I wasn’t really thrilled about it, but circumstances dictated that I make several trips and spend several days in the concrete and asphalt jungle of Salt Lake City this summer. I know. The wide streets and crisp right angles of every city block in SLC can hardly compare to the urban chaos that is New York or Detro it, but my simple forays into Twin Falls, Idaho, population 54,000, cause me moderate to severe angst, so it’s not a real surprise that thoughts of spending any extended time along Utah’s heavily populated Wasatch Front invite a Great Salt Lake-sized, city-induced headache. It's not that I can’t appreciate the cultural significance and societal advantages of large population centers, it’s just that most cities, and even moderate-sized towns, are hundreds of miles outside of my comfort zone.
Since I was in town anyway and had an afternoon and an evening to kill, I called an old friend of mine, who lived 50 miles south of the city, to see if he and his wife wanted to meet for lunch to catch up and swap lies. We met at a quaint little bistro not far from downtown and spent the next couple of hours reacquainting and reminiscing about the past and filling each other in on our respective families’ triumphs, trials and misadventures. Because it’s such a part of who I am, part of the conversation eventually got around to some of my time-consuming, poor to non-paying volunteer jobs like the county fair, Farm Bureau, coaching and church responsibilities, and how such things restricted when and how I spent my time. At one point, my longtime friend leaned across the table, looked me square in the eye and uttered a truth I’d never considered before. With just a pinch of sarcasm and in an understated tone, so as not to overplay his desired effect, he wryly stated, “You do realize that you can say no, don’t you?”
By golly! He was right. For a moment, time was suspended as my mind explored the possibilities. No more stress about lining up judges, no more passive-aggressive arguments with well-intentioned yet misinformed parents, no more late-night meetings and missed suppers, no more imaginative excuses for arriving late to the next appointment. I was almost giddy as the endorphins flooded my being. I could be free! As my awareness momentarily floated above the scene, however, another picture came into view – kind of blurry and impressionistic at first, like a Van Gogh countryside. It wasn’t the clearest picture, but it was oddly soothing and reassuring, like the view of 400 cows strung out for 2 miles through the brush as they make their way up the draw.
As my consciousness floated back to reality, I acknowledged the logic of my friend’s sentiment. I reckoned he was right. And I reckoned my life would certainly be easier if I were to heed his advice. But I also conceded that such an imaginary utopia would probably never exist in my world. And right then and there, I quietly thanked the heavens for my world.
I’m by no means under the grand delusion that goodness, determination and a strong work ethic exist only in a rural setting. Most of the world’s population lives far removed, in every way, from our seemingly idyllic way of life, but integrity and grit are natural byproducts of the lifestyle. So whether it’s by choice or by some quasi-forced means, rural folk are naturally drawn to and influenced by our better angels. And I believe those better angels encourage, if not compel us to say yes, even when saying no might seem to serve us better.
It’s what makes the hog show at the county fair or the small-time Pioneer Day parade work. It’s what gives summer jobs to country kids and teaches seventh grade girls how to make a layup. It’s what brings meals to shut-ins and comfort to the kid who just sold his first 4-H steer. It’s what gives solace to grief-stricken parents and calm to a community. It’s what makes us who we want to be when we can’t figure it out on our own.
As I parted ways with my dear friend that evening amid the vibrant commotion of the city, I had little doubt that he would have preferred my brand of chaos to his.
