Thieves and vandals don’t exist in Middle Georgia.
On the corner of N. Dugger Avenue and W. Cruselle Street sits Bob’s, its sign printed in four black words separated by large dots: Discount • Beer • Cigarettes • Groceries.
At the corner rest two gas pumps, long out of service. In front, between, and around them are decorations that change with the season. It’s mid-October now, so bales of hay flank the pumps. Scarecrows stand guard, pumpkins spill across the ground, and extra-large orange bows — tied by someone who knows how to bow — complete the display.
“We could never have something like that in Maple Valley,” Paula says, taking in the scene while reflecting on crime rates in her neck of the woods in western Washington.
I’ve become happily oblivious to that world. It’s been over a year since I handed over the key to a locking mailbox, trading it for a simple, dome-shaped one that anyone can open, anytime.
Her words — we could never — echo as I stroll block by block through downtown Perry, Georgia. The neighboring town, ever charming, looks like a Super Bowl commercial come to life.
Storefronts display chalkboard menus with looping “y’s” and playful drink names like Sips. At every corner stands a QR code for the annual scarecrow contest — entries like DogMan, Fancy Nancy, and Alice in Wonderland trapped inside a milk-carton-sized house.
As I pause at each creative display and am passed by other slow-moving strollers, I feel my heart swell and open — like a mouth at the dentist’s drill. But instead of pain, instead of the sharp zing that shoots down your spine, I feel wonder. Camaraderie. Joy.
A quiet sense rises in me: This is living. This is how it’s supposed to be.
I keep playing with this idea.
Like when I had a tongue ring — that small bar with two metal balls I’d twist and roll across my tongue — I turn this thought over and over in my mind:
This moment, and the next, are perfect. Just as they are. Just for me.
Evelyn’s foot is up on the chair as she nibbles at her strawberry ice cream. Archie snoozes on the carpet at the threshold between the kitchen and the living room. Dave, my dad, and Paula sit together, the Mariners game on, their voices rising and falling with each play.
And this feeling — it’s right in the center of my chest. It comes and goes like waves on a stormy night, crashing against the rocky shore. I play traffic cop — a confident, seasoned one — directing the chaos, telling it to wait its turn.
It’s all going to be okay, I remind myself when the drumbeat quickens. Not just okay — right.
And the decision of how it all goes isn’t up to me.
So I release my grip on the wheel, lean my seat back, press the cruise control, and ride.
Ride.
Ride.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 