Sometimes something comes along that makes one feel a little hopeful. Yes, we're embroiled in an election that has a lot of people playing like it's slash-and-snap time at the zoo. There are probably few among us who have not yet lost a friend or become estranged from a family member over politics. That's sad, but it seems to be a feature of life in these times.
What's sad is that it happens. What makes me feel a little better is reading about a time when it didn't. In an account published Saturday at The Free Press, author Larissa Phillips tells us of some experiences she has had, as an urban liberal moving to the deep-red country, the lessons on neighboring and neighborliness (and it's not what Tim Walz claims), and yes, it's hopeful and inspiring.
Her move was accompanied by some apprehension:
I assumed that moving upstate would mean living in proximity to conservatives. But I figured we’d find a town that had a community of liberal ex-urbanites we could befriend. Those other people—the bad ones, who probably lived in trailers and shot squirrels for fun—would exist on the periphery of my social experience. I hadn’t counted on falling in love with a farm in Greene County, with its seemingly nonexistent liberal presence—but fall in love I did.
Still, as we settled into our new lives, I became increasingly depressed and alarmed. Neighbors just two houses down had a Tea Party banner on their lawn. A few years later, almost every house in our area had a red-lettered lawn sign denouncing the NY SAFE Act—a gun control measure that, opponents claimed, had been passed in a secret meeting called by devious, lying Dems.
But things changed, as in small towns, people all have to live together. A big city, after all, allows one a certain anonymity, if they choose it; not so a small town. I grew up in a small town and live today in a small rural community, and boy howdy, I can tell you, bad gas travels fast in a small town. But then, on the other hand, we all look out for one another.
Larissa learned that, too:
In 2021, Virginia Heffernan wrote a column in the Los Angeles Times about her conflicted feelings when a Trump-supporting neighbor plowed the driveway of her “pandemic getaway.” In it, she wrote that she couldn’t “give my neighbors absolution,” adding: “Free driveway work, as nice as it is, is just not the same currency as justice and truth.”
But personally I’ve been stunned by the depth of my neighbors’ generosity. “I saw you and your husband out here with that little mower,” one guy knocked on my door to tell me. “It’s ridiculous.” He said he was coming over with his massive sit-on mower. He made quick work of our lawn, then waved away my profuse—and unconflicted—thanks. Another neighbor practically screeched to a halt when he saw us clearing snow off our driveway with handheld shovels. He just happened to have a snowplow attachment on the ATV he was hauling on the platform trailer attached to his truck. Within minutes he’d unloaded it and was clearing our driveway.
And then, last winter, my son, then 24, was driving a few miles from the house when he found himself sliding off the icy road into a snowbank. Hopelessly stuck, he gunned the engine of his little sedan, to no avail. Then, two trucks pulled over and three burly guys got out. After ribbing him a bit for his pathetic predicament, they motioned him out of his car. One hopped in the driver’s seat while the other two pushed and heaved. When that didn’t work, all three got behind the car and essentially lifted and shoved it back up to the road. My son thanked them; the apparent leader of the trio said, “I lost my job today. I was looking for something good to do.”
It's hard to read a person's tone through a written account like this, but it almost seems as though she was surprised by these acts - initially, at least. But she shouldn't have been. People in small towns and rural communities look out for one another. We can't just call 911 or AAA for help; response times may be measured in hours. Our neighbors, on the other hand, may be only minutes away, and most of them are happy to lend a hand where it's needed.
My good friend and colleague Jennifer Oliver O'Connell's Feel-Good Friday posts will give you more examples of exactly this.
See Related: Feel-Good Friday: The Resurrection of Western North Carolina Is an Example of America at Its Finest
Some time back a list of tips for "Northerners moving to the South" was wandering about the internet, and one of the items was "If you run off the road and are stuck in a ditch, just sit and wait. Pretty soon three guys in a 4x4 with a 12-pack of beer and a log chain will come along and pull you out. Don't offer to pay them. This is what they live for." That was humor, but it makes a cultural point; people help each other out in the sticks because sooner or later, the person helping will themselves need help.
We look out for one another. Some months back our truck broke down, and as luck would have it, we were down the road in Wasilla. We were able to limp the truck to the Ford dealership, park it, fill out a slip, and put it in the after-hours slot to have the truck looked at - the next morning. It was Sunday afternoon.
What did we do? We did what rural Alaskans do - we called our neighbor, who hopped in his truck, came to Wasilla, and gave us a ride home, 60 miles round trip. When our truck was fixed, he gave us a ride down to get it. That's what neighbors do, and we don't do it because some faceless unelected bureaucrat says we have to. We do it because it's the right thing to do. We do it because, out here in the woods, we all depend on each other. If a family is struggling, someone will drop some moose meat or fresh vegetables off. If a child needs a winter coat, one way or another, they'll get one. If a well-known local figure passes away, the gas station, the liquor store, and the pizza joint will have jars out for donations to help pay for the funeral.
That's how things are out here. We're all neighbors. We don't worry about anyone's politics, or their religion, or their skin color. We're all Alaskans. We're all Valley people. We get along, for the most part at least. We look out for one another. I'm glad that Larrissa Phillips is experiencing this in upstate New York as well.
Her neighbors may not have changed her political opinions. But they built bridges regardless, and that's worth doing, every day and twice on Sunday. It's neighborly - what's more, it's enough to give us back a little of our faith in mankind.
