I live in a small town. A kind of town that avoids most maps. It’s a character driven place protected by legions of coniferous giants that wander to the tips of the high-reaching mountains before disappearing to the other side. Its modesty commands that it doesn’t beckon to tourists with fables and traps. It quietly boasts vast oceans of grassland that stretch effortlessly from one end of town to the other.
Some call it, “home,” while others see it as a stop on their way by. At first glance it might not seem like anything beyond that of any other tiny town, but spend some time here, and you’ll come to know of its allure.
I came here about three years ago, and in one breathless moment fell in love at an instant while stood beneath a glittering sky replete with distant diamonds that danced the night away. My problems, my woes, and all superficial worries bowed to the majesty of this flawless open sky. A sight to behold any night of the week.
Summer’s here are vibrant, emerald, and warm. There’s even a hidden gem of a golf course that only those initiated know about. In the fall, the air turns crisp, and the leaves don a regalia of marigold and mustard yellow. Now, while that may not sound appealing to some, stop by on a chilled October day and I promise you, it’s nothing short of charming.
There’s something else about this town that I love, and it’s something I only discovered recently…
Over the span of several quiet evenings, and while doing the dishes after dinner, my Sheena and I couldn’t help but to hear a curious “honk” emanating from a colossal work truck crawling the incline of our road. This peculiar event took place almost every night after we first heard it. Each time we did, I’d peer out the window with befuddled squint.
“Why does he honk every day?”
“Do you think he’s warning animals away?”
“I wonder if he’s cautioning children to move…?”
These were some of the speculations that both Sheena and I offered to each other. On a bleak blue winter’s evening, I heard the unmistakable rusted hoot call through the cool night air. I was at the sink, scrubbing pots, plates, and cups, so all I had to do was glance up, and I was met with the sight of a massive rig, idling, shaking, and purring while stationary in front of another house down the street.
The truck driver, a man with a kind face and blue-collar disposition was waving cordially out his window toward the aforementioned house. This entire encounter lasted a matter of seconds before the truck hit gear and began lumbering up the road, only to disappear around the bend.
Several days removed from that latest honking, Sheena and I had to run some errands, as we began our drive down the road toward the highway, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something — it was a strong enough capture to evoke a head turn from me. I looked to my right, out the passenger window, and observed the silhouette of a small boy standing on a couch, pressed up against the window of his living room — a window that overlooked our road. He was waving excitedly.
“That’s cute…” I said to myself in passing. After an elapse of time, and provoked by happenstance of thought, I began to ponder about that kindly trucker I had seen some nights before; I then thought of the boy in the window, and how excited he was while waving at Sheena and I on our way by.
…what if the boy in the window is just as excited, if not more so, when seeing the friendly trucker and his gargantuan work truck…?
I began to gnaw on this contemplation as we drove back toward home. I decided that the following night, I’d plan to be by the window shortly after dinner time…to see if I could capture my conjecture in real-time.
The following night came, it was another dim winter’s eve, with anticipation clinging to my breath, causing a slight fog to caress the window, I looked out and down the road, hoping to see headlights of a rattling rig — nothing.
I stood in the kitchen for a while, but no one and nothing appeared. Feeling as though that night was not the night, I made a tea and retreated to the living room. My beautiful Sheena sat quietly, smiling at whatever glowed from her phone, the kids played in their room, and the dogs slept on the floor at our feet, a quiet night.
“HONK…HONK!” A trumpet-like bellow flew into my ears — the truck — I got up and jogged to the window, and there in all its steel glory was the weighted machine. A humble trucker, smirk on his face waving from his window toward a house on the street…a house, with a boy in the window.
I watched this display with a smile that widened the longer I looked. I was witnessing, wonderfully so, a moment of pure innocence taking place before my very eyes — and all of it happening right there in my tiny town.
That trucker, that kind, blue collar guy in his rig…well…he has a dog, too. A small, scruffy, zealous thing — complete with its own high-visibility vest (as if this whole thing wasn’t cute enough already)! I couldn’t help but to melt into a feeling of unfettered content. In those brief seconds shared by boy and trucker, not a thing mattered. Boyish smiles scrolled to each of their respective faces, a blissful moment in time.
I live in a small town…the kind of town that avoids most maps…but if you happen to know of it, well then, I can confidently say — it lives in the hearts of a select few. The thing is, love is meant to be shared…and that is why I’m telling you of my tiny town. A place where innocence still abounds in the hearts of young boys and girls. A place where as an adult, you can reconnect with that child that lives in all of us; a conceptual child that often get set aside because of work, life, and bustle. A simple honk can halt us for just long enough to remember what it was like to find wonderment in the simplest of things — like a rattling work truck, and a tiny dog dressed as a hard worker.
This life is busy, and sometimes it can be overwhelming; but much like a small-town boy, it’s important to stare out the window every now and then, and remember how incredible the world can be.
Falkland…come by some time…be sure to honk when you do.
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