The past few weeks, some little shit with too much
time on his hands and too little parental supervision has been terrorizing my
little town with random and predatory acts of vandalism. (Or so I believe. It
could be multiple little shits, or female little shits. But the fact that
whomever is doing this is a piece of shit is of no question.) Anyway, if they
ever find this little shit, I hope that someone strings him up by his toes in
front of our little hometown market so we can all throw stones at him.
The biggest problem that has been caused, beyond
loss of property, is the loss of a sense of safety. If you can't park your car
in your own driveway without your tires being slashed, well, you aren't going
to want to walk out of your own door in the morning because you will be afraid
of what fresh hells awaits.
I don't want to live in that kind of town.
So, instead, I want to talk about the town I
actually do live in. It's got lovely tree-lined streets that cast shade all
summer long. It has Fourth of July parades, Christmas parades, an outdoor fruit
and veggies market, lots of sports, and a feeling of community so strong that
my kid made a fortune selling lemonade on our front steps. My husband likes to
joke that he wants to bring another woman to the local bar just to see how long
it will take for me to get the first text message trying to find out who she is, why my husband is out with her, and if I know about it. My guess? Under an hour.
When my son's preschool was vandalized by the
aforementioned little shit and their entire library of children's books had to
be destroyed due to fire retardant material being blasted all over it - well,
that's when a town like this comes alive.
I will flatter myself enough to say that I started
the ball rolling by posting a plea on social media asking for help. However,
everyone knows that the ball is the least important part of a Rube Goldberg
machine. It is all the resulting pieces and explosions and moving parts that
get it to its final and fantastic conclusion. In this case, it was the dozen
other people that reposted on Facebook. The fantastic individual who showed up
with 12 boxes, and the equally fantastic people who showed up with one. One
enterprising woman rallied her mother's group, another asked her children to kids
pick their favorite book out of their private collections and then donate that
one, many dropped a bag off at my house without waiting for a thank you or any
acknowledgement at all. There were books shipped from California and Virginia
and money donated from people who don't have kids, let alone kids books. Hell,
my own mother got a one-week free pass of me complaining about her because her
donation was so generous and then my in-laws doubled her, getting them
out-of-jail-free for a month. (Not that I ever complain about them. Hi Dad!) There
are also so many stories I don't know. Many, many bags and boxes dropped off by
those many others who rallied their troops, gathered their friends, and asked
their own families for help.
That is why I live in a small town. Small towns
don't turn their backs on neighbors (though they do gossip about them
constantly.) They don't focus on acts of stupidity, they focus on kindness and
joy. Two weeks ago, the school library was empty. Today, it is bursting at the
seams, so overfilled that another bookcase needed to be added. And still the
books spill over the tops and sides. Soon, a few lucky charities will get the
excess. Those books that were over the age range, the duplicates, the ones that
don't quite work for preschools.
So I say thank you, small town, for making me so
glad I moved her, that I have friends here, and that I call this place home.
(And when that little shit comes to justice, as he surely will, let him learn
what small town justice is like.)
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