I love living in a small town. A teeny-tiny town. A not-even-a-dot-on-the-map kind of town. Now I suppose if you grew up in this sort of town, you might not feel the same way. You'd probably be itching to get out. You'd give your high school one big fat sayonara and never look back. But you'd always visit. They make dozens of romantic comedies about that very thing.
Greencastle is that kind of town. The closest Starbucks is 10 miles away and they just put it in a few years back. There's no museums or famous people or politicians from around here. I imagine our daughter will tell us that she hates this place and can't wait to get out. But she'll come back. They always come back.
What I like most is how we stumble onto things. Things like the Hot Air Balloon Festival. We don't subscribe to the local newspaper, although we have been known to catch up on the news through the paper place mats at the local diner. They're checkered with advertisements for body shops and church concerts and smears of grease from my bacon. So we usually don't know about stuff until it's already passed us by. Like First Friday, for example. All summer long, the borough hosts local artists, singers, and businesses right out in the streets. And, of course, I didn't know about it until this past week.
Maybe I'll subscribe to that small town newspaper after all. I don't want to miss anything else.