Leaving No-Man's Land

When we first moved to this god-forsaken wasteland (my term of endearment for this corner of the prairie that we inhabit) I couldn't leave fast enough. I hated it. So much of nothing. So much quiet. It was winter, which didn't help. We were 20 miles from the nearest "big town" of 1100 people. We were 20 miles from my son's school. We were one hour from any city of any decent size, and at least 60 miles from the nearest marker of civilization: A Starbucks.There was no where to go, and nothing to do. When I asked a neighbor where they went when they wanted to go out to eat, she waited for a long time before answering, and finally shrugged and said, "There's the gas station." I wanted to throw up.

We didn't know anyone. We moved to a street on which house after house was populated by the same family that belongs to a religious cult that mandates their people don't mix with outsiders. Their girls didn't want to babysit, their kids were skeptical of playing with our kids. Noone and nothing in sight except for bare trees and empty fields. I'd stare at that field for long periods of time, searching for some sign of life. Occasionally a deer would wander into sight, and I'd watch it for as long as I could. The neighbors would drive through the lane at the back of our yard and stare into our house like we were zoo animals. I had no tolerance for them, these people of a different species who lived and spoke a different language than we did. They did strange things like knocking on our door to tell us the trashman wasn't coming for two more days (meaning we needed to bring our garbage bags back to the side of the house until that day), building a brand new house next to the town recycling dump, assuming we'd noticed when someone had trimmed a tree, burning rubber tires in their back yard and anything else that would reduce in flame, laughing and saying they didn't believe in global warming, saying "I don't care" when we asked how much they charged for mowing lawns, not minding if their kids were in good schools or extracurricular activities, driving two hours to a dentist appointment, never asking why there was a siren that sounded in town every day at 12pm, 6pm, and 10pm, looking in our windows to wave hello, stopping in conversation to stare or waiting for a while to answer after you'd said something to them, and saying that someone had "just" moved to town when they'd moved in 6 months previous! A strange breed, these people. I felt out of place, like I'd moved to a different country. Our words were the same, but our meanings weren't. Even our body language was different. I wanted out. I nearly went crazy that first winter. Every night I waited to see if my partner would make the treacherous one-hour drive back from the city on slick roads. No wonder I tore into our house with a vengeance and plans to renovate....well, everything.

Summer came and it was much more pleasant. Our son joined a baseball team. I spent time outdoors and almost recovered from my months of cabin fever. Things were starting to look up. All the alone time was, if anything, good for our own family unit and for space and bonding time.

Then winter came again. The winters are hard here. I was emotionally exhausted from the upheavals and the constant moving we'd experienced in the past 6 years, and refused to branch out, to make friends, to connect myself to this place that I really despised and the people that I couldn't fathom. Two years passed like that. The people slowly started to grow on me. Although the place didn't grow on me, I got used to the quiet, the pace, the space. Our son started preschool and I started seeing faces on a regular basis. Finally this past fall we decided to take a big step and to attend a church in town. There we found a surprisingly diverse group of big-hearted people united in purpose and spirit. We made friends and started to get involved. For the first time, I went to coffee at someone's house. I should have done it sooner.

Now it's summer again, and we're preparing to leave. It's a move we've been planning since before we came here. We're nearly two babies and a lot of family time richer. The renovations still aren't finished. Our lives are still crazy enough to make the neighbor's heads spin. We're still the city people who planted ourselves in the middle of the country, but in the end it's made us stronger. I've learned things about people - even those I don't understand. I've learned to accept the fact that many people go out of their way to do kind things for no other reason than to be kind. I've learned that there is something to be envied in the extreme simplicity some of these people cling to like a lifeline. I've learned that this dreaded space is actually a peaceful bubble that is one of the keys to keeping our family united.

Driving to school yesterday I realized with some surprised that if I went into labor, I have several people I could call to keep my kids, who would do it willingly and without a second thought. Friends. Genuine people. My son has found a niche, developed friendships. We struggled to find that in the city, where we're moving to. So I'm feeling nostalgic about this place, this god-forsaken wasteland that has turned out to be not so wasted after all.

It's a good move. We're looking forward to it. Our quality of life and our opportunities will be much greater there. Establishing ourselves will take time. But this time I'm moving forward, keeping my heart open to new places and people. I know I will find good there.