Welcome to the Neighborhood - Clothing Optional

You never really know a place until you’ve met the people. Sometimes it’s a handshake, sometimes it’s a wave from across the fence. . . and sometimes it’s something you could never have prepared for, no matter how many small towns you’ve lived in. When we moved to our northern hideaway I thought I’d seen every kind of neighborly welcome. I was wrong. Very, very wrong.

I grew up in a small town in southern New Hampshire, back before the interstate was open. That’s right—before GPS, before computers and smartphones, when TV stations went off the air at midnight, and when people still knew the names of the cows in the neighbor’s pasture. Our little town had the essentials: a small store with worn wood floors and gas pumps out front, old men on the porch “whittling” while they gossiped, a part-time post office, a part-time library, a Chevy dealership, and a seasonal hamburger stand that served up greasy magic in a paper box. If you didn’t know everyone’s business you were either new or unconscious.

These days, suburbia’s swallowed the place. The general store’s now just another gas station. The cows are gone, everyone has matching lawn furniture, and people give you side-eye for saying hello. The charm’s gone, along with the days you could borrow sugar and a lawnmower in the same breath.

So in 2001, with retirement on the horizon and traffic jams stretching longer than an Easter sermon, my husband and I headed north. Not “just outside town” north. Not “up by the lake” north. No, we went full-tilt, as-far-north-as-you-can-go-without-learning-French kind of north. The kind where GPS gets confused, cell service is just a suggestion, and if you see moose tracks in the yard, well, that's just Tuesday.

We landed in a tiny town where more dogs are registered than voters, roads are barely paved, and distance is measured in time, not miles. The nearest “big town” has 2,000 people, no traffic light, and a volunteer fire department.

People here are a particular kind of wonderful. They’re simple, hard working folk who might be loggers, mill workers, carpenters or mechanics. Many work at the nearby Ethan Allen plant or are health care workers at the local 16 bed hospital. Many are locals who grew up here, and some are retired folks who moved here to disappear into the woods. Their hands are calloused, their trucks are muddy, and they’d give you the shirt off their back—though sometimes you’ll wish they hadn’t. These are folks who'll pull you out of a ditch with their tractor and never mention it again.

Which brings me to meeting my across-the-road neighbor.

We’d just moved in—boxes still stacked in the mudroom. I’d made a supply run to the “big city,” which is “close by” only if you think an hour and a half qualifies. It has a Home Depot, a Walmart, and a Burger King that gets your order wrong in the exact same way every single time. It was a late Saturday afternoon. I was tired, cranky, and just wanted to get home and unpack the slow cooker I swore I’d actually use this time.

That’s when I saw him.

Standing in the middle of the road. Stark. Raving. Buck. Naked. And drunk—couldn’t-pass-a-sobriety-test-if-it-were-multiple-choice drunk.

Not “lost track of my shirt” drunk. No, this man had been communing with the liquor cabinet in a biblical sense. He swayed like a pine tree in a nor’easter. Whatever he’d been drinking hit like three fingers of moonshine and a hug from Dolly Parton.

As I slowed my car (because who wouldn’t slow down for a man whose only accessory was a farmer’s tan?), he shouted, “Howdy, neighbor! I’m the guy across the road! Welcome to the neighborhood!”

Now, there are many ways to meet a new neighbor:

• A wave from across the fence.

• A plate of cookies.

• A dog wandering into your yard followed by an apology and an introduction.

This was not on the list.

He pointed to his house, just in case I thought he was some feral mountain man fresh from the woods. “That’s my place—right across from you!”

Yes, sir. That sure cleared it up.

I’d love to say I had a clever response—something neighborly like, “Nice to meet you. I’ll bring over a casserole. . . with a lid.” I didn’t. I did what any respectable New Englander would: nodded politely, like meeting someone’s uncle at a funeral, and kept driving. What do you say to a man standing in his birthday suit like he’s auditioning for a Calvin Klein ad on a budget?

Here’s the kicker: once he sobered up and found his pants, he turned out to be a fantastic neighbor. The kind who digs your car out of a snowbank, snow-blows your mailbox after the plow buries it for the fourth time that day, and shows up with jumper cables in January. And never mentions the time he greeted you wearing nothing but a hangover and a smile.

That’s what I love about this place—it’s unpredictable, real, raw. One day you’re chatting at the feed store, wondering if farmer Joe will get his hay in on time. The next you’re waving back at a man who clearly skipped a step in getting dressed that morning.

Moral of the story:

• Don’t let first impressions be your last impression.

• Don’t judge a man by his clothes—or noticeable lack thereof.

Because sometimes, the guy who greets you in the nude turns out to be the one who’d give you the shirt off his back. If, you know. . . he remembered to wear one.

Out here, life between the fenceposts isn’t always tidy, predictable, or fully clothed—but it’s never boring.

Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.