A Small Town

She has moved approximately thirty times in the forty years that she's been alive. Nearly all of her moving has been confined to the small town of Moscow Idaho. Three attempts have been made to escape the stigma of people saying, "You've lived HERE your whole life?" A large majority of young people that live in Moscow are college students, just here for a short time to earn a degree. They come from all over, a good many from other small towns throughout Idaho. Some dream of getting out and doing something different than what their parents did, moving on to better things not yet realized. College students and young kids finishing high school often express their eagerness towards leaving--how they can't wait to get out of this place. As if "this place" is a dirty word and to stay would mean death or worse yet, settling.

The first attempt at leaving was rooting in fleeing from what she had always known; the same people; the same drunken nights of boredom; family; old boyfriends; and dead end jobs. Fleeing a whole eight miles away, yes, you guessed it--Pullman Washington. A person could argue that this was not really escaping, but if you don't own a car, it makes the eight miles seem like a hundred. You are transported to a new world, one that you never really got to know through the years of only being minutes away, but instead, just passed through to get to somewhere else more exciting. The second attempt was a more concrete move to Tacoma Washington, (so near the big metropolis of Seattle) so many cars, more clubs, and a place to stay that included a swimming pool. No sooner had she finally gotten up the courage to drive in this fast paced new city, when it began to rain. Giant drops of rain that fell harder than she had ever seen in her life--it felt like the car was being pounded with tiny balls, and the windshield wipers couldn't swipe away the river of water pouring down. Pulling over and waiting the thunderstorm out was the only option as she couldn't even see to drive. She lasted just two weeks and was quickly running back to the safety of good old Moscow. Her third breakout was a little less of a challenge, only thirty-eight miles south of Moscow to Clarkston Washington (It seems interesting that all of these flights have been to the state of Washington). Clarkston, and the bordering town of Lewiston Idaho, share the unfortunate smell of the paper mill that employs most of its' inhabitants, along with being ten degrees hotter than Moscow. Locals promise that you will get used to the smell, but you know if you do, you will never get out so you complain every chance you get.

The last time that I tried to get out of Moscow for good was nearly sixteen years ago. I'm drawn to this place with the rolling green and brown hills, with fluffy white clouds that looks as if they should be in a painting. The smell of the land when they burn to turn the soil; walking through town seeing familiar faces; businesses that have been here for years, and concerts in the park with people dancing to their own tune. A place that people feel comfortable enough to leave their doors unlocked at night, where you can go to town for ice cream and be eating it within five minutes. I've come to love this place that I've called home for so long, a place where people are born; pass through; stay for just a little longer; retire; decide they love as adults; and those who just can't leave--even though they thought they despised it as children.