Small Town

The mini-mart gas station has bore many names over the years. Now, its bold red neon sign reads Zip Mart, although many locals still refer to it as Zebra Mart, a name given up three owners ago. The ridiculousness of its moniker has little impact on its importance. Situated right in the middle of town and at the only red light, its twenty-four hour service has been a constant for as long as I can remember. No matter how many times the facade changes, the atmosphere remains the same.

Store clerks come and go with the changing of the seasons. For some unfortunate women raised on Stony Ridge, it serves as a proving ground. A few excel in their jobs, learn quickly and move up the ranks from cashier to assistant manager, a position reserved usually for men from the neighboring city. Occasionally one lucky girl will do well enough to afford  some dental work and tuition at the local community college. Without much notice, some do change their stars and fly away, but most just move laterally to another nondescript job at one of the town’s three bargain stores.

A painted red bench sits out front; probably a hand me down from one of the many Baptist churches that litter the county. When the weather is warm, old men and shy perverts occupy its seat. Some sit all day, making mental notes of the town’s comings and goings, others join the ranks just long enough to sip their coffee. I guess it’s a sort of live version of YouTube for old timers. From that bench one can learn all there is to know about the entire population, usually without asking a single question. I once heard the town’s unofficial headquarters referred to as “dead pecker bench”. The name stuck, although I don’t believe anyone has ever bothered to mention the sobriquet to the occupants. Of the habitual squatters, three men of varying ages have taken up permanent residence; Gilbert, a middle-aged man with a broad chest and pleasing smile, one unnamed gentleman who sips his coffee quietly; and Billy, seemingly the most desperate.

Wildfires are slower than the gossip chain that regularly engulfs this town, originating from that bench. When it is my turn to be the subject, I soothe myself with the idea that my predecessor has found reprieve and shortly my light with fade. Whatever drama that takes my place need not necessarily be more salacious or even new, rather just have different players to qualify for top billing. Funny how the perceived reputations of us all rest with such a few unwitting individuals. Of late, I’ve managed to escape the attention of center stage.

It is hard to find that place where who you are and who they are is compatible; a place where even a tenuous relationship is acceptable, as long as searing judgment is not part of the equation. Here, this place where all-white professed democrats are in truth closeted conservatives; this place where church is the only order of business on Sundays and people disguise their true desires and actions by a thin veil of moral superiority. Everyone ignores the obvious. Ignore it indeed; that is until personal benefit can be gained by shining the spotlight of shame upon some unsuspecting soul.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Despite the sometimes unattractive human element, spring always reminds me why I live here. Eighty-seven perfectly spaced Bradford pear trees line the nearly six acres of my piece of this world. Their pungent white flowers are the first to bloom each spring, followed by the dainty pink buds of the eastern redbud and then the sacred white blossom of the dogwood. Somewhere in between, the feathery wisps of the cherry tree spring forth before blanketing the ground like sow. Robins, blue jays and wrens, among others, dance amidst their branches, busily building nests in preparation for mating. My late Aunt Bonnie would readily identify each species, all the while shoving an Audubon Society book into my hands for immediate study. Rather, I just enjoy their musical offering without curiosity. It is enough to know each bird by sight, if not by name and I welcome their appearance each year as if it is an absolute surprise.

Mornings are cool and quite, except for the distant roar of the state highway, the symphony of wild birds and the honking of geese. A gray dove has once again chosen the arbor supporting the wisteria as its spring nesting place and a wood duck hopes to make the two-acre pond in the back yard its new home.

Every year it is the same. Winter holds fast; the grass is brown, the trees bare; all is silent. Crocus impishly peak through, then the daffodils, and one day it begins to rain. All day long and most of the night the gentle showers soak the ground. Then next day you wake up to find this wonderful secret garden suddenly at your doorstep. Of the four distinct seasons that present themselves each year, spring is most alluring, mesmerizing; definitely delusional.

The harsh reality of Mother Nature occasionally reminds me to keep this place in perspective. A few years ago, a black bear killed a six-year-old girl and mauled her mother and brother not ten miles from this very spot. When my son was only ten, I let him and his friend hike that same two-mile trail while I sat on the sandy shore line with my younger child. At the time it never occurred to me to be the least bit frightened that he’d find more trouble than maybe a rash of poison ivy. I had already dismissed from memory the drowning of a boy in the same mountain-top lake the previous year. The poor young man swam near the spill way and right into a nest of water moccasins; being bitten several times before succumbing to panic.

This place has a way of luring you into a false sense of security. Its beauty is a beast.