I live in a small town.
There are under 10,000 souls in the sections that makeup our town. Each one is quick to criticize our small town, but equally quick to defend her in an attack from beyond her boundaries. I guess that qualifies us as family.
There is a certain sense of security in a small town that you find no where else. You are likely to know your neighbors (and their business whether you want to or not). If I were to go outside and yell for help right now, I’d get at least a half a dozen people running over. People let you know when something looks wrong at your house. It could be a strange car in front or a kid walking past repeatedly.
Your neighbors know where you usually go; and ask about you when you aren’t there.
I knew the minute my kids strayed from the streets they were permitted to be on.
We care for our own here.
There is also unspoken competition among Old Croydon, Croydon Acres, Croydon Manor and Barryville. Why Barryville? Not sure. Named after some guy named Barry I suppose. But let a neighbor encounter devastating trouble and everyone will rally around to collect for their needs and help out in anyway they can.
At the end of the day, we are all a middle class, blue collar, bedroom community. All of us.
There are a few stores, a few restaurants, bars (although a lot fewer than before), a bank, post office, gas stations and other places to get what you need and see people you know.
Our parks host concerts, and kids events and playground equipment. Neighbors gather to enjoy the day and talk. Even though our schools are becoming more “centralized “ and children travel to attend with others from other towns nearby, they all know one another. They are neighbors.
The area is rich in history. The Lenape tribes made their home by the Neshaminy creek. China and White Halls by the river that were converted into hospitals during the revolutionary and civil wars. Later they served as stops along the Underground Railroad and eventually a college then apartments. Those buildings are gone now. As are Grundy and Sunbury mansions, whose life times saw pre and post Colonial life. They even claimed that Sunbury was the most haunted building in the area. It’s gone now but the stories live on.
On the other hand, our train station stop along the famed Northeast corridor sports a beautiful station. Not stopping there, the area around the station received a much needed facelift. It does look nice now. People are still running over the medians, but not as much as before. And tractor trailers on their way to our industries by the river still get stuck under the serpentine train bridge. All. Of. The. Time.
We report when that happens to one another mostly via social media. Saving our friends and neighbors time and aggravation is just another way of watching out for them and entertaining ourselves with the story of how yet another truck was snared by the bridge in spite of the warning signs.
Our small town is a place that you can hate, love or exist in. Sometimes all three. But there is no place like it.