Ode to a Slow Day

I hear the thump, thump, thump of little feet jumping up and down in the crib and the slamming of rails against the wall. An occasional squeal pierces the otherwise quiet and I debate whether or not to make the trek up those steep stairs for yet another stern talking-to, but somehow the other two kids (my own and one I look after each day) seem to have found a way to sleep through it so I decide it's not worth battling this obviously wide-awake boy. I decide instead to work on my next digital photobook and email back and forth with my sister who dropped a not-so-subtle message about updating my blog. So this one's for her; the sister who somehow manages to keep her own blog current, despite homeschooling her 4 children each day.

This is my ode to a slow, simple, small-town life, which I adore.

It smells like a bakery in here, with one loaf out of the breadmaker and another whole wheat whirring around in there as I write. That first loaf never really counts because it barely makes it to the end of the day anyhow, between the 3 toddlers, my husband and my own munching each time I pass the breadboard. It's the smell. Now, once it's a day old and the yeast is no longer wafting through the house, I can pass by with nary a glance. Who can possibly resist that smell? Just the thought of homemade bread, even in the breadmaker, tells me that my life has slowed down. Oh, it's busy. Some days it's almost frantic; that's not the kind of slow that I mean. I'm talking about slowing down in the ways that matter. I mean, taking the time for details like baking your own bread, canning from your own gardens and chatting with your neighbours.

We live in a small town that still requires you to walk to the post office for your mail (okay, they don't actually require you to WALK - you could, technically, use your car but who would on a nice day?). Actually, I'm fairly certain there isn't even another place you can mail a letter since I've never noticed a mailbox anyplace other than the post office. Yes, that can be a little inconvenient when you're home without a car in the middle of a freezing cold day and don't relish the idea of bundling up the kids just to get something mailed before the one pick-up time we're given; but at the same time, I love it. It forces you to take the time to purposefully run an errand instead of zipping here and there, in and out of stores at the speed of light. There's something about getting out the stroller, greeting your neighbours who are just starting to sit on their porches again, say hi to the Post-women who always remark on the boys' growth since the last time, and maybe even take the long way back to see if the ducks have flown back to our river yet. It's blocking off a good section of time just to do something as simple as get the mail.

Even a trip to the grocery store takes about 3 times longer than it really needs to because you're quite likely to run into at least one person from church, a neighbour or two, and very likely, a relative. Or you might just get chatting with the guy in line in front of you and find, through the usual "who are your parents?" game that is always on the agenda, that you are, in fact, related even to him! It took some getting used to when I first moved here from the city life I was accustomed to. Terry would run to the hardware store - just a block or two away from where we lived at the time - and wouldn't return for an hour. He'd always come in the door, filled to the brim with the lastest news from a long list of people he bumped into. It is something I have come to love, even as I roll my eyes with a smile.

The beauty of such a life shone through not long ago when Sam was so sick that he had a seizure in the middle of the night. It went on and on for so long that we called 911 and within 2 minutes a stream of firefighters poured through our door, all nodding to Terry on the way by and calling him by name. Once Sam got under control, the firefighter in charge tried to clear the room but no one would leave because they all knew who Terry was. Even the ambulance attendants who came later spent the entire ride to the hospital catching me up on the school days shared with my husband's family years ago. All of this makes for some rather personal care from such professionals. As the ambulance pulled away, the neighbours started calling, dropping off food and making sure their phone number was right beside our bed in case they were ever needed in the middle of the night. This is what people are always talking about when they say the word "community." I've never known such community before.

This is my blog for Heather because she is always commenting that we're living an episode of Little House on the Prairie, with the horse and buggies clopping by and the people who are so invested in their neighbours lives. This is my ode to slowing down, enjoying each task that is required and taking a moment to lean over the fence - where there even are fences - and sharing a mason jar full of soup and a basket of warm tea biscuits with your neighbours.