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I love to write. I use it as therapy, and it allows me the freedom to say whatever I want, whenever I want, however I want. I can yell. I can daydream. I can analyze. I can sing. And I can do it all within the world of black and white type. I can delete it, or publish it. Share it or trash it. And no matter what I do, I own it. It is liberating, and challenging.
Recently, I was asked to submit a piece of my writing to a local literary magazine. Without dropping the name of the publication (because then I *know* the work will not make its way to print), I was contacted by the editor who, as it turns out in this small world, knows a college professor of mine. She was looking for a creative writing piece that is on the theme of “home” – almost as though she knew that I would give my left leg to spend an afternoon with my family right now. I sent her the following piece of prose. I wrote it just before I moved from Connecticut this past February. It is not fiction. But it’s also not an article either, per se. More of a journaled observation. And yes, run-on sentences are all part of my style. Anyway, I’ll shut up now and just post the piece.
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Anywhere, U.S.A.
There is a guy in New Haven who sells flags out of a truck. If you have ever traveled I-95 in Connecticut, you know who I am talking about. He is there every day, no matter the weather, holiday or state of the nation. At least forty large flags, of all countries considered, flap madly from the side of his crusty vehicle – forced by the winds off the Sound, and faded from the days’ sun. Just next to him sits an old faded van with “ROSES” painted boldly on the side. And occasionally, there is a weathered pick-up filled to the gills with fresh seafood.
I see this collection of characters every morning on my way to work, and every evening on my way home. I wonder how much business they really get. How many homes are adorned by American, Irish, Italian flags that were purchased from that very Flag Man, or how many prickly roses are destined for the hearts of every Land Rover or BMW that drives by.
I do know that if they were not there, the New Haven coastline would seem bare, and surely I would think to myself “I wonder what happened to the Flag Man?” Small-town Connecticut, U.S.A., as I know it, would not be the same. But then again, I am certain I could travel less than 100 miles to find another Flag Man. Or Old-Faded-Van-Rose-Guy. Or Fresh-From-The-Sound-Fisherman.
I grew up in a town full of Flag Men. Home-grown businessmen and women who ultimately shape the character of what everyone claims is the pride and joy of this country. The natural grocer, who would let me grab handfuls of sweetened pineapple rings from the depths of huge beer barrels. The baker, who’s dense confections would make you feel as though you’ve been wrapped in a sugar blanket the minute you step through his door. The old guy at the seafood market, who carries fish so fresh they didn’t even have time to remove the seaweed tendrils stuck in the gills. The artist, who’s studio always smelled of pastels and left kiln dust on your shoes. The florist, who crowded her windows, walls and floors with flowers so beautiful they looked as though they were made of porcelain, yet smelled of the most amazing perfume. The wine seller, who always had my father’s favourite wine in stock, even though he was the only customer who bought it. The bookseller, who knew my mother would be waiting for the next Ann McCaffrey, and always had the Rainbow Goblins on a shelf where I could reach it, even though I already owned a copy. Skip, the gentleman who owned the hardware store on the green, who’s floors creaked when you walked across them, and always offered me as many paint samples as i could carry.
And my father, the builder, who hand-planes every piece of mahogany, and sculpts every piece of tile, so it comes together to form a house that will soon be someone’s home.
As it is, my Small Town is just one Mother Hubbard short of a nursery rhyme.
My town remains special to me because my family is here. It is home. I grew up here. The most defined moments of my life to this point have been here. My childhood was colored by trips to the hardware store, or Christmas Tree lightings on the town green. My father’s business was built on the people who also call this town home, and the families who define their own lives through the experiences they have with the same people, places and moments that I do. And I am lucky that I will always be able to return to this town and think to myself, “I grew up here” or “I went to school there” or “That is the place I took my first riding lesson.”
The bigger picture, though, is that every town across this country has their bakers, builders, fish markets, cafes, book sellers and florists. Every town has its modest homes, its McMansions and everything in between; its in crowd; the downtown gathering place where everyone meets after work; its own field where you can find coordinating SUVs lined up every Saturday watching their humans play soccer, or baseball or some other uber-American sport.
Over time, I feel as though I’ve “used up” a lot of my Small Town. I have boxes packed away of first loves, lost loves and things that I love. I have pictures of myself by the lake when I was 2, 6, 10, 16, and even 24. I have dried corsages from prom that came from the woman with the porcelain flowers, and oil paintings of what our house “looked like once.” I have hooded sweatshirts adorned with embroidered letters that proudly state “GUILFORD” in green and white, and newspaper clippings from when honor roll would temporarily make me a town celebrity. But most of all, I have memories of that Flag Man, the bakery downtown and trips to the hardware stores with my dad.
I have experiences that I would never trade, but that I am eager to archive to make way for new ones, in whatever Small Town I decide to call home, whether it be for a month, a year, or an otherwise indefinite amount of time.
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