I grew up in a lower middle class subarb of Detroit in a house always bustling with activity. I didn't know stillness, nor did I even imagine that that was something I wanted. Then, at the age of 21, I moved to Wyoming; mostly because of Larry. He had spent a couple of years in Colorado Springs before we had met and had always wanted to return to the mountains. These were pre-internet days so when a friend of ours was planning a honeymoon roadtrip out west, Larry asked her to bring back newspapers from the nicer towns they visited. And, whether it was fate, or luck, or whatever, we chose to head to Sheridan where I felt immediately "at home". We ended up in a cabin on the creek in nearby Story and now, 22 years later, we're still here.
When my parents visited us for the first time my Dad exclaimed "you really live in the middle of nowhere!". "Yeah", we responded, "isn't it great?!" I'm not so sure he thought so, nor do probably most of our friends and relatives who find themselves visiting us, but we do. Last week I returned to Michigan for my parents 50th Wedding Anniversary and found myself completely unprepared for the culture shock I was experiencing. Somehow 22 years of isolation has left me completely disoriented in the face of the "real" world. Don't get me wrong, I managed to navigate through the airports, shuttles, car rentals, expressways, hotels, malls, restaurants, and backroads but I felt completely misplaced in the process. I understand (and love) that we live in a vast and diverse country, and having spent a year in Arkansas during the 90's, I even know that there are subcultures within this country that I am unwilling (or unable) to live in. Yet, I was still completely unprepared for how alien I felt in the very place I grew up. Zoe, having known nothing but solitude, loved it. We spent Saturday at the Ann Arbor Art Fair which was one of her first real urban art experiences. We stopped by the mall, the Detroit Zoo, and attended family gatherings. She fished for the first time, drove a 4 wheeler for the first time, shot a pellet gun for the first time, road a subway for the first time, and had her first Dunkin Donut. The night we arrived she commented that it seemed like everyone in Michigan was on steroids because their pace was so much different than ours. But within just a few days she (unlike me) seemed to have caught up with them.
Anyways, we have a quaint little grocery store who's motto is "Heaven is Another Story, Wyoming". I imagine most of Story's 600 hermits feel wholeheartedly that that's true. But there is at least one teenager here who definitely disagrees!
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