Getting to know you, getting to know all about you

I know people. Two people. Dianne and Bobby. Dianne works at the bank where I just opened a new checking account and Bobby recently repaired my stupid dinosaur of a car.

Other than D and B, I don’t know anybody, at least not in my soon-to-be new neighborhood.

For the past 16 years, I’ve lived in Lakeview, a bucolic Northern Michigan town surrounded on all sides by mile after mile of tilled fields, woodland and meadows. Of the 1,900 souls who live within the village limits I, over time, got to know 1,887 of them. The three Smith sisters—who may or may not comprise a witch’s coven depending on whose stories you believe—I never really met.

Many of the town’s residents are farmers, plumbers, drywall installers or employees of the village’s only factory, the brass works. There also are a couple doctors, two chiropractors, two dentists and two mechanics, of which only one is any good.

I know them all, by name. I know their kids, their wives, the names of their dogs. I could probably tell you what many of them had for breakfast this morning, or at least hazard a guess.

It is a small town and one I’ve loved long and often.

But I’m in the process of moving away from there. My stuff, what remains of it, is traveling one dinosaur-car load at a time to what will be my new residence in my fiancée’s town, near Grand Rapids.

And other than Dianne and Bobby, everybody here is a stranger. Moreover, there are a lot more than 1,900 people living here. It ain’t Manhattan, but it’s bigger than my old hometown, by quite a bit.

Lakeview boasts a grand total of three restaurants, not counting the McDonald’s, which nobody counts because it’s located on the county road and not downtown, like a proper business should be. Also, it’s a chain.

My new town, on the other hand, has more restaurants than I can count; you can even get Thai food. At night.

I really like that. I like that I can buy a pair of jeans or a DVD without driving for an hour first. Convenience is a whole new experience for me.

But I’m already spending a lot of time here, and frankly—despite being able to see more of the woman I love—I’m feeling a little lonely. The town’s just too big. You can tell a town is too big when you pass someone on the sidewalk and they don’t say howdy. That’s happened to me here. Twice.

The folks aren’t unfriendly, exactly, they’re just…city. Suburb, at best. Whichever, they live close enough to the city that they’re always a little apprehensive about being mugged or buttonholed for spare change. So they don’t make eye contact, they don’t wave, and they don’t say howdy.

That’s why Dianne and Bobby are so important to me. Dianne (Founder’s Bank) and Bobby (Tuffy Muffler) both know my name. Dianne’s a great teller and Bobby’s a very good mechanic. (He got my dinosaur running, a feat only slightly less miraculous than turning water into wine.) Even if they were both lousy at their jobs, I’d be thinking kindly of them at the moment.

Here in my soon-to-be new hometown, they’re the only friends I’ve got.

Hopefully, that won’t last forever. I plan to start saying howdy to everyone I meet, whether they say it back or not. A change is gonna come, baby, and it’s got to start somewhere.

It took me 16 years to meet everyone in my old hometown; there are ten times more people living in my new one. I’m up for the challenge. So howdy there, stranger. Put ‘er there.

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.