This past weekend, Tyler and I escaped the concrete jungle and hopped on an Amtrak train to visit his relatives in Chester, CT. As I relaxed next to the woodburning stove that heated his Aunt and Uncle’s entire home, made home-made rosemary potato bread, chopped wood and rode a tractor for the first time, all the while, partaking in delicious homemade meals with organic vegetables and herbs from their garden, I found myself completely at ease in this small town. There was simply, not much to do, and I immediately felt right at home not doing it. It got me to thinking about small towns in general. And, perhaps, an unfulfilled desire to live in one. It occurred to me that my novel takes place in a small town that is so vivid and real to me, I’ve nearly forgotten that I’ve never actually lived there. And it also reminded me how amazed I had always been driving up to Ithaca, NY revelling in the small town of Lisle on Rt. 79 which is completely run down with it’s dilapidated, abandoned buildings on its tiny main street. And despite the vacant, grey vibe that town always gave me, I found it simply beautiful. It was fascinating that it could be so intimate and yet spacious and empty all at the same time.
So, this is my ode to small towns. The small town I never grew up in. The small town I don’t currently live in. And the small town I may end up in.
Oh. And P.S.: I attended a tractor parade.