The incremental changes that occur on a daily basis are never really seen nor acknowledged, except in hindsight.
They describe the place in terms of it being Mayberry (the fictional town for the 50’s show that can still be found in the nose bleed section of cable channels late at night, provided as a community service for easing late night suicidal thoughts), smack dab at a hundred miles from any metropolitan center either west or east on the highway. They describe it as a place where everyone knows everything about everyone else, in intimate details that may or may not be the reality of what happened or occurred. They describe the countryside as pristine and mild, sitting on a thrust of land that over looks forests and twisting rivers that carve the countryside into bisects of islets and pastures. They describe the movement of time as being different there, a central time allotment, dragging with an ease that can be heard in the drawl and song of the words spoken and heard.
Who knows what the reality of it will all be, whether the promised Mayberry will turn into a purgatory, measured with a testing of ones metal and acumen, or instead far exceed all expectations and truly be the eddy in the stream. Days turn into weeks, weeks into months, time effectively spinning quickly away. The opportunity though, is the pace, space, and cadence that can be offered. If all goes as planned, fireflies will once again be viewed rising from the grasses in the early July heat, dancing for a moment in light, before falling from view to the wet earth below. S by my side will begin to see the world that I tried to describe, not like Mayberry, but of ancestral spaces, filled with twangs of speech, and summer rains that choke the air with thick humidity, cicada songs disturbing the nights darkness.