It is the first of October and the cold rain cascades over my small town and my garden. The streets are hushed, quiet as I watch the iridescent reflections from the golden street lights. It is precautionary as I know houses will soon close up and a deep hush will resonate though my neighborhood as we settle in for the dark months.
The politics of the nation seem to grip us in our own dark thoughts. It is a fearful time and the talk on the street corner or at water coolers is of the economy and other national issues. How do we heat our homes? Feed our children? Get to work? How do I help us all work through these problems in my column without becoming a naysayer and/or politician or a budget repairman?
With stories…in the end, we work it all out with stories.
It is Tuesday night and I have reached into the closet for winter tights and a sweatshirt. I put a ten dollar bill in my bag and I am off for an evening with my friend, Erin. My old Jeep stops in front of her house and I go in to pick her up and chat with her sweetheart, Jason. They have recently remodeled their small bungalow house and the inside paint is the color of newly churned butter. We talk about the paint color and where Jason bought the paint. These days I am all about paint and color as my restoration project continues. He tells me he buys his paint from Ream-Steckbeck so that he can support the small town business owners. I have total respect for Jason, who owns a small town business as well. I tell them that the only lumber company who carries the wood for my house is Fremont Lumber, and the clapboard pieces match perfectly that which was put on over a hundred years ago.
I am reminded of a conversation I had a few weeks ago at the Strand Theatre. Local money must pass twenty times in a town to stay in the town.
Erin and I drive to Pokagon to have dinner at the Potawatomi Inn. My dulcimer friends are set up in the lobby playing Red River Valley. They are sorry I didn’t bring my dulcimer along as I could have joined them. I haven’t practiced for a while so it is probably good that I don’t travel with my dusty dulcimer.
It is usually quiet, especially on Tuesday but on this night it is full…tables of men and tables of women, although they are not together. We try to figure out what two conferences are going on at the same time. I finally ask, the men are from the Fort Wayne Diocese and the women are from the tri-state area with a two day bridge tournament. Interesting combination.
I buy chicken noodle soup and the conversation is rich with the economy and the debates and the ramifications for all of us. She is young and a worried look crosses over her brow. I am not so young and find the new role that we all must learn to play challenging.
As much as there are things out of our control, we hold so many answers in our own hands and in our own lives. I say to Erin, “We will be better off because we live in this small town in rural Indiana. We are immersed with friends and neighbors and family and a better understanding of what to let go of and what to embrace.”
We pay our bill and notice the dulcimer folks have all gone home. The women are tucked away playing bridge and the men have all but disappeared. It is quiet and windy as we walk out. The drive back home is slick with rain and scattered leaves that have not yet turned scarlet or tangerine.
I bid Erin farewell and drive on home. My laundry is still on the line. My clothes will definitely be rain water soft. There is a chill in my old house, the first since last spring, but I have decided not to turn the heat on until November 1st. I curl in up in my favorite old chair with a blanket and make a mental list of things I do=2 0and will continue to do to be a steward of my money and my town. I can live with less and what I do need I can find in my hometown.
