Scale

The Oneonta celebration of MLK’s birthday had been postponed because of stormy weather. It was held this past Sunday at Temple Beth El at the start of a few warm days following the visit of the polar vortex (which was as bad as it sounds). The beautiful sanctuary was packed and sun streamed in the big windows. The audience was mostly white, which was not surprising for this very white community, and the African Americans mostly sat in the back or on the sides. But the speakers and performers were of both races, and some were quite good. The program was well organized, alternating brief speeches with music and singing. There was nothing momentous or compelling about it, except the very fact of its occurrence. There was a bit of interesting history about abolitionists in the area before the Civil War, and an interesting report on an organization working to stop the sale of Confederate flags at local county fairs. But for the most part, the status quo here is not horrible. Our purple congressional district, NY19, actually threw out a ghastly Republican and elected a black lawyer, which would have been unthinkable a decade ago. But mostly, the status quo is not horrible because the minority population is modest in size and voice.

We went because it seemed, in a community this size, that our presence might matter. I’ve been thinking about the scale of community here, and how it affects my choices. On Saturday night we went to a lovely little concert by Buffalo Rose, a young, talented, energetic sextet. Four of us filled a quarter of a row, seats that would have been empty if we had stayed home. The room was nearly full, and the average age a little younger than usual. The group was warmly received, and the lead singer expressed her delight at performing for an audience that actually came to listen. Several of the performers we’ve seen at the Otesaga Hotel have commented on what a beautiful venue it is and how attentive the audience is. People come to enjoy themselves, not to rate the performers. They don’t spend a fortune on their seats ($15 for seniors), or on dinner out (delicious goat curry at Alex’s for me), and parking is free and plentiful. They don’t chose among a plethora of options on any given night – the choice is more often between going out or staying home.

I like living in a community where my presence at an event makes the difference between a full seat or an empty one. I like supporting local organizations where my support makes a real difference to my neighbors. I like eating at the Hartwick Restaurant, knowing that we are helping Silvio keep that struggling little business alive. The scale of communal life here seems human. I look at people raising young families here, and it seems like a healthy choice. Kids can be out on their bikes (although not when it’s minus 12). And if the Cooperstown High School is not among the top schools in the country, it is a place where each kid will be known and noticed, a school where you can get onto the basketball team even if you’re not a great player, a school where every senior is in the senior play. I don’t think I romanticize the virtues of small town life. I know that most people will need to leave in their 20s to find decent careers. And I know that rural poverty is far crueler than urban poverty in many ways. I know too that growing up with the lack of diversity in this area is a real loss for kids, and ill equips them for the global economy they’ll work in. I certainly have no regrets about raising my daughter in the dense and diverse Bay Area, and I’m hugely grateful for the amazing professional opportunities I had. But for me, for now, the scale of life here is a good fit.

I can’t close without a note of gratitude for temperatures in the 40s. In the gym this morning the coat rack was full of lighter coats and there were a lot of short jackets. Everyone’s spirits seemed a little lighter too after more than a week of brutal cold. Back on the hill, Charlie and I walked down to the mailbox and his little feet didn’t freeze. The roadside snow is filthy, covered in mud from the snow melt on the road, but I’ll happily take a few days of mud. I suppose, in a way, this is a question of scale too. The seasons are broken into manageable chunks. Winter is not just one long freeze, not just one big snow drift to wade through.