One of the nice things about city living is that it is the one thing that brings out my optimism and positivity. I am a zealous believer in– and therefore an ardent defender of– the life I have chosen for myself. The traffic past my tiny front yard that would drive my parents crazy is like a security blanket; every car that passes is a pair of eyes watching what’s going on in my neighborhood. I hear the sirens that blast past our house and am immensely reassured; few things make me feel better than knowing that, should I finally have that rage-induced stroke while watching “The Daily Show,” there are two hospitals within five minutes of my house. Every condemned building is an opportunity for redevelopment! Don’t you see? Boards on the windows means somebody cares!

None of these attitudes were taught to me in childhood. My parents choose their houses by how much space they can put between them and their neighbors without the use of a ferry. For most of my life, my paternal grandma lived in a suburb of Hannibal, Missouri (a suburb, you understand; the hectic, go-go pace of city living in Hannibal was too much for her) and it only occurred to me after she died that my “Hannibal grandma” wasn’t actually from Hannibal at all. She was from north St. Louis. She moved to Hannibal– on purpose– just to get the f*** away from everybody, us included.

Which I actually sort of understand.

All of this comes to mind today because a phone conversation with my mom reminded me that I still have a relative, an 82-year-old great aunt, who lives here. At last count, it was a city of 644 people, about twice as many people as were in my freshman dorm. (I want to laugh at a town that size calling itself “Center” of anything, but when you look at the big picture you sort of have to give it to them.)

Take a good look at that photo. The entire city is a blip in a field, excema on the landscape. 

My aunt lives in a house that I think is made primarily of termite exoskeletons, a house exactly like you’d imagine an old house out there would look, but she insists that she will live there alone until she can no longer stand. She still goes out every day and mows a patch of her own grass. But if she wanted to hand that job off, who would do it? She was the school teacher; what did they do when she retired? What would she do if the one guy in town running a grocery store quit? What hospital would she be rushed to, and how long would it take to get there? I see her at age 82 in that little patch of streets surrounded by vast green nothing, and I imagine her last day on earth, and it is not one I would wish for.

It transcends the concept of “different strokes for different folks.” Explain to me your strange customs, people of Planet Country! The ways of your tribe are not known to my people!