Small town living

You know one of the strangest things about living in a relatively small place? Getting directions.

If we have to meet a local* at, say, a restaurant and need to ask where it is, the answer will inevitably be something like, "Drive down the highway, turn right at the lights, then just go to where the Country Kitchen used to be. You know the Country Kitchen, right? The Italian place was there before." It's like at some point they stopped updating their internal maps, since just knowing where things used to be is enough for them to get around. (Thankfully, they eventually take pity on my obvious navigational inadequacies and dole out a street name.)

Or occasionally the directions will go something like, "Turn left, drive past the old Henson place, then turn again after the yard with the barking dog." And you know what the weird thing is? They're always right. You get there and go, "Well what do you know. There's the barking dog! I guess we turn here."

I'm looking forward to the day when a visitor will ask me for directions, and I'll be able say, "Oh yeah, it's down the street from where the florist used to be, in the old shoe store. You know where that is, right? Next door to where the bookstore that used to be a giftshop was." It'll be sweet.

* I.e., someone who has had family here for three generations and can rattle off complicated community relationships without a second thought: "Oh you know her. She's his wife's cousin's hairdresser that used to be married to that electrician fellow. The balding one."