pop. 577

I've been spending some time in a small Montana town. A place where history is alive in memory, where the word 'townsfolk' springs to mind. But also where that word seems too general.

In places like this, every individual is known. A certain man in a certain house on the edge of the school playground is fondly remembered by a Montana poet laureate for being both ornery and a great mentor to the youth. A town council considers serious infrastructure issues and which residents might be able to volunteer some time. A depression-era town father is honored for the public fruit orchard he established, so no one in town would ever go hungry again.

There is a dear earnestness here. While small towns, surely, are not all peace, love, and accord, there is still a pervasive spirit of personal and collective responsibility: "it's up to us to figure this out." In small communities, where every stranger must stand out like an orange among apples, I have been charmed by the genuine welcome of such hearty people.