Plain brown wrapper

It has been blustery since yesterday, great gusts that sneak in unsealed windows and blow open the hatch to the attic. And yet the towering oaks and chestnuts around us remain largely intact, and only a few leaves have made drifts of gold and brown by the side of the road. Trees here grow in thick stands, and the people of the land know that these stands both provide shelter and protect the soil.

The way of life here is different, some would say backwards. There's plenty of business opportunity, but I doubt people would avail themselves of it. If you need something, you need to let someone know: they'll chat with someone else (I swear Main Street looks like something from a Hollywood musical, with people stopping and chatting every 20 feet), and before you know it, someone will hear about something that just may be what you were looking for. Imagine a place where people identify their needs and then seek it out, instead of the marketing machine telling them what they want.

Our hilltop neighbor told us of the tale of finding their extraordinary home. Scouring listings in the paper and on the Internet, despairing of finding something beautiful where they could raise their family, they told their tale of woe to another school parent. On her way home, the classmate's mother noticed that someone was moving out. She stopped her car (yes, in the middle of the road), and asked the fellow what was happening to the house (yes, it is acceptable for total strangers to ask such questions) and learned that he was planning to rent it, but what with this and that, hadn't got around to it. Well, she says, let me put you in touch with this nice family that's looking for just such a place.

For the average American, coming around a sharp turn on a one-and-a-half lane road to find a car blocking it and folks chatting would be cause for becoming angry, rolling down the window and yelling at people in a not terribly civilized fashion to move their ____. But this is the way this country works, and most (not all, sigh) folks realize that it could well be an exchange like the one that found or will find them their job, their car, their house or even the love of their life. Or butter.

When we drop off Little One at his rural school, there are always a few parking lot conversations. The first few days, when Darling Husband was with, he bonded with the men folk, comparing things like cell phone reception (discovered the two places with the best reception at school), the best ways to get from here to there (learned of an excellent route over the hills and picked up an occasional rider); I concentrated on the domestic: where might I find good vegetables, butter, meat, maybe even some yarn. I learned that our little town has a health food store, which just happens to be run by another parent at the school, and that she's happy to order any product your heart desires (case of soy milk, please!); that there's an organic farm stand south of school (yup, another parent); that there's a pink building up north of Eadestown where there's a nice couple that sell yarn; that that there's another organic farm stand with meats (not another parent, but one parent knew of it); and that if I waited around at pickup time for the dairy farmer's wife, I might be able to score some fresh butter.

And here it is in my hands, heavy, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. A parking lot chat, transformed into a block of real, fresh, very local butter (from 15 minutes away).

It is an unspoken contract between neighbors that the trees will not be cut or damaged, say to unblock a view or such frivolity. We, as the trees, rely on each other to withstand the strong winds.