I'm a Local!

LOL.  We've owned this little place here for over 11 years.  Moved in almost 10 years ago, right when my eldest son started high school, shortly before the house was really finished.  Yet, we live about six miles from the village, and in a rural area.  No neighborhood committees, no neighborhood barbecues, no neighborhood association. . .  Not many houses, mostly fields.  Our "block" is a square mile and has maybe a dozen homes.  At least that many barns; I think barns outnumber houses.

As far as involvement in the village, I'm not out-goingly social, and DH isn't very extroverted either.  Most of our appearances around the village have been through our childrens' sports and school activities.  I do sub, occasionally, in the middle or high school office.  I also sell at the farmers market in the village during the summer months, but I don't consider myself a well known person.  Certainly not someone who is remembered by the average citizen.

My view has been changed.  And it's all because my pickup wouldn't start while I was at the local propane supplier/gas station/off-road diesel (tractor fuel) place.  The truck had been dragging for a while, reluctant to fire when you first turned the key, and I'd told DH I thought it was getting worse.  But it still had started every time, just not immediately.  Well, this time it didn't start at all.  No click, no grind, no dying battery sounds.  Just nothing when I turned the key.  Full panel of dash lights and the annoying dinger that said I hadn't buckled my seat belt yet (usually do that after it starts, and before shifting into drive).  But no engine noises whatsoever.

Being a not-quite-totally-helpless kind of chick, I popped the hood and looked to see if anything appeared to be amiss.  Nothing did.  So, I went inside the office of the propane/gas/diesel place and asked if anyone could give me a jump.

The owner of the place came out, brought his truck around to face mine, and gave it a whirl.

Nothing.

He checked under the hood too.  He couldn't find anything amiss.  So he looked at me and said "You just live on XYZ Road, right?  Why don't we leave your truck here and I'll run you home."

Small town living is awesome!

On the ride home, we talked about my kids and his kids (my youngest had played t-ball with his youngest a decade ago, the only time boys and girls mixed for summer ball).  We talked about pickup trucks and troubles we've had with them.  We talked about horses (his wife has some too).

After he dropped me off at my house, I suddenly realized, I'm a local!  I didn't have to tell him my name, I didn't have to ask for a ride home, I didn't even have to tell him where I lived.  Because apparently that is all a given.  Which feels pretty cool.  I've lived in other places for the same amount of time or even longer and never been recognized on sight, let alone have someone know exactly where I live.  To have someone offer to take time out of their work day to drop me off six miles away because my truck won't start, well, that's a pretty darn good feeling.

I think I need to drop off a couple dozen cookies or a freshly baked pie at the propane/gas/tractor fuel place later this week.  To say thanks.  Because that's the sort of thing a local does.


(As for the truck, DH diagnosed it later with a bad starter.  So now I have a hammer in the cab, until we can get that starter replaced.  Now when I turn the key and nothing happens, I grab my hammer, get out, crawl under the truck, bang on the starter a few times, get back in, turn the key and the truck starts, and away I drive.  Hopefully we can get that starter replaced this weekend.  I asked DH how difficult a task it was, and he looked at me, recognized the thoughtful expression I held and promptly said "No, I am not teaching you to change a starter."  *sigh*  He knows me too well.  He knows I don't like being the least bit helpless.)