It’s true when they say “You can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl.”
The first fourteen years of my life were spent in a tiny town of only 500 people. Wikipedia now says it’s over 800, so they’ve apparently had a population boom in the past 28 years. I lived in a small house with a huge lot on a tree-lined street, and spent my days roaming the entire town, which was no bigger than my current neighborhood. In the summer, my Dad assembled the pop-up tent in the backyard and we spent our days playing Barbies in it, or when that became boring, riding our bikes all over the surrounding countryside. We didn’t come home until it was dark and my Mom was okay with that. We never locked our doors and we slept with the windows open. I fell asleep to the sound of crickets with a cool summer breeze blowing over the bunk bed that my sister and I shared. We didn’t consider ourselves to be missing out on anything by living in such a small town. Our little grocery store pretty much had everything we needed, and if it didn’t, the “big city” was less than a half an hour away.
When I was fourteen, my Dad took a job an hour and a half away in a much larger town. We delighted over the fact that fast food restaurants and a movie theater were now just minutes from our house. Instead of living in the city proper, my parents found a hundred-year-old farmhouse just outside of the city limits on a narrow country road. It was in that house that I spent my teenage years, full of angst and hormones. I spent hours lying in the grass in the backyard, listening to the wind rustling through the corn field at the edge of our yard. I loved the quiet and the solitude there. We had neighbors close by, but it seemed as if we were all alone, surrounded on all sides by corn and soybean fields. We still slept with the windows open, although the pig farm a mile away made that relatively unpleasant at times. That house was quaint with its narrow stairs and painted-shut windows, and it’s still a frequent destination in my dreams. Last night, in fact, I dreamed that I lived there again, and was watching my daughter run down the grassy lane next to the corn field while I swung lazily in the hammock in the backyard.
When I graduated from high school, however, I couldn’t wait to move to The Big City. It was there that I learned how to navigate traffic and hang out at a mall. As my career blossomed, I found opportunities in even larger cities, and before I knew it, the rural life was far behind me. I liked living in the suburbs of a big city and didn’t miss the country at all. Or so I thought.
But nine years ago, when I built this home with my then-husband – the home that I still live in today, and the only home my Lauren has ever known – it was imperative that we get as far out of the city as possible. Because of my job, I couldn’t move far enough away to be in the country, but we went as far as we could. Our neighborhood is nestled in the crook of the mountains on the southwest side of the valley. My commute to work is 45 minutes each way, but it’s worth it to be in such a quiet area.
And yet, it’s not the country. I miss sleeping with the windows open and listening to the crickets chirping. I miss the fields of corn and the tranquility. I wish my daughter knew what that life was like. And because the country runs so deep in my soul, I try as hard as I can to make our home a tranquil place. My daughter knows the feeling of cool grass between her toes and the scent of lilacs in the spring. She knows that the best place to star gaze is lying on your back in the middle of the yard. She knows how fresh the house becomes when the windows are opened and a cool breeze runs through it. She is as country as a city girl can be.
And that, my friends, is a beautiful thing.
Beautiful post!
I grew up in a very small town as well. I wouldn’t trade those experiences of small town living for anything!
Of course I’ve grown way too fond of big city living now that I’m an adult, but at least I have the memories!
I’m the same way. I love living in the city… but sometimes I just want to walk around my yard barefoot and feel the sunshine. I miss the mulberry trees in the back yard. I miss picking dandelions and the lilacs off Mom’s tree and thinking I was giving her a great present.
It’s good to remember.
I love when you take me on a trip down memory lane! I also remember the smell of dad cutting the grass each week, and of the crisp laundry (and UNDERWEAR!!!) on the clothesline on the side of the house. And don’t forget lying on our bellies on the living room floor in front of the box fan, making those choppy ‘ahhhhh’ noises until dad yelled at us to be quiet! I also remember going to the Jubilee with the smell of carnival ride grease and elephant ears.
However, there were 948 people and 1 sorehead in Wayne. Remember the side of the building where it was painted, by the Wagon Wheel?
I think I just miss those lazy, carefree days where we only wore watches if they were the cool new digital kind, as a fashion statement. Where summer almost lasted too long. Where our social calendar was filled with freeze tag or ghost in the graveyard in the neighbor’s yard (what was their name????) until the lightning bugs came out. Ahh, those were the days!
I could write the city-girl side of this story. What you are also writing about is TIME past. I lived one block from the elementary school, two blocks from main stream, and 5 blocks from the state university, and back in the 1970s I flew out the door in the morning with the only job: to return at dark. We never locked our doors or windows, and strangers were people I wanted to make a good first impression on.
It’s the times. Our children will likely never know that kind of life.
My graduating class, counting me, was 13. Small towns rock.
Loved this post. I’m from a town of 5,000 and spent much of my time at my sister’s ranch. When I read where you talked about lilacs, I got all choked up.
Even though Logan is really not a small town, it was still quite country when I grew up. I miss being able to lie on my back and gaze at a sky full of stars…including all of the ones we miss from the glare of the city lights. Thanks, Andi, for a beautiful post. I want to raise my daughter to appreciate the simple things as well.
I really wish my kids would have these memories. Craig still remembers the vilage where we first lived in Hungary, but the twins weren’t even two when we moved to Budapest. And now when it comes to rural living… they build memories of the desert when visiting their uncle at his kibutz.