Member-only story
I’m Glad I Grew Up Far From NYC
And equally glad I got here when I did
I was nine years old when we moved to Lodi, Ohio from western New York State. The town we moved from, Randolph, was even smaller than Lodi. In 1967, Lodi boasted a population of some 3,000 nice, white people who could not mind their business. But it was also the kind of place that was considered safe enough for us kids to jump on our bikes and take off for the day as long as we were home in time to set the table for dinner.
We were small-town people. The town my Mom grew up in, Rixford Pennsylvania, had a population of under 500 when we’d go there for Christmas every year. Because it was situated among several nearly played-out oilfields, I’m guessing there used to be more people there, but not many more. It didn’t have that hollowed-out look like Bradford did on the other side of the Looker Mountain.
My Dad didn’t even grow up in town. His father worked for the Allegheny National Park Service and they lived on park land.
Small-town life is often held up to as some kind of ideal way to live. I blame American television and advertising of the ’40s and ’50s. And Norman Rockwell. What a bill of goods that guy sold this country.
Then again, look at the photo above and contrast that with this one:
