One Light Town

I’ve lived here my entire life. All 18 years.

I can tell you who lives in each house on my street.

I can tell you how they decorate their yards for Christmas and what candy they give out on Halloween.

I can tell you where not only my friends live, but where each one of my classmates’ houses are. Heck, I can tell you where all my teachers’ houses are too … and I don’t mean just the teachers I had for Senior year. I mean all my teachers from Kindergarten through 12th Grade.

I can tell you where every item in the grocery store and the pharmacy is shelved. And who works at the gas station, the bank and each store on Main Street.

There is very little about this town and the 2,000 people who live here that I don’t know. And, there’s very little that this town doesn’t know about me.

Like when I was 9 years old, I got to walk the 6 blocks from the school to my house. My mother always knew when to be waiting for me on the front door step. It wasn’t because she knew what time we got out of school and how long the walk should take. It was because she had already heard from at least two of the cute, little old ladies that lived along the walk and who had called to let her know that I would be walking up the driveway within the next few minutes.

Or, when I was 16 years old and a newly minted driver. I got a speeding ticket one morning heading to school, and knew that the first thing I had to do once I’d parked the car was to call mom and dad to let them know. Of course, it had been less than ten minutes between when the deputy had pulled away from the curb and when I’d turned off the ignition of my car, but mom had already heard about the ticket and had heard exactly how fast I’d been going on the backroad. Turns out the deputy had beelined it straight to my parent’s shop and spilled the beans over a cup of coffee at the store counter.

Or, when we were 17 years old and decided to try our hand at ice skating on the frozen pond by my friend’s farm. It was the first time we could recall where the pond had frozen over all the way. We never gave a second thought to how thick the ice was and whether it could hold us. We were more excited about squeezing our feet into the old skates we’d found in my friend’s basement and making fools of ourselves trying to do our best impression of Olympic figure skaters. Needless to say, we didn’t get very far in accomplishing our Olympic dreams. The farmer who owned that piece of land intercepted us mid-field. Said he’d heard down at the donut shop that there were some kids who might try and go out on the ice. He walked us down to the pond and proceeded to give us a lesson in ice safety, showing us just how thin the ice was and how easily it broke when a big rock was thrown out onto it.

So, knowing all of this, you might think I was more anxious to hit the road and head out to college 500 miles away. You’d think it would be so easy for me to pack the car and drive down these roads I know all too well … and not look back.

But, it’s not. It’s bittersweet. There’s definitely a huge piece of me that wants to leave this town behind for awhile and go where I have some anonymity. Where people won’t be watching my every move, and where everyone won’t assume they already know me, my feelings and my intentions. But, there’s also a piece of me that will miss the comfort of this little cocoon I’ve grown up in. The familiarity and certainty that comes with the square mile I’ve called home for 18 years.

And, that piece may be why I’m sitting here at the one stoplight in town, right on the outskirts. I’m sitting here hoping it stays red for just a minute longer and puts off the inevitable drive ahead of me for just a bit more. I know I’ll have the time of my life at college. I know I’ll be back for Thanksgiving in just a few months. But, I also know that when I come back I won’t quite be the same kid. I won’t be so easily satisfied with life in this 10 street by 10 street bubble. But, leaving town is inevitable.

And, as the light turns green, I drive away from the predictability of home to go define myself and my future.