urban and rural life
I lived downtown for decades. To me it was home. I feel the same nostalgia for downtown as others do for their old home neighborhoods. It wasn't until I moved to suburbia that I saw my old neighborhood as the neon-lit, drug-dealing, bug-infested main drag that it is. To be fair, that is an appropriate description of it by night, when respectable persons such as myself are safely bedded down with a comforter, herbal tea and Jay Leno.
One of the main issues in considering urban and rural life is crime. This is where the press steps in as the great equalizer. Out here in the back of beyond, crimes are reported with the same emphasis and frequency as in the downtown core. The headlines are the same size; the quotes from the police chief are as numerous; the plaints of despairing citizens are as distraught. I continued under the impression that crime is as bad out here in the greenery as it is in the cement cityscape. What I failed to notice was the extremity of the crimes. In our local rag, spray-painting cars is given the same hype as the city newspaper gives to looting and pillaging after the Stanley Cup series. Of murders we have none, though the tragic degradations inflicted by pickpockets at the mall seem almost as serious.
Another issue is privacy. This, too, is deceptive. Downtown, my nearest neighbour was on the other side of my wall. At the house, my nearest neighbour is two hundred yards away. Surprisingly, it was the downtown apartment that provided not only privacy, but anonymity. This was based on a mutual lack of curiosity which is considered basic etiquette in crowded buildings. To my dismay, my solitary splendor in the garden is the object of unceasing curiosity on the part of retired, bored neighbors.
Downtown, we had citizen-alerts for serial killers. Out here, we had a citizen-alert for a lost, confused, and lonely owl who would swoop down, land heavily on any hat, and try to mate with it. This kind of thing gives outings a piquant edge of danger unrivalled by anything downtown. Admittedly, downtown’s dangers can be lethal, but their avoidance becomes humdrum. Enthusiasm is not a trait much exercised in urban centers, probably because the crowding makes it impractical and inadvisable. Rural enthusiasm for issues such as vandalism, theft, littering, and demented owls gives a bit of a zing to my otherwise drab existence. We are kept on our toes by frequent communication from our law enforcement officer who, I am delighted to say, is named Constable Kissmate.
Two years of gardening, starry skies, local enthusiasm and Constable Kissmate have not yet cured my homesickness. I still long for my old neon-lit, drug-dealing, bug-infested neighborhood. Yet I know that it’s too late to go back. The last time I was downtown, I thought the buildings were tall and I had forgotten how to jaywalk. It will be the rural life for me.
One of the main issues in considering urban and rural life is crime. This is where the press steps in as the great equalizer. Out here in the back of beyond, crimes are reported with the same emphasis and frequency as in the downtown core. The headlines are the same size; the quotes from the police chief are as numerous; the plaints of despairing citizens are as distraught. I continued under the impression that crime is as bad out here in the greenery as it is in the cement cityscape. What I failed to notice was the extremity of the crimes. In our local rag, spray-painting cars is given the same hype as the city newspaper gives to looting and pillaging after the Stanley Cup series. Of murders we have none, though the tragic degradations inflicted by pickpockets at the mall seem almost as serious.
Another issue is privacy. This, too, is deceptive. Downtown, my nearest neighbour was on the other side of my wall. At the house, my nearest neighbour is two hundred yards away. Surprisingly, it was the downtown apartment that provided not only privacy, but anonymity. This was based on a mutual lack of curiosity which is considered basic etiquette in crowded buildings. To my dismay, my solitary splendor in the garden is the object of unceasing curiosity on the part of retired, bored neighbors.
Downtown, we had citizen-alerts for serial killers. Out here, we had a citizen-alert for a lost, confused, and lonely owl who would swoop down, land heavily on any hat, and try to mate with it. This kind of thing gives outings a piquant edge of danger unrivalled by anything downtown. Admittedly, downtown’s dangers can be lethal, but their avoidance becomes humdrum. Enthusiasm is not a trait much exercised in urban centers, probably because the crowding makes it impractical and inadvisable. Rural enthusiasm for issues such as vandalism, theft, littering, and demented owls gives a bit of a zing to my otherwise drab existence. We are kept on our toes by frequent communication from our law enforcement officer who, I am delighted to say, is named Constable Kissmate.
Two years of gardening, starry skies, local enthusiasm and Constable Kissmate have not yet cured my homesickness. I still long for my old neon-lit, drug-dealing, bug-infested neighborhood. Yet I know that it’s too late to go back. The last time I was downtown, I thought the buildings were tall and I had forgotten how to jaywalk. It will be the rural life for me.
© Chris McDonough 2012