In my youth, I was privileged to have lived in a city as well as a small town. The differences were stunning, when I look back. The city was less personal and less friendly. In the country, if a person were standing outside when a car passed by, the automatic response was a hand raised in the air in a friendly greeting, whether one knew the person driving or not. The feeling was that we were all companions on the road of life. Likewise, neighbors always stood ready to give a helping hand.

Most farmers end up with a surplus of vegetable produce. I can’t count the number of times that neighbors shared the bounty of God’s goodness, the products that were the result, in part, of their hard work of planting, watering, weeding, and harvesting. My mother was particularly appreciative of the kindness of neighbors who brought fresh vegetables and berries to her of which she otherwise would not have had ready access. This was particularly true when as a widow, living alone, she did not have a driver’s license. These same generous souls would include her in their own family shopping trips or pick up a loaf of bread or a gallon of milk. In return, she’d try to reciprocate by offering them home baked goods or tasty soups or casseroles.

Today, we seem to hear only about what is wrong with America. I like to remember the times when there was more right than wrong: fresh country air, the smell of new-mowed hay, the leisurely rides on horseback, the meetings in town where folks gathered to work together for the common good. There were visits to my adopted “aunt” and “uncle,” friends of my parents who were childless themselves. Every kid needs grandparents or their surrogates in their lives. My “auntie” taught me all about houseplants, their names and how to propagate them, invaluable life lessons that, once learned, stay with a person for a lifetime.

I long for the innocence of the America I knew in my youth, in that sheltered environment of a hometown full of people who cared about each other. Today’s world can seem far different. Are the experiences of my youth viewed now through the rose-colored glasses we tend to put on to glorify the past? To some extent, perhaps. I do remember the conflicts of the 1960s but they were always happening somewhere else. The scenes on television were for me a total disconnect of which I had no direct points of reference.

I’d give anything to be a time traveler and go back in time for even one day. It is only in rural America that life makes sense any more. Prosperity from the bounty of nature, camaraderie with friends, and a sense of purpose, as well as co-dependent living, cialis half life still be found in such locations, particularly in the old-timers who live there. Small towns, as I remember them in New Hampshire, with their important core values, could serve as role models. They remain, perhaps, the last best hope for America.

Patricia Cummings

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