One more tale from small town USA

Based on my observations, I have come to the conclusion that dissertation writing ranks right up there with being forced to do hundreds of sit-ups at gunpoint. Therefore, doc students go to great lengths to make the process more palatable (that is when we're not avoiding the process altogether). Our latest attempt was a writing retreat at a lovely log home 20 feet from a lake. We (my writing group) spent four days writing, eating tasty, healthy food, and basking in the beauty of our surroundings. One day we went into town to get internet access and spent the morning in the local "bakery and beanery" where the owner kindly passed around his security code so we could use the wireless. Which brings me to another report of small town America -- while my friends were working on their dissertations, I was conducting my own informal ethnography.

I'm not sure how many people officially reside in this small Michigan town, but probably at least a few hundred. The locals are friendly and the town has not yet been taken over by corporate franchises -- not a Starbucks, a McDonald's, or a Walmart anywhere to be seen. When we walked into the bakery, we were greeted not only by the employees, but the customers as well. One of the customers, a middle-aged man named Marshall, quickly informed us that this bakery was baking 5000 cookies for the local church social. After ordering some treats, we settled in for a most enjoyable few hours.

We weren't the only ones -- Marshall and his friends stuck around reading the newspaper and visiting with the other customers for the entire morning too. The bakery workers also periodically came out from the kitchen to mingle. Whenever someone came into the bakery, he/she greeted everyone and then promptly went behind the counter to choose a treat. By the end of the morning, we were doing the same thing. (There was a much better view from that side.) The ambiance was definitely "mi casa es su casa." In fact, when we asked if we could hang out there, the owner replied, "You can do anything you want here" -- and seemed to truly mean it. We learned that there are two things that were forbidden, however. For instance, my friend asked if she could purchase one of the 5000 freshly baked church social cookies. The answer was a resounding no - not even one. The other taboo was leaving hair in the bathroom. I base this assertion on the following conversation I (and everyone else in the bakery) overheard between the baker's mother and Marshall.

Baker's Mother (upon returning from the restroom): Marshall, did you comb your hair in the bathroom?!

Marshall: Yes

Baker's Mother (in a very perturbed tone of voice): I thought so. The sink looked like somebody shaved in there!

I thought this was going to be my favorite conversation until I went across the street to the "Five and Dime" where everything (according to the storefront) was between 5 cents and a dollar. I wandered through the store looking for plastic knives. Meanwhile, the cashier - an older gentleman with six strands of hair carefully combed in a circle across his shiny, bald head - visited with a customer. When I made my purchase, the other customer started talking to me.

Man: I have this neighbor. He's very nice, but doesn't have all his marbles. I have these big ole' red plastic birds sitting on my fence. They look like overgrown cardinals. Well, one day this neighbor comes to me and asks, "Just what are you feeding those birds to make them grow so big?"

The man chuckles and I join him as the cashier meticulously documents my purchase on a hand-written triplicate receipt.

On that note, I met my friends and we returned to the cabin, happy that we had a few more days before returning to urban sprawl. And glad to have spent a few hours in a place where everyone knows your name -- or at least would like to.