All Things Local
Had I know what was waiting for me when I moved to the mountains, I may have considered a move to the city for a few years before returning home. Any city, for that matter. Of course, I knew that I would eventually end up here, that fact was as clear as the bright blue sky. But the day I moved home from college I was still 21 years old, fresh on life and high on dreams. Guess what? My career goals had to be tailored for this back country, and the American Dream seemed to be missing from Lassen County. And Plumas County for that matter. What I found was exactly what I had left behind 4 years earlier; I was simply seeing it all with a much different perspective. It’s obvious that we change between those formative years of 17 and 21, but I suppose I had expected the mountains to evolve and mature as I had. Except I had clearly forgotten, that apart from a volcano, there is nothing that can move a mountain in our landscape, escape perhaps only to make it bigger. And this mountain had not grown; it had all but disappeared.
The community was, and is still hanging by a tiny sliver of a thread. Let’s be quite clear - there is very little to keep people here, and much that to bring people in. So I spent a winter sulking in the snow, dreaming of moving to Tahoe or Truckee, where I believed that life still existed. I spent time fluttering away from commitments in this town, focused only on keeping people who would have kept me here at an arm’s length away, lest I be stuck in this tiny town forever. I now own a home, hold a job and participate in community functions here in this tiny town that I loved and hated all at once. So how did I get from there to here? Or have I simply lost my mind and need to catch up to it again?
Somewhere between late spring and summer, I fell in love with this town again. I basked in the warm breezes that move over the lake. I saw friendly faces blossoming like the spring flora from the winter snow. I watched the sun rise each morning over the meadow and set each night at the base of the mountain. I saw a need for the kind of energy and dreaming and creativity that I had worked 4 years in college to ignore. I will most likely never have a million dollars in the bank from my everyday life here on this mountain, but I will watch a group of kids flee to the park every summer morning. I may never have a place to wear those stilettos I keep tucked away in my closet, but I will sink my bare feet into the cold waters of the hidden lakes every summer. I may curse the stars when I realize that I’m missing an ingredient for dinner and the store closes before the sun sets, but I will never tire of the feeling I get when I am greeted by acquaintances in the post office, the grocery store, the gas station, or simply on the road home.
We must not give up hope for these communities that were hurting previous to the economic woes that hit the rest of the country. These communities bind us all together; they are the strong points between the cities that stretch across this land. Areas like this are rare and golden; the strength is not in numbers for towns like this, but rather are in the hearts of those here. It’s in the Friday night football games and Monday morning coffee in the café; it’s in the outpouring of support when tragedy threatens someone who was merely a stranger the day before and in the praise of all things local, no matter what. It’s in standing up for what’s right, and accepting those who are down. It’s in Small Town, America, and we have the opportunity to make it the greatest place in the world.
The community was, and is still hanging by a tiny sliver of a thread. Let’s be quite clear - there is very little to keep people here, and much that to bring people in. So I spent a winter sulking in the snow, dreaming of moving to Tahoe or Truckee, where I believed that life still existed. I spent time fluttering away from commitments in this town, focused only on keeping people who would have kept me here at an arm’s length away, lest I be stuck in this tiny town forever. I now own a home, hold a job and participate in community functions here in this tiny town that I loved and hated all at once. So how did I get from there to here? Or have I simply lost my mind and need to catch up to it again?
Somewhere between late spring and summer, I fell in love with this town again. I basked in the warm breezes that move over the lake. I saw friendly faces blossoming like the spring flora from the winter snow. I watched the sun rise each morning over the meadow and set each night at the base of the mountain. I saw a need for the kind of energy and dreaming and creativity that I had worked 4 years in college to ignore. I will most likely never have a million dollars in the bank from my everyday life here on this mountain, but I will watch a group of kids flee to the park every summer morning. I may never have a place to wear those stilettos I keep tucked away in my closet, but I will sink my bare feet into the cold waters of the hidden lakes every summer. I may curse the stars when I realize that I’m missing an ingredient for dinner and the store closes before the sun sets, but I will never tire of the feeling I get when I am greeted by acquaintances in the post office, the grocery store, the gas station, or simply on the road home.
We must not give up hope for these communities that were hurting previous to the economic woes that hit the rest of the country. These communities bind us all together; they are the strong points between the cities that stretch across this land. Areas like this are rare and golden; the strength is not in numbers for towns like this, but rather are in the hearts of those here. It’s in the Friday night football games and Monday morning coffee in the café; it’s in the outpouring of support when tragedy threatens someone who was merely a stranger the day before and in the praise of all things local, no matter what. It’s in standing up for what’s right, and accepting those who are down. It’s in Small Town, America, and we have the opportunity to make it the greatest place in the world.
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