Snow doesn't fall here. We wait for it all year, but it never comes. It's chilly yes, and as we walk through the streets wrapped in out sweaters and scarves, we curse the cold wind that bites our skin. But we know deep inside that all we really want is snow.
People leave town for the holidays. Not all of them, of corse, but it's easy to notice the difference when the town you live in is small. Nobody comes though. Family for everyone is out there somewhere, somewhere other than here, and nobody wants to come to a place with no snow.
We prepare for the holidays with cheer. Those of us who are brave string lights outside our houses. We put up our trees and decorate them while laughing at all the Christmas memories we have. It's no different from anywhere else, really.
On Christmas Eve, those of us who are left go outside once the stars are out. We sit on our porches and place lit candles at our feet. We then proceed to sing Christmas carols until it's time for the small children to go to sleep. We pass around our Christmas cookies and sing until our throats go sore. And even then, we sing until it seems like the stars are singing with us.
Patty comes around at some point during the night to give us all Christmas hugs. We give her the biggest hugs we can manage while trying not to break any of her thin bones. When a child in one of the families turns eight, she gives them a small, crocheted Christmas ornament to put on the tree. She puts care into each one, and each one is different. But it's something that the kids get excited for each year.
As the night draws to a close, all of the families have their own traditions. Some read the chapters in the Bible where it tell the story of Jesus' birth. Or maybe the parents let their kid each open one present that's under the tree. Some of us look outside, waiting for the snow to come. Even though we know that it really won't come, we do know one thing. That on Christmas day, there will be smiles on our faces as we spend the day with the people that we love.
Monday, December 24, 2012
Monday, September 3, 2012
Anthony
Anthony lives in a little white house outside of town. He makes his appearances scarce to the townsfolk, but it seems as if I have known him all my life.
He's 23 years old, and quite handsome. He has blond hair with pale blue eyes, and stands nice and tall. He came here only four years ago, so we regard him as a newcomer.
I go out to visit him about once a week. I ride my bike over at around noon, and come back home around dinnertime.
Anthony's house is surrounded by trees and flowers. He tends to every living plant around his house as if it were his only son. When I arrive, I'll set my bike down on the dirt path that leads to his house. The path, like the house, is surrounded by trees, their branches forming a canopy over my head. He'll come out and hand me a glass of ice tea, and then we'll sit on his porch and talk about our lives. I love his porch. It's the best thing about his house. He has two rocking chairs, and in between them, a little table to put our drinks. It's on the porch ceiling, though, that I find my fascination. He's drilled hooks onto the ceiling, and then from the hooks, he hangs a piece of colored string. Dangling on the end of each string in an old key. Once, a couple of years ago, I decided that I would count all the keys that are hanging. I lost count at around a hundred and twenty, and the numbers have increased since then.
I asked him once, why he had keys hanging from the ceiling. He looked at me, then up at the keys, and said, "each key stands for a person that I care for. Whenever I hear them chiming when the wind blows through, I remember to pray for them." I then proceeded to ask if there was a key for me. He nodded, and showed me a simple yet beautiful brass key.
When he's not gardening, and when I'm not there, he writes. He writes short stories that he's been trying to get published for years. So far, there hasn't been any success. I don't know why though. I've read them all, and they are some of the most beautiful stories I have ever read.
I'm always reluctant when it's time to leave. Though every time, he'll hand me his best flower from his gardens. He says it's a sign of gratitude for the time I spent with him. I've told him that I don't need any sign of thanks. Time with Anthony is time well spent.
He's 23 years old, and quite handsome. He has blond hair with pale blue eyes, and stands nice and tall. He came here only four years ago, so we regard him as a newcomer.
I go out to visit him about once a week. I ride my bike over at around noon, and come back home around dinnertime.
Anthony's house is surrounded by trees and flowers. He tends to every living plant around his house as if it were his only son. When I arrive, I'll set my bike down on the dirt path that leads to his house. The path, like the house, is surrounded by trees, their branches forming a canopy over my head. He'll come out and hand me a glass of ice tea, and then we'll sit on his porch and talk about our lives. I love his porch. It's the best thing about his house. He has two rocking chairs, and in between them, a little table to put our drinks. It's on the porch ceiling, though, that I find my fascination. He's drilled hooks onto the ceiling, and then from the hooks, he hangs a piece of colored string. Dangling on the end of each string in an old key. Once, a couple of years ago, I decided that I would count all the keys that are hanging. I lost count at around a hundred and twenty, and the numbers have increased since then.
I asked him once, why he had keys hanging from the ceiling. He looked at me, then up at the keys, and said, "each key stands for a person that I care for. Whenever I hear them chiming when the wind blows through, I remember to pray for them." I then proceeded to ask if there was a key for me. He nodded, and showed me a simple yet beautiful brass key.
When he's not gardening, and when I'm not there, he writes. He writes short stories that he's been trying to get published for years. So far, there hasn't been any success. I don't know why though. I've read them all, and they are some of the most beautiful stories I have ever read.
I'm always reluctant when it's time to leave. Though every time, he'll hand me his best flower from his gardens. He says it's a sign of gratitude for the time I spent with him. I've told him that I don't need any sign of thanks. Time with Anthony is time well spent.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Lauren
People say she sings like a bird.
I've heard the people who love her say that she sings like and angel.
It seems that every day since she was born, Lauren has sang. She's sang in church, at the school talent shows, even at some places outside of town.
The people in town always say that if someone wants to get out of here, they have to be extremely good at something.
Lauren is good at something.
I know her. She wants to leave more than anything. We all want to leave. But she's the only one who can. She's the only one with a talent that people in big cities and big colleges care about.
She's pretty too. She's pale, with big eyes, and wavy black hair. You could call her the "town beauty." But no one ever thinks of her like that. She's always been "the girl who sings."
It's like the music lives inside of her. It even seems like she's singing when indeed she's talking.
She doesn't come from a family that can afford for her to take lessons. That's why Mr. Jackson, the school music teacher, decided to teach her for free. He said that he couldn't let talent like that go to waste. We all agree.
I was at her house the other day. I saw school applications on her desk. She's only in tenth grade, but I know that she's looking for boarding schools that will give her a full ride, even if she's halfway through high school already.
I hope she does leave. I don't say that to be mean. That's what we all hope. Every time someone leaves town it's bittersweet. We'll miss them, but at the same time, we envy them, and we're happy for them.
That's what we say. If you want to get out of here you have to be good at something.
Lauren is good at something.
I've heard the people who love her say that she sings like and angel.
It seems that every day since she was born, Lauren has sang. She's sang in church, at the school talent shows, even at some places outside of town.
The people in town always say that if someone wants to get out of here, they have to be extremely good at something.
Lauren is good at something.
I know her. She wants to leave more than anything. We all want to leave. But she's the only one who can. She's the only one with a talent that people in big cities and big colleges care about.
She's pretty too. She's pale, with big eyes, and wavy black hair. You could call her the "town beauty." But no one ever thinks of her like that. She's always been "the girl who sings."
It's like the music lives inside of her. It even seems like she's singing when indeed she's talking.
She doesn't come from a family that can afford for her to take lessons. That's why Mr. Jackson, the school music teacher, decided to teach her for free. He said that he couldn't let talent like that go to waste. We all agree.
I was at her house the other day. I saw school applications on her desk. She's only in tenth grade, but I know that she's looking for boarding schools that will give her a full ride, even if she's halfway through high school already.
I hope she does leave. I don't say that to be mean. That's what we all hope. Every time someone leaves town it's bittersweet. We'll miss them, but at the same time, we envy them, and we're happy for them.
That's what we say. If you want to get out of here you have to be good at something.
Lauren is good at something.
Friday, August 24, 2012
Patty
Everyone knows Patty. Patty knows everyone. That's the way it has been for forever, and that's how it will continue to be in the future.
Patty is old. Nobody know exactly how old she is. There have been rumors that she's really an immortal person, but we all know that that isn't true.
She stands about five feet tall. She's thin as a stick, but we all know that she's healthy. Her hair is as white as snow and her eyes, a very light blue.
Patty owns the general store. It's the only place in town with central air conditioning. The townsfolk gave that to her as a gift after her husband died.
She's ran that store forever. I remember walking in that store when I was four or five. She has jars filled with candy on her counter, and I would stare at them dreamily, wishing that I would be able to eat a licorice mint. I would ask my mother, but she wouldn't dare to spend any money on penny candy. So, when my mother was in a separate isle, Patty would take out a licorice mint out of the jar and hand it to me. She then would put a finger to her lips and wink. It was our little secret.
The store itself is tiny. It only has the essentials that a person needs to survive. There's a huge chain grocery store about 20 miles away, and that's where everybody gets exotic foods like pineapples and peaches. We only really go to the general store to buy things when we've run out, or when we just want to talk to Patty. In fact, so many people would just come to talk to her, that Patty set up a little table next to her counter as a place where she could sit with someone and have a conversation. Usually, people go in at least once a week but there are some people, like Mrs. Gibson that go in there all the time. When you do go though, Patty treats you like you're in her home, and offers you tea and homemade cookies that she made herself. We all take the cookies, even though we know that they're going to taste awful. Patty is not the world's best cook.
During the summer, Patty lets us teenagers clear a corner in her store where we can sit and talk. We usually sit next to the dairy section, where it's nice and cool. We stay there all day. Patty doesn't even mind. We bring in lawn chairs, blankets, and board games to play. Sometimes, when business is slow, Patty will come over and tell us a story. Her stories are always the best. She'll usually tell us about her life when she was our age, but sometimes, she'll tell us a story about Gregory Peck.
Patty is Gregory Peck's biggest fan. She has a framed picture of him hanging on the wall behind her counter, right next to her wooden cross. She'll point to that picture with her little hand, and tell us the story about her favorite Gregory Peck movie, A Roman Holiday. We've heard the story hundreds of times, but it never ceases to capture our attention. Then, after the story, she'll say, "when I was young, all my friends and I promised, that if we ever ever saw Gregory Peck, we would tell him to come to my house immediately, so he could see his biggest fan." After she says that, she'll burst out laughing. "Needless to say, I never did meet him," is how she'll finish, and she'll go off to stand at the counter.
Patty is old. Nobody know exactly how old she is. There have been rumors that she's really an immortal person, but we all know that that isn't true.
She stands about five feet tall. She's thin as a stick, but we all know that she's healthy. Her hair is as white as snow and her eyes, a very light blue.
Patty owns the general store. It's the only place in town with central air conditioning. The townsfolk gave that to her as a gift after her husband died.
She's ran that store forever. I remember walking in that store when I was four or five. She has jars filled with candy on her counter, and I would stare at them dreamily, wishing that I would be able to eat a licorice mint. I would ask my mother, but she wouldn't dare to spend any money on penny candy. So, when my mother was in a separate isle, Patty would take out a licorice mint out of the jar and hand it to me. She then would put a finger to her lips and wink. It was our little secret.
The store itself is tiny. It only has the essentials that a person needs to survive. There's a huge chain grocery store about 20 miles away, and that's where everybody gets exotic foods like pineapples and peaches. We only really go to the general store to buy things when we've run out, or when we just want to talk to Patty. In fact, so many people would just come to talk to her, that Patty set up a little table next to her counter as a place where she could sit with someone and have a conversation. Usually, people go in at least once a week but there are some people, like Mrs. Gibson that go in there all the time. When you do go though, Patty treats you like you're in her home, and offers you tea and homemade cookies that she made herself. We all take the cookies, even though we know that they're going to taste awful. Patty is not the world's best cook.
During the summer, Patty lets us teenagers clear a corner in her store where we can sit and talk. We usually sit next to the dairy section, where it's nice and cool. We stay there all day. Patty doesn't even mind. We bring in lawn chairs, blankets, and board games to play. Sometimes, when business is slow, Patty will come over and tell us a story. Her stories are always the best. She'll usually tell us about her life when she was our age, but sometimes, she'll tell us a story about Gregory Peck.
Patty is Gregory Peck's biggest fan. She has a framed picture of him hanging on the wall behind her counter, right next to her wooden cross. She'll point to that picture with her little hand, and tell us the story about her favorite Gregory Peck movie, A Roman Holiday. We've heard the story hundreds of times, but it never ceases to capture our attention. Then, after the story, she'll say, "when I was young, all my friends and I promised, that if we ever ever saw Gregory Peck, we would tell him to come to my house immediately, so he could see his biggest fan." After she says that, she'll burst out laughing. "Needless to say, I never did meet him," is how she'll finish, and she'll go off to stand at the counter.
Friday, August 17, 2012
What Makes this Town Special
Beyond miles and miles of cornfields, and even further down obscure dirt roads, you will find our little town. You can't find it unless you're lost, and the only way to leave is to have money and a road map.
We like to say that the town was set up by a Civil War general after the war. We say that he brought his family and became a farmer, but really, some big shot in a big company decided that he needed to set up a factory, and he picked the middle of nowhere for its location.
The factory employes half of the people in this town. Forty-five percent are farmers. Then there are the other people who are barbers, or store owners, or teachers at the school. We call those people "the lucky ones."
The town's name shall remain anonymous. But I will tell you this: it's hot in the summer and cold in the winter, and the public library is about the size of a kitchen.
The town might be small and we might not be rich, but we do have nice people. We have people who care about each other. We have people who will go out of their way to help one another. That's why people stay here after they retire. Not because they have to, but because of the people. The people. That's what makes this town special.
We like to say that the town was set up by a Civil War general after the war. We say that he brought his family and became a farmer, but really, some big shot in a big company decided that he needed to set up a factory, and he picked the middle of nowhere for its location.
The factory employes half of the people in this town. Forty-five percent are farmers. Then there are the other people who are barbers, or store owners, or teachers at the school. We call those people "the lucky ones."
The town's name shall remain anonymous. But I will tell you this: it's hot in the summer and cold in the winter, and the public library is about the size of a kitchen.
The town might be small and we might not be rich, but we do have nice people. We have people who care about each other. We have people who will go out of their way to help one another. That's why people stay here after they retire. Not because they have to, but because of the people. The people. That's what makes this town special.
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