I spent my life living where the work was. Now I live in a community that my wife and I chose. It’s kinda nice.

MY KINDA TOWN

How to describe my kinda town . . .

It has no restaurant called Le Sans Souci.

The local environmentalists are both ranchers.

You give your phone number by using only the last four digits.

Gas is at least ten cents higher than that in the nearest town with a Wal-Mart.

The paper comes out once a week, and high school students sit at the post office and sell it on Wednesday mornings.

You can see clear out of town both directions from the one stoplight.

Soccer (T-ball, girls’ basketball, etc.) moms control the social activities of the community.

The local radio station operates at fifty watts, covers five square miles, and has a real disc jockey.

The feed store, the barber shop, and the coffee shop act as the disseminators of early breaking local news.

You are noticed and missed when you don’t make it to church.

The mayor and city officials control the real estate in town, but they are kept in line by local watchdogs who contribute a steady stream of letters to the editor regarding fishy political activities.

Both video stores are closed on Sunday.

The grand marshal for the fabulous Butterfield Days Parade can shoe a horse and weld.

One-stop shopping is available at the Vitamins— Furniture & Gospel store.

The FFA is bigger than the football team.

Everyone has at least one neighbor who is a member of the volunteer fire department.

Kindergarten through twelfth grade are all at the same school.

You can still get two scoops of ice cream for $1.50, credit at the lumber store, and a tractor tire fixed.

On the official city seal is a cow, a locomotive, and a box of dynamite.

And in my kinda town, people are just as busy, just as smart, and just as good-hearted as folks who live in towns big enough to have a restaurant called Le Sans Souci.