I’m not sure if body snatchers have invaded or what but, this week I’m in a rather nostalgic mode and feel compelled to discuss the simpler life in small town America.

This is a topic that oft gets Sarah Palin in a heap of trouble when she talks of the nooks and crannies scattered and nestled about the nation being the “Real America.”

I’m quite certain, since I’m just as famous as she, that news teams will soon be swooping in and taking over the area in order to pin me down and ascertain what I really mean by all of this. Do I really feel that life in a small town is a portrait of the real America?

Well, I kind of do mean that, quite frankly, so, be prepared for all the hoopla surrounding that statement.

Moving forward with this train of thought before it exits at the next depot, I am just feeling rather warm and tender about the unique way of life when it comes to small town livin’ and darn it, I’m going to write about it before this rare mood exits my otherwise rage-filled body.

If this gets me in trouble with city folk, since I’m oh so well-known and am sure this column will hit the New York Times any day now, then so be it. I’m sticking to my guns, (or was that clinging to my guns and religion as Obama mentioned at some point...) and will continue now with this piece.

I am currently taking somewhat of a break from carrying out some design work for the Pumpkin Fest ads and decided to seize my little pink computer, that I mentioned in the last column, and head out to the porch for a quick cig—I mean, a breath of crisp and refreshing country air.

Working on the P. Fest issue sparked thoughts about some of the rather endearing aspects associated with non city life.

There are plenty of cons concerning such as well but, I shall reserve those for a rant at some point in the future.

The following little tale might not seem to tie in with this but give it time and I will make it fit, in my own crazed way.

Recently, my brother introduced me to an older gent, (no, Perpetual is not in danger here), who lives in Chicago. He has always been a city dweller during his 78 years of life here on earth, and he appears to be transfixed by the stories of western Crawford County life.

We’ve become fast friends and we chat on the phone or email until our fingers bleed.

During the course of our whirlwind visits, he frequently becomes inquisitive, and often dumbfounded, when it comes to exploring some of the festivities that I cover for the paper. Because of this, I have been reflecting on life in rural America and have pondered some of the things that seem to bring communities, like ours, together.

For instance, where else on the planet do people gather, en masse, in order to hear the sound of an old boat motor, that was under water for many years, roar to life again?

That particular news making headline had my new gentleman pal scratching his head. I didn’t really see or hear him scratch but, it sounds good for the purpose of this story. After I explained to him the historically significant nature of the whole “Liberty the Second” situation, I think he began to see the light—but not totally.

See, it takes a smaller town mentality, (and I mean no harm in the use of those words, considering I, too, am a part of that fabric), to really be able to comprehend and appreciate happenings like the above-mentioned event of the century.

A plethora of heartland oriented occasions, like the Pumpkin Fest, seasonal parades, Santa’s annual visit, Conneautville Homecoming, Linesville Candlelight Walk, and others, bring a close- knit kind of feel to hamlets like all of those in our reading area.

Events aren’t the only reason why those of us who live in less populated regions frequently feel like a real part of something bigger. There are other aspects that have us become as one with others. It’s kind of like being a stitch on a patch of the town quilt. (Not that I have first hand experience in knowing what it feels like to be thread but, you catch my drift, I’m sure.)

Straight-forward stuff like the tellers at the banks knowing us all by our first names BEFORE ever seeing our deposit or, in my case, withdrawal slips.

Having the pharmacist greet us in a cheerful and helping manner is a far cry from the treatment received in some cities, I’m certain. Since I might as well pitch my tent in the pharmacy and become a resident, due to a new prescription being recommended with each birthday—what a gift, I see a lot of these folks and they are really quite personable. I feel as though I’m more than a prescription number, and am truly a human being, in their eyes.

Entering a local pub or restaurant and being greeted with a favorite beverage, without being asked to pick the particular poison, is yet another example of the extended familial embrace of our co-dwellers.

My Chicago gent was kind of tickled when I told him that while paying for my last camp trip, the park ranger, after keying my phone number into the computer, declared, “Houserman, you’re the newspaper girl. I remember you.”

Now, first off, I was so beyond delighted that he referred to me as a girl that I practically threw him to the ground and smothered him with kisses but, I feared being arrested for harassment. He was adorably cute too but was also pretty much young enough to be, well, my little cousin or something like that.

Moving along, there is more or less a running national joke about how postal employees aren’t the most gregarious bunch of individuals to fall off the mail truck but, I find the opposite to be true as far as my post office goes.

The head honcho always recognizes my voice when she’s out of sight and she appears to become as excited as I do when I receive an absolute camping ”necessity” in the mail. One of the other gals has a son who served our country in the military and we sometimes chat about his current status, etc.

These examples might seem slight or non eventful to some of our metropolitan buddies but, they are proof, if you will--or even if you won’t, of the kinship-kind-of-vibe put out collectively by folks, like us, who opt for the peaceful life in sparsely populated regions.

I think you get the picture of what I’m trying to impart and I feel that the best way to put this column to bed would be for me to leave you with a quote from my Chicago cohort, also known as Wayne:

“A life is interesting not necessarily because of what one has done with it, or because of what others have done with it, but because of what one thinks about it. Some of the most profound and interesting chronicles of life have come from those who never traveled more than ten feet from the rural area in which they were born.”