The librarian scribbled down information for my new library card, pausing and lowering her glasses after I gave her my address. \u201cMy husband and I built that house,\u201d She said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Requesting the ID to borrow books had seemed like a way to root my family in the small Connecticut community we\u2019d moved to only a week earlier. But what were the chances she meant my address?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou mean where I live?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She smiled, perhaps amused by my surprise, \u201cYes. It was back in \u201968. We even spent an extra $1,500 to put in a full basement.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI love the basement.\u201d Not all homes in our subdivision had them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She nodded, \u201cIt was worth every penny. We were there a while, but now we live closer to downtown.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The two of us chatted about the neighborhood. As I left with my daughter, the librarian welcomed us to the community. The small connection to my new house gave me a good feeling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Making a move here hadn\u2019t been in our plans. Six months earlier, the loss of my job had forced my husband and me to consider a less expensive home for our family. There was nothing scientific about our selection. We drew a bullseye on a map and found a house we could afford on a single salary. The main street was quaint. The schools were adequate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We packed our belongings and prayed for the best. Within a month of living here, a pattern emerged.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It started that day at the library. A moment I chalked off as coincidence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
During a trip to the local kid\u2019s haircutters, a mother waiting for her son began to chat with me. We discovered she knew my neighbor, we had two other acquaintances in common, and her son was in the same grade as my daughter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A week after that, as I waited for my daughter\u2019s park and recreation gymnastics class to end, I struck up a conversation with another waiting mom. She\u2019d moved in a few months before me and offered to show me around town. With our spare 45 minutes until class ended, we piled into her mini-van and I got a tour. During the ride, I learned her friend\u2019s son was in my daughter\u2019s class.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In case I didn\u2019t think the world I now existed in was small enough, at a PTO meeting, when introduced to another parent, she asked where I lived. When I told her, she said, \u201cOh, I grew up in that house.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s funny,\u201d I said. \u201cThe woman at the library told me she\u2019d built it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYup. She\u2019s my mom.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Every single one of these conversations left me surprisingly comfortable and connected in this new place. Like a necessary bolt in the cog of the community. I battled the coincidence versus destiny theory. It felt like destiny. My life here had snapped together as easily as two Legos.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Over time, the pattern continued. Every corner I rounded, a simple hello would unveil a thin thread connecting me in some way to a person I\u2019d never met before. How was it possible to land someplace quite at random then feel more at home than in the place I\u2019d been raised? Or, for that matter, any other place I\u2019d ever lived before.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Twenty-five years and we\u2019re still going strong. I love this place more than ever. Over time, I\u2019ve witnessed as friends and neighbors gather to support one another with the enthusiasm of the citizens of \u2018Whoville\u2019 on Christmas morning. We cheer during community events, be it to witness the annual high school homecoming parade or to honor the 200th birthday of P.T. Barnum, one of our most famous residents from years gone by. We gather for support, whether the tragedy of September 11th or ensuring the success of an annual fundraiser to honor the legacy of a three-year-old resident who\u2019d lost his life to cancer years earlier. Those funds help other area families facing similar struggles. Even the church we joined is a microcosm of everything we love about living here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We stand by our neighbors.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Recently, a local coffee shop found their rainbow-colored Pride flag removed and burned. A banner flew next to the spot where the flag had been hung that read, \u201cKindness, community, strength \u2026 we\u2019ll get through this together.\u201d The outcry in the town could be heard far and wide. There was a public event to show the business our support. Pride flags began to appear everywhere, too many to count. The town\u2019s first selectman issued a Proclamation to the business in support of their right to display the flag and express their ideals without intimidation or fear. Going forward, the town vowed to show its support by displaying the Pride flag at the municipal center on the anniversary of Proclamation Day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Moving here I learned the meaning of the word community. It defined the difference between having a place to live versus what it means to truly be at home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My town is set amidst other communities of more affluence. But its people are proud, salt-of-the-earth New Englanders who understand our outreach to each other makes us stronger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
While I might\u2019ve found this place with very little thought, I\u2019m certain that it\u2019s no coincidence my family landed here. I\u2019m grateful to the hands of fate, for pushing me in the direction of a place I could finally call home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And that banner near the coffee house flag reads to me like an ingredient list for the type of place I\u2019m proud to live. Where kindness, community, and strength are a way of life.<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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