Small Town Living

Snow is predicted here over the next couple of days. We're ready, after all it's January in Ohio and so far we've had a Carolina winter.

 

Now that I'm retired, I've become compulsive about scraping and shoveling. I've slipped on ice before and injured my knee. So I don't want to be the cause of anyone hurting themselves in my driveway. 

However, always when it snows, I remember back to the winters Mom and Dad were still in their home and I was working full time. Hurrying in the morning, I'd bundle up in my boots, start my Jeep, let the defrost and heat run until I could scrape my windows, then I'd inch my way to school. When I stopped at the single traffic light in my little community, I'd hope and pray that my mid-80ish, fragile parents wouldn't venture outside in the treacherous conditions. 

I'd repeat the scraping and defrosting ritual at the end of the workday as I left school to head home. On my way I'd stop by Mom and Dad's house to check on them, thinking I'd probably have to shovel a path to the door. Instead, I'd be flooded with warmth and relief to find that a kind neighbor had plowed the drive and shoveled the walks. Now, that's small town love and caring. 

I'm so thankful to have been raised and nurtured in a small town where people know and care for each other.

Even though I've moved from that small town to a smaller town—we don't even have a stoplight, just a roundabout—neighbors care for one another. We trade baked goods, babysitting, and fix-it talents. We watch each other's homes and gather mail when anyone is out of town. And inevitably when there is a big snow, I hear a tractor in the driveway digging us out.