Moving into Smallsville- June 2001

In a way, moving to Woodland, North Carolina, was going to be a lot easier than moving to Virginia Beach. You see, when I moved to Virginia from New York City, it was under the stress of an impending divorce. Don’t misunderstand me, it wasn’t ugly. No, our split was civil and friendly; perhaps even a role model for married couples seeking an end to their situation. I mean, how could we hate each other? We produced a beautiful son, her parents were like my parents, my brother married her sister, their kids looked like our kid, and we had been married for sixteen years. However, the split-up left me quite depressed so I decided to see a social worker. After three or four months (OK, three months and three weeks) and a crush on my counselor, we realized that there was nothing more to discuss. It was then that my counselor informed me that the greatest stimuli of stress in life are (and not in any particular order): a break-up of a relationship, changing jobs, and moving. “You decided to try all three at the same time,” he explained. “You have a right to be depressed.”
All I could think was, “Now he tells me!”
Seven years later, with my son, Drew, entering his last year in high school, I was finally able to make the break. Up to this point I had first lived two minutes away from my former wife in Virginia Beach and then I moved to Norfolk to buy a house which was about twenty minutes farther. We agreed not to use the expression “my X” as we did not come out of the divorce process with negative feelings. In fact, on one occasion I had received a traffic ticket in Virginia and did not have the funds to pay the fee. Donna sent the money in explaining that she did not want the father of her child being dragged to prison for a traffic ticket. Oh, I guess it’s a good time to mention here that our move to Virginia was so that my wife’s salary would go into the six digit figure. Naturally, my teaching salary went down almost ten thousand dollars! (This info is for anyone crazy enough to go into a profession where most school districts have figured out a salary scale that ignores any experience that an in-coming teacher has beyond ten years. Of course this does not include administrators who can also be paid to leave the system!)
Where was I, ahh, yes…eight years after our break- my wife married a really nice guy (darn) who could fix cars, earn a good salary and oil her teakwood furniture. I needed to get away. Also, I was now in a relationship of my own, even though we wouldn’t be living together. I was hoping to find a house in Murfreesboro but unfortunately, my house in Norfolk sold a week after the “Gingerbread House”, the house I really wanted, was sold in Murfreesboro. With much trepidation, I looked at homes in the surrounding towns, eventually choosing Woodland as the place to hang my paintings, posters and photographs, and perhaps, finally finish the screenplay and book I had been tinkering with for the last two years. Actually, I really lucked out when I found a stunning Victorian cottage on Main Street that was built in 1876 which was just as charming (if not more so) as the “Gingerbread House”. And for almost half the price! Finding the house was a cinch, just ten miles away from Murfreesboro, a few houses away from a Baptist Church that chimes Christian music throughout the day (my Jewish parents would be thrilled), a post office, and a house that was forever being renovated. I also liked the small population factor of this small town- probably four times as small as Smallsville, with about eight-hundred and fifty residents. I must confess that I told my students in Norfolk that there were only six hundred people living in my town. But what the hell, I could get away with it when you consider that until quite recently they had only had one restaurant (open two nights a week), a supermarket, service station, and one blinking traffic light. Plus I couldn’t have my mail delivered to my house as the postal service only delivers outside the town limits. I would need to purchase a mail box in the post office. Holy Mayberry, RFD!

Even before I entered the dwelling I knew that I had come home. The house was absolutely adorable: a cream-colored one-story gingerbread structure accented with green shutters and a wrap-around porch. The interior was just as sweet with a large center hall dividing a living room, kitchen and dining room from two bedrooms and a bath. With two more bedrooms in the back I knew that I was going to convert the front bedroom to a library. I had always wanted a quiet place to read and write, and now, in this quaint old town, I would find the peace, harmony and solitude I desired to carry on with my writing.
Even as I was checking out the house, a beautiful African-American neighbor, Patsy, walked over and introduced herself. “Oh, God,” I thought. “There goes the solitude.” Not at all- she and her family were wonderful, with each of us respectful of the others’ privacy. In point of fact, she was charming and helpful as she explained all that she loved about the area. I was quick to vocalize a few doubts whether this New York City Jew could find tranquility in a small Baptist town but Patsy was just as quick to point out other churches in the area including the historic Quakers. And it was basically as dry town as Murfreesboro. Never mind that some of the non-drinking Baptists actually met in private to drink the forbidden spirits. Who was I to judge; a Jew who eats pork and other non-kosher foods? Patsy said she knew that I would be happy here.
My first day in Woodland was tiring to say the least as we (I know that you are wondering who “we” are but more about that later) moved my furniture and other belongings into the house. The last to arrive were Mona (left) and Blue (below), my six year old Dalmatians. Warning! Do not become a teacher living over seventy miles from work with two Dalmatians. Mona and Blue had discovered the Ponte Leon’s fountain of youth. They were just as immature and stubborn as they were at one year of age. Yes, they were house-broken and very protective of me but that’s about all. Walking the two of them was a feat unto itself as they practically dragged me down the street. You see, in Norfolk I had an enclosed yard so there wasn’t much walking around the city.The only danger was walking in the yard in the winter when I might have stepped on one of their “mines”. It was nearly twelve o’clock that first night in my new house when I walked them along Main Street. The neighborhood was extremely dark with only chirping crickets and the occasional bark of a dog breaking the silence. Naturally, my dogs, being the pets of a native New Yorker, would not poop in their own front yard. No, they picked a choice spot on Patsy’s lawn. I immediately took out some plastic bags, my own home-made “pooper-scooper”, picked up their gifts, and deposited them in her trash can.
The next day as I was mowing the overgrown lawn in my backyard, Patsy walked over and told me how much the neighbors will like me.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Because you pick up from your dogs,” she replied. Ordinarily, I would have been embarrassed if a neighbor knew that Mona and Blue had consecrated their ground but it was clear to see that she was not bothered.
“Your lights were out. Did you see me?”
“Oh no, we were sleeping,” she answered. “But she did!” She added as she pointed to the two story home just down the street.
Something was unclear. “Wait! How could she have seen me pick up after Mona and Blue?” I wondered out loud. “It was midnight and very dark. She would have to have been watching me!”
“Yup,” replied Patsy. “Welcome to Woodland!”