We are family

On Saturday I went to one of my favourite places to shop, the County Farm Centre. Not too many shops in this world where you can check out with four loaves of frozen bread dough, six pairs of “hot” socks, two bags of chicken breasts, Warfarin and a flashlight. If that isn’t just crazy great, the icing on the cake is that you know staff by name because they’re either your neighbours, former students, friends or all of those. It took me a long time to become the person who could truly appreciate this.

I was a big town girl. Born and raised in Toronto. For those of you know me, and many of you do, you might remember my first few years in the County, in the 1970s. I had read about “cultural shock” but didn’t really understand it. Where was the public transportation? Where were the “supermarkets”? And, how about my beloved Yorkdale Mall? The County didn’t have a Yorkville (where I was the people watcher), no Yonge Street and no TTC. Our first home in the County was about 10 kilometres outside of Picton on the road to Demorestville. Basically, to me at least, we were in the middle of nowhere and at the back of beyond. After 10 months of seclusion on the road to Demorestville we moved into the Town of Picton. Life became a bit more bearable and I began to get the hang of living in a close-knit community. People dropped by for a social visit and expected you’d do the same. The invitations to “drop by” for a cup of tea were never hollow. In the early seventies, this was a community so you had to mind your opinions; relatives were everywhere. “Oh, you musta met my brother. He works at Starks. Well, his wife’s brother is married to….” Don’t get me wrong. I lived in a “community” in Toronto, but there were over a million of us and the likelihood of such six degrees of separation were slim. It took a while to get used to just how close-knit this community was, back in the 1970s.

As I was getting to like the atmosphere of small town, the family farm, the small businesses and the closeness of this community, it became less appealing to young people and certainly wasn’t what many of the “new” County people really wanted. Operating a small business and the farm became more expensive. The pressure to mass produce and compete was overwhelming. And, for a couple of decades, the County had some serious changes to face. And not necessarily changes for the better. The small and close, somehow, became bad words. Folks were willing to drive to Belleville for entertainment, groceries, supplies and equipment. And there was The Mall.

In spite of this, over the next few years I stopped whining about living in a small town. I learned to love the community atmosphere just as it was slowly disappearing. As I was weaning myself from weekly trips on the 401 to my former “home,” I was slowly accepting the County just the way it used to be. Kids who graduate from the local high school still have no choice if they want a post-secondary kick-at-the-can, and have to leave to continue their education. Many of them just don’t bother to come home. Indeed, there still isn’t much for them to come home to, as it’s harder and harder for them to make a living in a community in transition. And the younger “city” people who migrate to the County to escape their city neighbourhoods, looking for an artisanal utopia, quickly learn it isn’t like the magazines and lifestyle shows. It’s hard work making a living here. But it is the County. It’s a beautiful place and hard work never hurt anyone. We just have to embrace and patronize the small, local businesses. We are a community, after all.

theresa@wellingtontimes.ca