The Hometown feel
OK, down to the job at hand: fill this piece of space. As I was walking up the parking lot from my
bus with pen and notebook in hand, a couple of words came to mind: "hometown feel." Now, where to
sit. Arsaga's or the Farmer's Market. Tough choice. It's really nice outside, so I choose one of
the benches on the square. The hometown feel. I'm reminded of it whenever I go to the square or
walk or drive down Dickson or Block street. People wave, toot their horns, shout happy greetings.
I see Don as I'm pullin' into Dickson Street Liquor. He's got a big jolly smile, sez ,"Did you pull
in to see me or to get booze?" "Well,... both," I say. We shake hands. I'm always glad to see him,
"hey is this healthy, you having moved so close to the beer store?" I say in mock concern. We walk
in to contemplate the coolers. Yesterday, my clutch cable broke, and I managed to roll backward into
a parking spot right in front of the mirrored glass windows of the Chamber of Commerce. Not being
the type to call a tow truck, I borrowed a friend's car to fetch a piece of stranded wire and some
clamps and spent a half an hour or so laying under my bus patching the cable so I could limp home.
As I was laying there, with my feet sticking out onto the sidewalk, watching the different shoes go
by, I thought of the hometown feel. There in front of those gold reflecting panes of plate glass, I
began to feel a little self conscious, like maybe my grubby toes in Tevas and paint spattered pants
protruding from beneath a somewhat less than new VW van didn't fit in, and that the shiny shoes and
pressed slack cuffs walking by were disapproving of my presence there. Thankfully, a ruddy faced guy,
an ambassador of the streets with prickly whiskers, well worn high tops, backwards cap and magnified
eyes peering through smudgey glasses came up and talked to me. VW busses tend to be good conversation
starters, especially when broken down. There's the hometown feel. I hoped that, whatever the suits
thought, they at least appreciated the fact that I had a different approach that related to the type
of person I am, that related to my upbringing in the hills and my independent, artistic way of life.
I even hoped they thought it was funny and got a chuckle out of it, anything, so long as it was not
disdain. I was glad when I finally got out of there. Later, at a mini mart, a dude on his way to work
at Campbell's soup was stranded in the middle of the parking lot, the hood of his black Grand Am raised
high. I leaned out of my window, "Need a jump." "Yeah, you got cables?" We hook up. Nothing. I say,
"Where's the starter at on this thing?" I grab my framing hammer and tap the solenoid sharply several
times with the wooden handle. Car starts right up. Dude is grateful and invites me to come party with
him at the trailer park where he lives. I know a trick or two, but mostly it's the hometown feel.
Today, on a bench at the market, I can barely get my writing done because so many cool people stop
and talk to me. Even people I don't know smile at me. Definitely the hometown feel.
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