Service in a Small Town

On more than one occasion I have had friends visit me in the small, rural North Carolina town where I live and say, "So. What do you do around here?"

Rocking on the front porch isn't for everyone. And I do miss being able to run out to dinner or a movie and not have it be a four-hour event, once travel time is included. But  there are distinct advantages to small town life. One of them is service.

Just last week there was a knock on my front door. It was my mailman, holding a letter I'd put out to be mailed but had forgotten to stamp. "Do you have one handy?" he asked. "I'll wait." I ran upstairs and got a stamp and my letter was mailed out. Good service.

My dry cleaners knows both Blair and I by name, and that we pick up our cleaning on Saturday mornings. They don't even give us tickets for our clothes--it's more of a handshake basis. And if the owner is there when I drive up, he always steps out to greet me and asks if the service meets my standards. Lovely folk.

The year Blair and I moved into town there was a gift shop that has since closed in one of the older homes on the main street. We'd found a few Christmas gifts for co-workers but didn't buy them, planning on coming back. But our schedules never worked out with store hours and we called to see if maybe the items could be charged and shipped to us.  "Oh Heavens. I'll just leave the items in a bag on the back porch and you can slip your check under the door," said the owner. And that's just what happened. Any chance that might happen where you live?

 So I may not live in the most exciting town in the nation, but it's got it's strong points. Stellar service, porch parties, lemondade stands run by kids, beauty pagants with 8 contestants and cheesy Fall fairs with face painting and funnel cakes...

I wouldn't trade it.

New Client

On Friday I had a woman e-mail me and ask what I would charge to help her put together a personal commercial (elevator speech) for a a new product she's selling.  In her first e-mail to me she signed only her first name.

Now, one of my lesser traits is not admitting when I don't know who someone is. I don't want to insult anyone and after a few minutes conversation or interaction I can usually place who they are. So I assumed this woman was someone I had met recently and acted accordingly. I e-mailed I'd be happy to help her and mentioned I would be in Greensboro on X day, in case she wanted to meet.

She e-mailed back that she'd prefer to call, as she was in Canada. Ha! Turns out she Googled "freelance writers" and found me that way. (Which makes me very happy that my name showed up. Although I tried the same query and gave up looking for my name after 6 pages didn't turn it up. Does Google show different results for different countries?) 

She sent me the web site for her product and this is going to be a fun assignment. We're going to talk Monday.

It's interesting. Having done just the tiniest bit of that goal-setting exercise, new work seems to be flowing to me. But that's not the interesting part. What makes me say "hmmm" is that I wrote down that I prefer to work on books and big projects and my life's dream is not to be a magazine writer. And yet, most of the work flowing to me are magazine and smaller assignments. It's a test, I'm sure.  Am I ready to put my money (literally) where my mouth is and turn down paying assignments in a field I claim I don't want in order to work for no money in a field I say I want?

 No way, baby! Bring on the cash! What am I--some sort of fool?  (Don't answer that...)  =)

Happy Sunday to everyone.
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Running update: Ran for a full hour yesterday morning. Had plans to get up this morning and run again but slammed my alarm off and rolled back over for another 2 hours sleep. Two steps forward, one step back.  

Peering In Windows

There must be a 12-step program for people like me. "Hi, I'm Dena Harris and I like to peer into people's windows at night."

"Hi, Dena!"

I've done it since I was a child. Riding in the back of my parents car on the way home from visiting relatives, I would crane my neck to stare into the lit interiors of the houses we passed. And I wondered about the dark homes, especially the ones with NO lights on. Were the people on vacation? In bed? Were they driving home just like us and how scary and weird it would be to come home to a completely black house. Or were they just scary people, sitting in the dark in the middle of their house with the shades pulled?

But mostly I looked in the windows. I wasn't interested in seeing the people so much as what their home looked like. What color were the walls? Did they have a landscape painting or a deer head over the fireplace? Was the TV on and if so, what were they watching? I'd glimpse a grandfather clock or a dining room table covered in lace.  There would be bare bulb lamps and bookshelves filled to overflowing. Every house was different yet I felt I knew the people inside each of them. Probably because I spend so much time  guessing what their lives were like.

Even today, walking into someone's home, don't you get an immediate sense of who they are? I'd look into a home and see a TV flickering and the front door open to reveal the screen door and light on in the kitchen and I'd guess the family was getting ready to set down to a late supper.

Some homes looked tired and worn and it was easy to imagine the people in them feeling the same way. But maybe, I thought, they love their little home and think it's the prettiest and most comfortable house they've ever seen. Maybe they loved the way it looked with bare walls and slip covered furniture. Who could say?

All of this comes up because I had another little mini-bout with insomnia the other night and I climbed the stairs in the dark and looked out the window. To my right, my neighbors house was all lit up, although the blinds were closed. But it was obvious that even at 11:30 at night, people were active there. On the other side of our home, it was dark except for the dim glow of the front porch light. Everyone tucked in.

I read for 30 minutes and then turned the light out to head back downstairs. Now my neighbors brightly lit house was dark except for one room. I felt like I had been spying on them, knowing when they had been up and when they had retired.

I wonder what people think if they drive by our home and peer in the windows. Do they guess it's a happy home? Do they picture a big family living here? What do they imagine about our lives?

There's no way to ever know, but it sure would be interesting.

Ben Gay Rules

 I have made the recent and fascinating discovery, people, that BenGay patches  rock.

I pulled a muscle under my left shoulder blade Monday  while doing nothing more than raising my arms over my head in an early morning shake-the-sleep from your eyes stretch. I felt something go, "pop," and thought, "uh-oh."

It got worse over the next couple of days, moving up the left side of my neck. I haven't slept this week, as every time I move or roll over a twinge of pain wakes me up. On Wednesday I was on the phone to my friend Trisha, complaining that I was one step away from free-basing Advil.

"You know, when I hurt my back I used those BenGay patches," she said. "And they really worked." (That's right, Trish. If I'm letting the world know I use BenGay, I'm taking you down with me.)

I cancelled all my Wednesday afternoon meetings and hightailed it out to CVS where I bought BenGay heat patches and sugarfree spearmint gum. Talk about feeling old.

The patches are about 6" x 4" and are covered in a sticky goo that wields itself to your skin. They're cold when they go on but quickly heat up so it almost feels like you're being jabbed with mini hot-irons.  And oh--the relief. I had one on for a couple of hours last night before bed and slept through the night. Plus, my shoulder feels much better today.

Maybe I'll offer to do a BenGay TV testimonial: "Hi, I'm Dena. If you're like me, maybe you think you're too young to smell like a hospital bed. I used to think so, too. But now, I just pet my cats so my allergies stop me up and I don't even notice the smell.  BenGay. It worked for me and it can work for you!"

Really. Depends undergarments can't be far behind.