I don’t have much good to say about living in a small town. Especially after spending two weeks of July in three different metropolitan cities in the Southeast. And I always try to hold to the adage that if you don’t have anything good to say, you shouldn’t say anything at all. And that, my friends, is one of the reasons I haven’t blogged in over a month. But despite my discontentment with things like a brand-new Starbucks planning to close its doors, nowhere to buy a swimsuit for small children, and driving over two hours just to see a medical specialist, there is still one thing I love about a small town–the people.
Yesterday I received a call-back from my nurse while I was in Wal-mart getting a few groceries that missed the list the other day. When she asked if I could come in right away, I glanced at my watch, realizing I had to pick up my son in just forty-five minutes, and said, “Well, yes. I can.” After pushing Hunter in the buggy all the way from the back of the store to the checkout, paying for my goods, loading the car, parking the buggy, driving to the doctor, then moseying on in to the waiting room, I had only lost 10 minutes. You can’t do that in the big city. In fact, it might take that long just to find a parking space in the metroplex.
They Know Me
When I arrived at the front desk, the receptionist who has greeted me through colds, infections, pregnancies, busted lips, broken bones, and genetic disorder diagnoses smiled as she handed me my paperwork to sign. She knows me. My doctor and nurses know me. They know my son was tough to potty-train, my daughter threw up for a year, and I have been fighting my Southwest Oklahoma allergies for way too long. I had to leave before my chest x-ray to go pick up Will from his day camp, but I came back 20 minutes later toting both kids and their crayons. While I grasped the bar above my head with my side smushed up to the machine, the radiology tech hustled the kids back to the dressing room by their first names. Later as I had my blood drawn, three caring healthcare professionals stooped down to where I had the kids sitting on the floor to dig through the basket of stickers with them. I’m sorry to say I didn’t recognize the ladies by name, but they somehow knew that I am “the one” who teaches my children Spanish. They knew me.
After all the doctor visit duties were over, I went back home without having to stop by the pharmacy. But if I had, they would have smiled to see me coming and handed me the prescription while the pharmacist asked if Bill has played any golf lately. Then they would have doted over the kids while I wrestled them away from the candy aisle, each with one goody in hand, and put all of our charges on our bill. I would have left there with the feeling that somehow more of our town knows about my personal life without my having to tell them. And that’s okay.
Now I can’t buy my favorite popcorn or Cajun seasoning at our Wal-mart, but if I want to socialize, that’s the place to go. Every date night (though few and far between) seems to start at a not-so-great restaurant and end at Wal-mart, where we inevitably run into at least two people we saw at the restaurant. And most of the time I’m running errands, if I see someone I know at one place, I will almost definitely see them at Wal-mart thirty minutes later. Wal-mart is the ultimate destination for townsfolk when they leave home in our small town. It’s kind of like American Express–you can’t leave home without it!
They Care
So this morning I had an eye exam at another medical office where everyone knows me. Before I left home, my nurse from yesterday was calling to check on my breathing since the office was closing at noon. But they’ll be around all weekend, so I can call the doc at home if I really need him. I try really hard not to do that unless absolutely necessary, but I have called him at home on at least two weekends when we’ve had complaints of injuries or severe illness. I can almost hear him smile when I tell him who’s calling. He knows my daughter.
Next Monday I will take both of my kids to the dentist for their six-month checkups. The visit will entail having half the office staff gathered around my tiny little three-year-old with great big sunglasses on underneath the dentist’s light. They will be looking for her all day, because her dentist, who was also her Sunday school teacher this year, will be pacing the office for hours wondering when Hunter is coming in. At least that’s what happened last time. Then the other dentist will come through to get his high-five from Will, because they high-five every Sunday on the way in to church. We’ll no-doubt reminisce about when Hunter busted her mouth one Sunday morning and he checked out her broken tooth in the drive-thru at church as I dropped Will off for Sunday school. I remember that Sunday. Will’s pediatrician was the one answering phones in the church office when I called Bill to tell him to be on standby in case we needed stitches. She knows us. They know us.
The people know us, and we know them. I love this small town.
