City boy enjoys small town Christmas

Before moving to Havre, I didn’t believe small towns existed, much less small town Christmases. It was a myth, all of it, fantasies invented and romanticized in Sherwood Anderson and Larry Watson books.

Sure, I’d driven through quaint southern small towns and devoured the most delicious, succulent, fresh-smoked homemade Tennessee barbecue ever known to mankind. But the southern small towns I passed through weren’t real. For all I knew, they were part of a set, a real-life “Truman Show.” None of the people I exchanged words with in small towns throughout the Promised Land had ever convinced me they lived there. And though I’d met people who moved to Atlanta all the time, I’d never met someone from a small town. If there are so many small town folks in America who want to leave, as John Mellencamp suggests, where the heck do they all go?

I moved to Havre last November. I’d read Watson’s “Montana 1948” and had finally found a decent excuse to live in Montana: writing for a newspaper. I’d never been a reporter, but heck, I wasn’t about to start ranching or growing wheat.

One of my first assignments for the Havre Daily was to cover the Christmas Parade of Lights and Christmas Stroll in Chinook.

All of sudden I found myself face-to-face with people who swore up and down they lived in a small town. I met farmers and ranchers, butchers and coaches and barmaids, shop owners — they all said they lived there. I remember talking to a woman who had also moved from a big city. Sure it sucks how hard it is to find good food on the Hi-Line, she said, but it still beats living in the city.

As parade time neared, people in the Eagles bar left their beers and wine glasses, slipped into their jackets, capped off their heads and joined others who were already waiting on the Main Street sidewalks. Some groups of people had surrounded the lamppost-like heater apparatuses spaced out along the sidewalks. A mother was holding her toddler like an offering to the glowing flame. Another group was discussing how glad they were for the heat wave that day. The scalding 4 degrees was much preferred to the negative temperatures they’d been accustomed to in past years.

The parade was like watching a spaceship land. It was like stepping back into the ’40s. I was like the kid who’d been too clever to believe in Santa watching a jolly fat man in a red suit effortlessly land in my fireplace. It was surreal.

A large flatbed truck was hauling a group of football players who had won the state championship. Someone was driving a firetruck and waving. Proving there are no rules to parades, a few folks had hopped on their four-wheelers and decided to join the parade.

I’m sure I’d seen parades before, but I was probably a drop in a sea of people and Santa a distant  buoy distorted by a fog of chaos.

And then there was Santa with Mrs. Claus. They were in a sleigh, exuberantly waving to the crowd. A giant red sleigh! Santa was so close I could run up to him and tug on his beard. And in case I’d later think it all a dream, the parade looped and marched down main street — again!

Where I come from, Christmas means that any road within 10 miles of a mall becomes a slow-moving parking lot — all day. Christmas means that any road out of the 10-mile radius of the mall becomes a faster moving parking lot; it means when you go to events, you better tack an extra hour for finding a parking space and walking to and from said parking space; it means you’ll spend more time in the checkout line than you will shopping; it means, if you’re lucky enough to travel on a free-flowing highway, there’s a chance someone who waited too long to do his Christmas shopping will probably ruin that.

I always thought one of the nicer things about Christmas was the warm fuzzy feeling you get. Christmas is a reminder there are still pockets of peace in the world — and therefore hope. Sometimes, Christmas is just the incentive needed to get through arduous times. It’s an excuse to put up lights and to buy gifts for people we don’t necessarily like but are related to. For some of us, Christmas is one of two times a year we go to church and hear the traditional Christmas story.

Yesterday I was walking to work and I passed a popular pizza place on Second Street. It was almost noon but the restaurant was closed. In the doorway was a sign that said the restaurant will be closed until Dec. 27.

That’s Christmas in a small town. I’ll take it any year.