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Reality Check

The Source

She’s a grouchy old curmudgeon but I love her. A fixture on the Arenzville landscape for years, this gal will tell it like it is whether you’re ready for it or not, and more than one resident of that little town has had the paint peeled off his wall by the lady’s frank assessments. I’d stopped at the town’s remaining gas station recently and as I went to leave I saw her sitting there sipping coffee and munching on the remainder of a pizza. “Come over here!” she demanded. No one’s disobeyed her and lived to tell the tale so I obediently sat down beside her. “So tell me. . . .this livin’ in Jacksonville. How do you like it?” My old friend is perhaps Arenzville’s greatest cheerleader so I measured my answers carefully. “It’s uh. . you know. . .I like it.” “Why? Why do you like it?” This was quickly turning from conversation to interrogation. “Well. . . I don’t know. The snow’s not so much of a problem in the winter.” She frowned at me. “It hardly snowed at all this winter. You’d of had the same thing if you were living here.” “Oh,” I said. “I guess you’re right.” “So gimme another reason.” Her drill bit was getting sharper and headed for the kill. “Well, sunsets seem prettier in Jacksonville.” “That’s ridiculous. Could you see the sunset from your Arenzville house?” “I guess not. There was a barn in the way.” “And how about your Jacksonville house?” “My kitchen window faces west. It’s beautiful at night.” “It’s where your house sits, Ken. The sun sets the same way in both places.” The woman was chipping away at my theory point by puny point. “Well, I have really nice neighbors across the street on Sandusky. The first week I moved in they brought me cookies.” “Ken, the only thing across from your house in Arenzville was the American Legion Hall. Legionnaires don’t generally do cookie delivery.” She had me there. We have a great group of Legion boys in Arenzville but I don’t think that chocolate chip cookies can be found anywhere in their Manual of Arms. “And what happens when you park your car in front of the Arenzville Methodist Church for more than ten minutes?” “Uh. . .somebody puts in a plate of cookies.” The woman was a one-man CIA. Nothing happens in that little burg without her knowing about it. In small towns we don’t count this as being nosey. We call it “concern.” “Does that happen when you park in front of a Jacksonville church?” “I don’t know. I lock the door.” “And that, KB, is my point.” She peered at me over the top of her rimless glasses. “You know you’re flunkin’ this test, don’t you?” I panicked. “Closer!” I said. “In Jacksonville everything’s closer!” You know the look you give a puppy that’s just peed on the carpet? That was the glare she gave me as she sighed and said, “Ken, in Arenzville you lived a block from the post office, three blocks from the gas station, and thirty yards from the bank. You tellin’ me that things in Jacksonville are closer than that?” “Groceries!” I shouted. “We don’t have a grocery store in Arenzville!” Again, the wet-puppy stare, “And that, Mr. Bradbury, is why God created the Schwan’s truck.” “Oh.” I quickly tried to think of excuses to exit the inquisition. Nothing came to me and she continued. “And walking at night. I know you like to walk. Can you do that in Jacksonville?” Aha! I finally had her. “Yes, I can walk! And what’s more, Jacksonville has a leash law that Cass County seems to lack. I can actually walk without a club in my hand!” I’d forgotten that the lady was an avid dog lover. . . and she was right. I’ve never had anyone in Jacksonville reach over the table and conk me with a cane.