A small town Independence Day

Another Independence Day has come and gone, and sparked in me the urge to write about why I love my small town existence.  Yes, the town in which I live has very few retail establishments and a whole lot of taverns.  Yes, I grocery shop at a store named "Piggly Wiggly."  And yes, the coffee shop would not exist were it not paired with the tanning salon.  (Guess which gets more business?)

And yet, there's no place I'd rather raise my family, and the 4th of July just underscores this fact. 

Despite the somewhat suffocating feeling that growing up in a tiny, hopelessly pedestrian community gave me, I'm choosing the same formative experience for my kids.  Partly because my job, as a parent, is to ensure that they want to get the hell out when they are old enough.  But more importantly, because having a real sense of place - - even a grudging one - - is critical to developing, in turn, a sense of self. 

I'm not suffering from the delusion that small town life has any fewer risks than life in the city.  We have drugs, bullies, and plenty of opportunity to screw up your life as a young person here in the sticks.  But there are also plenty of opportunities to do good, neat, inspired things here: like play football or star in the school play or take art classes.  And in a small town, I know from experience, you don't have to be particularly genius at any of these things in order to participate.  Frankly, there's nothing wrong with mediocrity in your youth... I'd rather have my kids take a swing at whatever appeals to them and not have to worry about being great in order to be on the starting team.

Now that I am older and have lived in a (somewhat) larger city for many years, and attended a big university, and traveled pretty extensively, I think having small-town roots served me well.  No matter where I go, I have a place that I definitely come from.  Being from a small town has not hindered my ability to appreciate the finer things in life, to mix and mingle with my sophisticated "betters," or to explore the world. 

While my small town seemed incredibly lame at 15, 16, 17, I'm now almost fiercely prideful of the things I once thought embarrassing. 

I like my 4th of July parade to feature primarily old tractors and dumpy floats cobbled together by a bunch of semi-enthusiastic 4-H'ers. I like my convertible-riding royalty to be a bit plump and pimply. And I really like that the sweaty, uninspired kids in the marching band are wearing the same polyester uniforms I remember donning a generation ago.

The corn and strawberries we eat were grown up the road.  Our politicians walk (democrats) or ride (republicans) down Main Street, waving and shaking hands with constituents who are probably mostly relatives.  We hang out our flags with unabashed sentimentality.

Our fireworks are not fancy, but the whole town comes out anyway.  And sprinkled in with the "ooohs" and "ahhhs" are a few drunken "yee-haws!" that remind me, like almost nothing else, of who I am and where I come from.