Dear World: I Am Confused About People

Do we like them????? We like people, right????????

I’m Ash, and I’m a writer, traveler, nonconformist & nomad, and every week I’m sharing funny field notes from around the world. Currently, I’m in America writing about what it’s been like to return home to my small town, twenty years after living abroad.

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“The wreath on the side of your house looks like shit” a new acquaintance tells me from across the bar.

“Your face looks like shit, you inconsiderable nut job” I wanted to reply, but instead, said “awwww, but it’s homemade!” like a spineless baby.

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The other day a neighbor stopped by. Told me my roof would look better if it were pointed. Thank you, I said dryly. I’m very much looking forward to visiting his house so I can offer my opinion on his curtains.

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Yesterday I had to get an X-ray on my neck because my right arm falls asleep every single night, even if I’m not on it, even if it’s up, even if it’s down, and even if I pretend I am Scarlett Johansson. The only way it doesn’t fall asleep is if I’m on my side, grabbing my own ass. (Which is not as good as Scarlett Johansson’s.) So I went into the supermarket to get a pack of masks to enter the hospital, as the hospital requires, and couldn’t find them anywhere. Finally, I asked the pharmacist and she laughed at me. “We haven’t had masks in forever.”

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The doctor, however, is PHENOMENAL. She is plump, in her early 50s, with dark hair and a kind and gentle cabbage patch face. She spends forty-five whole minutes talking to me about my background, my life, my weird arm, my magnificent weight gain, and whether or not I have a brain tumor. You know, because I’m convinced I have a brain tumor. I’m sure that’s probably a bit much (maybe?!?!), but I do tell her that we should probably rule it out, as these decisions I’m making lately are uproariously out of character. There’s the fact that I’ve just up and come back to my hometown in the middle of rural America after twenty years abroad; there’s the fact that I’ve randomly purchased a huge old farmhouse on 5 acres of land and no clue how to plunge a toilet; there’s the fact I even recently found myself wondering—like a real psycho—if I should, uh….have a baby? (DO NOT TELL ANYONE I EVER SAID THAT. I DON’T EVEN WANT A BABY! WHAT IS IN THIS WATER???????? AM I HIGH?????????????????????????)

(I don’t get high. So, see what I mean? BRAIN TUMOR.)

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Maybe wreath guy has a brain tumor.

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It’s only $60 for the doctor visit. This feels like a steal! My insurance covers it, including the X-rays, but if you can’t afford it, there’s a sliding scale. I see signs everywhere in the office: “No patient will be denied based on their ability to pay.” That’s nice.

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I had forgotten how insurance-centric everything is in the United States. Everyone’s asking me for my insurance card, my date of birth, and even some fun other categories, like what my mother’s maiden name was (are we sketching out my family tree?) and whether or not I have a pointed roof.

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In Costa Rica, nobody cares who you are: you walk in, hand them forty bucks, tell them which X-ray you want, and they do it on the spot. Now that I think of it, it’s like the Uber of X-rays: on-demand, anytime. That is, perhaps, more convenient.

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The bill from the electrician is equally marvellous / startling / generous / CAN THIS BE RIGHT?????. So far, he’s installed all-new electric baseboard heaters in THE ENTIRE BOTTOM FLOOR of the farmhouse, swapped out SEVEN different light fixtures—two of which were huge chandeliers—and changed all the outlets and light switches in the kitchen, for you know how much money???

THREE-HUNDRED DOLLARS.

There are advantages to country living.

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One day, the electrician and the stone mason were coming to do some work. They were pulling into my cottage driveway, which is down a little ways from the main farmhouse. They had their turn signal on, ready to turn. That’s when a pick-up truck pulled up next to them. “Where do you boys think you’re going????” the man’s voice booms. Turns out, it was my 92-year-old neighbor, Roger—who owns a farmhouse nextdoor—determined to give ‘em hell. Who knew I’d have such tight security?

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Roger’s wife died last year. He is very lonely. He spends his days going from restaurant to restaurant, starting in the morning, and then again for lunch, and then again in the evening, where he’ll drink a pint of Guinness and hand out his business card.

“I’m retired,” he’ll say. “But here’s my card.”

You’ll accept it. Flip it over. And then laugh: both sides are blank.

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The first day I met Roger, I was out in the yard, tearing out the kitchen in the cottage. He pulled up in his truck, hopped out, and came to say hello with the enthusiasm of a mall greeter. Then, he told me he wrote a book—a memoir of his life—and, would I like a copy? “I wrote one, too!” I replied excitedly. Then, I ran up the hill, into the house, and got a copy of The Middle Finger Project. Should you give a 92-year-old conservative war vet a copy of a book called The Middle Finger Project? REMAINS TO BE SEEN. But so far, Roger and I are getting along just fine.

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Must stop typing. Arm fell asleep.

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JUST KIDDING, I AM A MACHINE. (!!!!!!!)

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Took a four wheeler ride in the rain across 300 acres of land. I have never felt so free.

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An eight-year-old boy is helping me weed the garden. (Child labor and all.) At one point, it comes up that the previous owners of the farmhouse were from Philadelphia. He wrinkles his nose and says “ewwwwwwwwww, people from Philadelphia are mean!” and I say, “but I’m from Philadelphia and I’m not mean,” and then he says “hmmmmmmmmm.” He reflects for a moment, and then sweetly, thoughtfully asks: “What’s it like to live in a city?”

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I tell the little boy it’s a grand adventure. I tell him everything is BIG. I tell him dreams are everywhere. I tell him that the city is like being inside one big high school gymnasium, with everybody cheering. I tell him about the oysters from the ocean, and the pizza slices from Italy, and the food trucks from Thailand, and that you can get big, giant bottles of orange soda delivered right to your front door, anytime you want. I tell him of the theater, and the opera, and the people who make fairytales for a living. I tell him of the stores, the shops, the streets, the way you can walk for hours and never reach the end. I tell him of the lights. I tell him of the sounds. I tell him of the smells. I tell him that it’s like being at the world’s biggest fair.

And then I think that maybe this is what I am meant to do: I am meant to mentor young people, to encourage them to believe in themselves, to show them how to see the world.

(And that people from other places are not mean.)

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It’s supposed to snow this weekend. Lots of snow. The kind of snow you’d need a snowblower for.

I was supposed to till the ground before this happened. Plant my seeds. Plant some tulips. Make this place look like a verifiable English garden.

But, it will wait until spring.

Which is my attitude about most things, right now: it’s okay, there’s no rush, you are allowed to stay quiet, this is a season of wintering.

And, perhaps that’s what I’m really doing here back in my hometown: curling up in a safe, warm place so I can blossom even bigger. Sometimes, rest is the hard work that needs to be done. Sometimes, tenderness is the ambition we really need. And sometimes, the only way forward is by remaining still.

Unless, of course, you really do have a brain tumor.

Then we’ll form a club and make wreaths.