A Sappy-But-Heartfelt Thanks

When my family and I moved from big city to small town a year and a half ago, we called it a grand adventure, an experiment. No promises. No commitments. We would give it a whirl and see.

For a writer focused on rural issues, it seemed the thing to do. True, living and working in Washington, DC had always made sense. It was where I got my start, spending nearly a decade at the Department of Agriculture. And it gave me easy access to meetings, hearings on Capitol Hill and the occasional lunch with Washington insiders. But, I reasoned, reality must surely lie outside the beltway, out where all those policies and programs I followed affected real people, real communities. Where better, then, to be?

On the family front, my wife and I (especially I) had begun to question our fit in the hurry and worry that epitomizes so much of life in and around the nation’s capital. It’s a great city; but two young sons, one precarious freelance income and skyrocketing real estate prices prompted thoughts about cashing out, slowing down and living the Norman Rockwell life. “What if,” became my standard opening line.

Well now we know what if…and we like it.

Life in Fredericksburg, Texas, is good. So good, in fact, that my DC-native wife was the first to say, “let’s stay.” This from the woman I was sure would turn into Ava Gabor and pine for the city: “Darling, I love you but give me Pennsylvania Avenue.”

There are, of course, trade-offs. But for a town of some 10,000, our new home has an impressive array of amenities made possible to a large extent by tourist dollars, but also by progressive thinking in government, education, health care and the arts. And, my neighbors are quick to remind me, by the work ethic of the German immigrants who founded Fredericksburg.

What it does lack in museums, theaters and parts for an old but reliable Subaru station wagon, the town more than makes up for in life’s simple pleasures. Chief among those, I’ve come to understand and appreciate, is what some refer to as community, but I think of more as sense of connection. Human beings are communal. We’re hardwired to connect.

That connection comes in many forms. With respect to people, it comes in the feeling of knowing and being known by so many, so quickly. With respect to the larger good, it comes in the knowledge that what we do here actually makes a difference--that in smaller settings—whether school, church, little league or local government—individual contributions are all the more important. Finally, we are reminded more often here than in the city of our intimate connection to nature. We hear it every morning in the rooster’s crow, see it on our evening walks by the pasture a few blocks away and, yes, smell it when the occasional skunk lets loose in the backyard.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that connections don’t happen in the city. Of course, they do. We enjoyed terrific connections, great community there. But for many of us, those connections come more easily in small towns. I was reminded of that last week on a trip back to DC. It seems I’ve already lost my tolerance for the pace and the anonymity that prevail there, not to mention the traffic—all of which left me feeling disconnected. I was also reminded why I, my colleagues at the Rural Policy Research Institute and so many others in this country and around the world work to protect and enhance rural life. Cities are great, but they aren’t the end all and be all. We need them; but we need small towns, villages and open countryside too.

And so, sappy as it sounds, tomorrow as we sit down with friends and family to give thanks for all our many blessings, I’m going to add life in this little burg we now call home and the opportunity to work to preserve it. Happy Thanksgiving.