The best thing about living in a small town is that everyone knows each other. And the worst thing about living in a small town is that everyone knows each other.
That’s a re-expression of comments made by small-town dwellers wiser than I, but as a small-town resident myself, I see the truth in it.
I’ve lived in quite a few small towns, most of them long established, agriculturally based and unique in their sense of community.
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There’s a difference between those towns and the ones that have become bedroom communities to cities, as many have in Alberta and Saskatchewan.
In those towns, it’s more difficult to get to know the neighbours. Perhaps it’s because there are too many newcomers to keep track of, or because some of them move to town with big-city ideas of privacy and independence.
To those two things, I attribute a small-town incident that has been nagging at me for several months. I’m interested in your opinion on the matter.
It all started on the day of Michael Jackson’s death, when I was paying homage by listening at full volume to one of his CDs while in the car.
I stopped at the small-town gas station and asked for $20 worth of gas. Young Johnny-on-the-spot, the gas jockey, was quick to comply. He accepted my $20 and I drove away, ruminating sadly on the loss of the pop star who wrote Man in the Mirror, one of my favourite MJ songs.
It wasn’t until the next morning, when I started the car to go to work, that I noticed the gas gauge read full. It shouldn’t have been; $20 worth on a low tank would have been much less.
Young Johnny must have accidentally filled the tank.
Yes, I had a fleeting thrill over getting something for nothing. That doesn’t happen too often in this day and age, if it ever did.
But that was quickly replaced by worry. Did Johnny get in trouble about the overage when the error was discovered by his boss? Would he have to pay the difference out of his own meager earnings? And what about my own guilt in ripping off the local gas station by paying for less than I received?
A trip back to the gas station was in order. The person behind the till, a stranger, remembered the car and the inadvertent theft. He noted that young Johnny had indeed been reprimanded for his error. He accepted payment for the gas received.
But at no point did he say thank you.
Well, I guess a person shouldn’t have to be thanked for doing the right thing. Most people do the right thing every day. Honesty isn’t dead.
But is common courtesy on life support?
If my small town were small enough that the gas station guy knew me and I knew him, would I have received a thank you?
Maybe.
And I am comforted by another incident at a gas station just up the street from this one. I filled up the Western Producer Jeep and went inside to pay.
“Sorry,” said the clerk. “Our credit card machine is out of order. You’ll have to come back later and pay us. See you then.”
Now THAT is the kind of small town I like.
