Joe* didn’t come to our farmers’ market booth last year because he wanted meat. He needed Bob to weave him a pack basket for trapping. In the course of our conversation, we learned he and his wife grew up in rural Pennsylvania, but he had been making a living as an auto mechanic in the New York metropolitan area. He and his wife had saved up to buy a fixer-upper in the Catskills, where he was able to hunt for their meat, and where she could keep a garden. They were in the process of exiting from the city to make a life up here. They weren’t typical New York City weekend visitors.
A year later, Joe stopped by our booth and announced that they were one step closer to their goal. They had fixed up the house enough to live in it, and his wife and daughter are now here full time. We congratulated him, and told him we’d be looking forward to seeing the whole family at the market.
“She won’t come here,” he said, slightly embarrassed.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“Well, she came to talk to your manager, about joining the market with her homemade herbal teas, and she got told ‘no.’”
“That shouldn’t discourage her. No one is allowed to join the market mid-season. Our manager runs a tight ship.”
“I know. I’ve heard that. But, well, it’s more than that. It’s like, well, we were treated like city people…since we aren’t from here, its as if we don’t have a right to be selling here at the market. ”
“That’s because the market is limited to locally produced products. If your teas are still made in the city, then they aren’t local.”
“I know, I get it, and my wife will be making the stuff here. It’s just that, you know, it’s hard. It feels like we’re not one of the locals, that we’re just newcomers, and that kinda hurts, ya know?”
It’s no secret that the definition of “newcomer” in a rural community is pretty expansive. I’ve heard folks observe that they lived in these Catskill mountains for ten or twenty years before they were accepted as being from here. Having lived in the same county since I was four months old, I’ve nearly always stood on the from here side of the equation, and have felt taken aback when newcomers mocked our rural ways by commenting on our slow acceptance of new neighbors. The inference seems to be that we have our own backward elitism, or that we lack trust, or that we’re just plain slow in all that we do.
I used to fight these stereotypes. I didn’t want to seem cold or close-minded to new people. But as I am pushing forty, I am starting to see things differently. In the last three years, our family has grown close to five different “newcomer” families. Our children have played with their children; we have helped each other out in times of crisis, sat and cried together, hugged, laughed, shared meals. And as each of those families has decided to leave our community, we are left staying put, a little more broken hearted each time, waving goodbye with promises of phone calls and visits that become too difficult to fulfill as they all move on to “something better.”
There is no blame to throw around. The truth is, in a rural area like this, it is hard to make a go of it. Jobs aren’t that plentiful, they aren’t very remunerative, they aren’t particularly secure. Some towns are able to support a bit of tourism, some have small colleges, some have hospitals, and there are a few occasional strip developments littered with big box chain stores. But the fabric of the local economy is woven by family farmers, family businesses, and scrappy rural characters who figure out how to hold their lives together with baling twine and blue tarps. Lots of people fall in love with the landscape, with the slower pace of life, with the bounty of local, fresh food. But more often than not, those things aren’t enough to hold them here.
In this neck of the woods, to earn the distinction of being from here takes a long time. It is a commitment as deep as a marriage: to love, honor, and obey this place, until death do you part. For some from heres, there was never a choice. It is a matrimony in bondage and misery. For others, it is a marriage based on love and deep commitment. Lots of people move through. They think they are in love; they begin the courtship. But they don’t stay. They would never be able to make a marriage work over the long haul.
And for us from heres, that can hurt. It hurts to know your community can’t meet someone’s needs. It hurts to fall in love with people who will only move away. It hurts to start to depend on a neighbor who suddenly doesn’t exist.
Certainly, it is wonderful to make new friends, to have them touch our lives as they move through. But a from here is a different relationship. You can call a friend who is far away to talk about your troubles, but the from here is the one who will watch your kids while you take a family member to the emergency room. The from here plows you out when the snow is too deep to shovel. The from here shows up to help put your life together after flood waters have ruined your home. The from here feeds your cat when you go on vacation. The from here cooks your meals when your family is coping with tragedy and chaos. The from here may re-build muscle cars, collect old washing machines on their front lawn, be a yoga instructor, a civil rights activist, a junk food addict, a conservative old farmer, or a teacher. There is no one “type.” From here isn’t about what you do for a living or what you do for fun. From here isn’t just about your past. It is about your plans for the future. It is great if a person can perform a from here role for a few years before moving on someplace else. But a true from here will be in the same place, playing their part to the end of their days.
From here is a big commitment. And all of us need to make it to some place. Understandably, some people need to cover a lot of geography before they find the place where they can truly be a from here. And out here in the country, we know that more people will go away than will come to stay. So before we award anyone that badge and lay our hearts on the line, we’re going to watch for a while and see how things unfold.
I have no doubt that Joe and his family, if they truly desire a space at our farmers’ market, will be allowed to enter next year. I have no doubt about their ability to make friends quickly in this place. Heck, I already like them. But for now, and for the next few years, they will just need to accept that they are the newcomers.
*not his real name
I live in the city. My neighborhood is one of those that is experiencing a real “come back” both economically and communal. At block club meetings people introduce themselves–before sharing an opinion or idea–with I am …………. and I have lived here for ……….years. The greater number of years of residency somehow translates to the value of the person’s contributions.
Sadly, new comers and younger folks are not quickly accepted as having good ideas or a “real understanding” of how things work. Fortunately, more and more new comers and younger and younger urban pioneers are gaining a bit of influence because of their nearing a majority.
Having grown up on a family farm adjacent to a small town I remember well the same situation with city folks and new comers. I guess we are all protective of our place and fearful of those who intrude.
I love this post. Having grown up in a military family and then serving in the military for 21 years, I have had no hometown. A couple of years ago my husband and I decided to put down some roots in our rural community and we have been working at becoming a part of this community. I know it will take me a few more years to feel like this is my “hometown”, but thank you for the other point of view on the matter. From now on I will look at it like a marriage.
Love your blog, Shannon!
Our “from here” feelings probably date back to our ancestor caveman days, where tribes and clans were essential to survival, and newcomers might be looked at as a threat to resources. We all want to “belong” somewhere. I would love to start a life in a more rural area, but the thought of leaving my large, supportive, and loving family that mostly lives within a few miles radius is scary. I have heard how hard it is to be accepted in a rural area. So for now I’m content to “farm” my quarter acre; hopefully the large gardens and illegal chickens are an educational example to the nieghborhood children of how food can be produced in a small yard, and that gives me a sense of purpose.
And when we visit rural places and shop the local markets, the people seem friendly, and I enjoy and accept that as enough.
I’m sorry, but ya know, I gotta call B.S. on this post … that some how new comers have to pay their appropriate dues before they can be included in the community …. any way you slice it it’s still cliquish.
Thanks to my career I did a lot of moving around for years, some places were more welcoming than others. Then I finally had an opportunity to move back east – not to where I was born, but near enough it felt like ‘coming home’. It wasn’t – oh the people were nice enough, pleasant and friendly and polite – but we never ceased being treated like or feeling like a tourist in our own road. Kinda makes it hard to settle when you don’t feel particularly welcome. Ever think maybe that’s part of the reason that people do move on? Because home isn’t about the earth you’re standing on, or the gardening you do, but the relationships with the people. It’s why my husband and I moved on … to an even smaller, even more rural community….
And in 5 minutes there we were made more welcome than in 5 years in the other place. Neighbours came, dropped off food, said “hello”, welcomed us, offered help, and made us feel ‘At Home’ instantly. We weren’t all instant friends – but in a community that almost never sees new people come in, where we were anglophone in a historically francophone area, where we had bought an iconic house that had been in one family for 200 yrs – we were made to feel welcome – and were able to build friendships on that.The support and kindness of our community will go a long way in whether or not we make it here. This ‘place’ isn’t perfect, it’s doesn’t have the barns my husband needs, or the ocean frontage I wanted for me and my dogs and the ground is kinda swampy for good gardening and maybe we won’t make it and maybe we will move on. But the friends we’ve made here are friends forever, because everyone made an effort – ‘them’ and ‘us’.
This attitude of you’re not welcome in the community until you’ve ‘proven’ yourself to us is B.S.
Just the other side of the coin.
I consider myself a ‘newcomer’ in a small tourist town in Minnesota, on the north shore of Lake Superior (although I’ve lived here since 2007). 🙂 I think I can attribute my survival – so far anyway – to all of the wonderful community members I’ve gotten to know and also the variety of non-profit organizations in the area (arts, cultural, etc.). Connecting with people, though not always easy, is essential. Thanks for another thoughtful post!
I’ve read your blog for quite a while, Shannon, but have never commented on a post before. This one resonates with me so strongly. I grew up in a military family but only moved three times growing up (and that third time was back to the house I was born in.) I have always desperately wanted to belong somewhere and have always admired people who lived on ancestral family property, knew everyone in town, etc. I have now lived in the same community for 18 years and feel very much as if I belong. But, I now see that much of my sense of belonging also has to do with whether or not others stay. For example, the farm next door has been for sale for about 5 years and has seen 4 different renters in that time. We have loved all of the renters and hope in a silly way that they will love the area enough to stay but inevitably, they leave. The current renters are a young military family so they know they will leave in 2 1/2 years. Our immediate area has so much potential for neighbors to work together but it just doesn’t happen all that much because people leave. Before we moved here, my husband and I seriously considered living in an intentional community because that kind of “working together” really appealed to us but we committed to this place and trying to make a semblance of that kind of life here. I like how you speak of connecting to the land like a marriage. Makes sense in a time when so many people split up that they also travel from place to place always searching for perfection rather than committing somewhere and loving it “warts and all.” I love to think that my two boys (ages 1 and 2) will come to love this land and maybe stay but I know that our commitment to this farm will benefit them regardless of where in the world they end up. Thanks for sharing your thoughts!
I think Transition Town people are learning your lesson of commitment to a place, even in cities and towns and that’s a good thing. When we move through the steps to become resilient- food garden, water harvesting, crop swaps and training in tangible home based skills, we put down a different kind of roots into our urban soil. Good ones. The house and the exchanged time builds a history with our neighbors. So this place- home and community become more pertinent, and precious. I think we get all entangled in it ourselves and it becomes part of our identity.
I lived on the Eastern Shore of VA where you pretty much had to be born there otherwise you were a “come here”. I talked to a 76-year-old man who had lived their since he was a teenager and he definitely did not consider himself a native. Definitely a culture it takes some time to get used to!
I have to agree with Ocean’s Edge. I moved 29 times in the space of 18 years due to the military. Finally settling in a small community in Western Washington’s Kitsap Penninsula. I’ve been here since 1987 and its never felt like home. The folks are polite but not welcoming. I think your blog speaks to how you feel but can you for a moment imagine the pain of those who had to leave your community? I’m sure if the reasons were economic they felt they must leave to survive not leave because they wanted to. Closed communities only inspire others to move on. If I had to live somewhere for x amount of time to be considered part of the community I don’t think I’d choose to live there.
Thank you for your insights, Eileen. I think what you articulately underscore in your comment is that there is pain on both sides of the equation when community acceptance seems slow. Coming from a rural background, the shifting of our American culture to become more transitory is deeply distressing, and I find it sad that circumstances so often require people to keep moving, so that it becomes increasingly challenging to truly find a “home,” and increasingly painful when newcomers don’t stick around.
What I find deeply unsettling about broad-brushing assumptions and conclusions that a particular community is “closed” is that it suggests a judgement can legitimately be passed upon all the individuals in a given place. Rural people are constantly assaulted with this accusation, and I think their side of the coin deserves consideration.
Shannon, I have enjoyed your blog for quite some time and am finally making a comment on a post. We live in rural northcentral Montana. For 19 years we lived in a small town 30 miles from our current location. While we know many wonderful people in the previous community, we never quite felt like we fit in. Three years ago we moved to our current small town for my husband’s job. The contrast is amazing. This beautiful little town on the Rocky Mountain front is very inclusive and warm. Some people can be a bit cautious at first, but it is because they have been burned by newcomers who have acted superior or wanted to making sweeping changes in the way the community operates. Once we demonstrated a humble attitude and a desire to fit in with things the way they were, we found acceptance. What a blessing for our family. We strive to pass the blessing on to others.
Shannon,
I’m always finding bits of my life in your posts, and this one’s no different! I’ve lived the last 11 years on the newcomer side of the situation–nowhere’s permanent, flying by the seat of our pants to wherever the wind (or, more accurately, husband’s job). He and I are from small towns, lived in cities, and now live in a small town that’s new to us both, which is where we plan to stay (hopefully!) for the rest of our lives. It’s a great little community, welcoming, and full of warm people who don’t really seem to care if we’re “from here”.
But now I am finding myself aligning with the “from heres”. After moving 7 times in 5 years, leaving friends all over the eastern half of the country and some other continents, losing touch and cutting ties when we couldn’t help it, now we are the ones sitting still while our favorite people leave around us. I am about to lose my third close friend in as many years to relocation. It makes a person want to screen potential close friends with a quick questionnaire; “How long have you lived here? What is your job? Is there a good market for that here? How long do you plan to stick around?” I have found myself drawn more and more to people who are from here, work here, live here, have family here, and have no plans to go anywhere else. That doesn’t mean I’m rude, cold, closed off, unwelcoming–I mean, let’s not forget, I’m still new here, myself! But I can’t be blamed for learning–it’s a natural process that ensures our survival, after all–and I’ve learned that it can be excruciating to lose friends over and over.
Hopefully Joe’s wife doesn’t take it *too* personally. After all, it’s not her fault so many people come and go. And it’s not yours, or ours, either.
Melody
Welcome with a smile, Good day with a wider smile! These are the words that should come from everyone regardless or anything. No one wants to be left out, and yes there will be those that reject your joy and love, and that is okay, at least they got to choose. Neighbors are to be neighborly and everyone can then figure out what they need from each other and do it with a smile, never fret the small stuff, and remember it is all small stuff so just make happy memories and love each day. In the end the question will be “What good did you do with what your were given, the good, bad, ugly, and weird?” One always has to remember too that there is little merit in just loving the lovable, the tougher ones are usually sweet too, just takes time to ripen. Pray and smile,
I love your blog, and I truly appreciate the peek into your life, but this post is so difficult for me.
In my experience, living until recently in urban/suburban areas, it’s the norm that people will move on. In our five years just outside Houston, about half of the families that we became close to moved away in that time period. And it’s been painful for me and my kids each time.
So when you talk about choosing to remain a bit distanced from the newcomers–and the subtext is that it’s because you have so many other ties that are more long-lasting–it feels like a slap when most of the people I’ve known have *never* had deep, permanent ties like that. To use a weak analogy (because I’m not an eloquent writer), like you only want to eat that beautifully frosted multi-layer chocolate cake when so many of us are settling for, and finding happiness in, a handful of chocolate chips.