaurants, on the department store TVs-- otherwise nobody would ever go out on a Saturday!
I love Nebraska. I love the way the sky meets the land with no interruptions, and kind of embraces you as you travel. As my Dad said on his first visit, "the sky surrounds you!" I miss the corn during this post-harvest season, the fields are barren, except for the cattle who are given the job of eating what they can that's left over.
You have to be patient to live in Nebraska. You don't get anywhere fast, because everything is spread out. There are big pauses between towns, where you can get to feeling disoriented, because you are kind of literally nowhere for a time. My father was always concerned about breaking down or running out of gas; what happens to you then? But it's not a problem. If such a thing were to happen, someone would pick you up and take you to town. Of course, by afternoon, the whole town would know that you ran out of gas or broke down, but that's a small price to pay for living in a world where no one is really anonymous.
Everybody knows your business in a little town, this is true. And if you weren't born and raised here, if you just married in or moved in within the last quarter century, you're never really an insider, but if you're not too obnoxious, they'll let you stay. Everyone knows your sins, even if they're long redeemed, but they know they have their own stories that everyone knows, too, so you're ok. The thing is, if your world falls apart, you're not alone. If you land in the hospital with astronomical bills, someone is liable to throw you a benefit pancake feed or chili feed (everything is a "feed" out here, which brings to mind a big trough full of whatever the menu is!) to contribute to your need. People will show up at your door with casseroles and full meals. Food is a very popular solution to any kind of hardship, here in Small Town. Even the grumpiest old man will refill your coffee down at the cafe. It's just what you do.
There's really no place I'd rather be, thankyouverymuch.
