Which Side of Town Are You From?

I live in a pretty small town. Really small. If you had fifty towns this size, they could all fit comfortably inside Madison's Camp Randall Stadium and watch the Badgers play. And we'd still have extra seats available.

When I first moved here, I purchased a house from one of the village's elderly residents. A Mrs. Loy. She was selling the house she had grown up in so that she could move into the local nursing facility. It always made me a little sad to think that my starter home was her ending home. You generally don't hear the real estate agents talk that way, though.

In short order, I began to realize that everyone in town knew my house. The Loy house.

"Oh!" someone would say when I gave them my address, "You live in Mrs. Loy's house!" Almost as if we had moved in with Mrs. Loy. I have to admit, after a while, I didn't even have to give my street address when someone asked me where I lived. I'd just breezily say, "I live in Mrs. Loy's old house," and I'd see the light of recognition shine in the other person's eyes as they began to nod, knowingly.

I knew one single, solitary person in my new town. Although I hadn't seen him for over ten years, he was kind enough to invite me to a local talent show one Saturday night. After participating on stage with his band, he sat down at my table and, sotto voce, gave me the lowdown on our fellow citizens. This one was a teacher, that one was a volunteer firefighter and so on and so on. He seemed to have everyone's story down pat. There was no harmful or malicious gossip; just a kind man filling in a newcomer on the town's Who's Who. People began to wave towards us when they recognized my friend. It was all so wonderfully heartwarming and Norman Rockwellesque.

I remember being pleasantly surprised at the high caliber of talent displayed at such a small, local fundraiser. But even more than that, I remember the fellow sitting across from me at our long, community table. He wore a fleece lined jean jacket and almost absently turned a corduroy engineer's cap around and around in his calloused hands throughout the performances.

During the intermission, when my friend excused himself to check on his gear, the stranger leaned over towards me and said, "So, I hear you're new in town."

"Yep," I answered. "Been here since January."

"Like it?" he asked, cocking a bushy grey eyebrow at me.

"Yeah, I really do," I answered.

He nodded without smiling. "Where d'you live?"

And I, with my confidence soaring, secure in the reciprocated love of my new hometown, answered, "I live in Mrs. Loy's old house."

"And where's that at?" he responded.

I was devastated. How could he not know? EVERYONE knew!

I began stammering and eventually managed to garble out my street address.

"Ahhh!" he answered as he settled his cap on his head. "That explains it."

That explains what? I wondered.

The man got up and buttoned his coat. "You see, you live on the south side of town. I live over on the north side. Don't have much call to get over to the south side much."

I'm afraid my mouth was still hanging open when the man excused himself and sauntered over to the door.

When my friend returned to the table, he asked me if I was enjoying myself.

I replied that I thought we all could stand to get out more often.