I don't technically live in a small town. I love in a mediumish town, nestled around a lot of bigger towns. But sometimes, it feels like I do. I can walk across the street to go the Farmer's Market every Friday and Saturday in August. I can also walk across the street to go to the local swimming pool, feed the ducks, find a running trail, or take Lucy to the playground. We watch Fireworks from our front lawn, have concerts in the park, and for the last week, we can hear the baseball game from our open windows at night. We love where we live. We love that come Independence Day we pack up our blankets, walk half a block, and watch our quirky little parade with all our neighbors. The Murray Parade may not be the shiniest, and it certainly isn't the fanciest, but it is ours. This is the first place we have lived, in our 12 years of marriage, where we have felt intimately connected to our hood and I like to think of Lucy and Jack making memories here.
Remember the parade, mom, where they wanted us to save the Prairie Dogs?
Or when we went swimming and went down the blue monster?
And got ice cream in the park? The orange building that our neighbor runs, and gives out free kiddie cones?
One day we will have to leave, because 780 square feet on the main level is pretty small for two adults, two kids and a dog who weighs more than most of us. But for right now, at this start of our family, this memory making home is magical.