Story Time

The Community That Works Together

We always lived out in the country. The main road that runs on one side of the neighborhood was somewhat heavily trafficked- enough so that back in the days of letting your dogs roam freely, the gauge of how good your pet was depended on whether they got hit by a semi at night. But our streets were calm, except for when the latest wave of teenagers got drivers' licenses and would barrel down them at a neck-breaking forty miles per hour.

I remember the house getting built, and when I was 9 they finally paved the road- though, it's never had lines on it. We had fields behind our house, and beyond them the river. We'd fish and swim everyday during the summer, in what we later discovered to be the most agriculturally polluted river in the state.

Half the thick clumps of "virgin" forest we gallavanted through as youths have been destroyed. Modest suburban homes, with manicured lawns replaced the random, wild, leaf covered places of yesterday. That was called progress, or so they told me.

What I know is, everyone knew everyone when I was a kid. All day, during the summer, children on bikes would ride unmolested on the road ways; but they spent most of their time in the woods. We visited The River, or The Monkey Vine Jungle, or The Dam. We saw snakes, and fish, raccoons, opossums, deer, birds, and all manner of insects. We recognized a few dozen species of plants, malignant and benign.

And then the fields got sold, too.

All the other fields within a twenty miles had been sold and turned into housing divisions. People grew up and moved away, wistful for the past and resentful of the future. Nothing happened to the fields. New families moved in, with dogs in fences, and children who stayed inside- or no children at all. Dogs got shot if they roamed free- or put in the pound. The old families tried to contain their resentment; and fences blocked new explorers from Th Monkey Vine Jungle. Nothing happened to the fields.

At the same time the resentments were fading, and new friendships were in the wind, something else changed. The old mill, hidden in the woods beside The Dam, was torn down to the foundations. Marks were put on trees, and the shape of the land was changed. There were whispers of development. New friendships formed over resentment at the intrusion, and respect for natural beauty. We became a new community, forged from our mutual hate of future degradations. The fields were being replaced with a Water Treatment plant.

We wrote the newspaper; but there were more people nearby, but not in the neighborhood, who wanted it. People who didn't know, and therefor didn't care, about our hidden wonders wanted more more-ness. New families meant more infrastructure; and we were opposed to progress, or so they told me.

We railed and cried. We spoke out and spoke up. We protested, and sometimes- in the depth of night- we sabotaged. Little hindrances, nothing substantial, but it caused delays. Eventually, we were at our wits ends; and some hung their heads, steamrolled into the future. It was ironic, and the way of things; but it was also profoundly sad.

Until we found help. Not from those nearby, who could come down and see our hidden beauties, our River and our Dam. But from a group of people with money- a group not like us in their wealth- from across the world: California. They sent in scientists, and used the law against the lawmakers. The environmental impact study halted the earth movers, the concrete pourers, and progress.

We put on a bake sale. We held a golf tournament. We did odd jobs, and we started a foundation for the preservation of Rural Life and Natural Beauty. The environmental impact was significant enough to warrant a government funded study; and we had more time. We held a block party, and invited the entire county. We barbequed, we held fundraisers, we washed cars, and we developed plans. In three years we had made money, and we bought our fields back.

There was a three day celebration, with guided nature tours. The kids rode their four wheelers, and the grown-ups smiled constantly. We were victorious! The underdogs had won! The county built their plant somewhere else; none of us knew where. We were the modern progressives, turning our fields into a community owned garden, park, and nature preserve; or so they told me.

We couldn't grow that, because it negatively affected those others. The lack of rotation meant weaker yields over the years. Dogs had to be on leashes, and our insurance wouldn't let anyone too near The Dam, and certainly not in The River. Our property values soared. The neighborhood bought better, bigger cars, and put up fences. Horses were only allowed on the trails, specifically marked, made for them; and the same for the four wheelers. Hunting was prohibited, but we put in a shooting range where the mill once stood. A picnic area and campsite were installed soon after- no more primitive camping for us!

The new kids grew up, and went off to college. The single family suburban homes were too empty, and too much to take care of; but they sold for twice the price they had been built. The lure of money, and the lack of family, tore people away. They were too old to walk all the trails, to take advantage of the vast natural splendors. New families moved in, and the progress we had fought continued unabated in new forms.

There's a clubhouse where we once grew vegetables. The River was shored up, and the old flood plains are cabins. It's three thousand a year for a family to have full access to the grounds; and that's a deal compared to what families outside the neighborhood pay! My nephew's kids enjoy the pool.

I had to put an eight-foot privacy fence around my yard because I refused to follow the homeowners' associations lawn grooming bylaws. If you put your hand up- and no one has a fire going in any of the cabins, and the people at the shooting range aren't shooting too often- and you cover the land so you only see the tops of the hills in the distance, the autumn sunsets still look the same.

I watch those magnificent paintings in the sky. I tore down the old house years ago, and built one that would last more than a couple decades. My porch is perfect for such viewings, and my privacy fence means I don't have to hold up my hand. I think back to playing in the woods, climbing the trees where houses now stand. I remember my first kiss, playful and inquisitive in woods that were replaced by the Clubhouse parking lot. And I remember our battle against progress, when I was so worried about the contamination to our well- which I had to abandon when they shored up the river.

We were poor when we built the old house, and all the time I was growing up; or so they told me. I had a bicycle and a BB gun, and all the woods in the world to explore; I thought I was rich. If I wait three more years before I finally move away from this place where, they tell me, I grew up; I'll be rich. Whoever moves in after me can live their lives behind my privacy fence; and if they pay their dues, they can walk in wonder, staring at the manicured nature I helped protect from progress.

(c) 2009 Tom Hand