When you grow up in an old factory town like Lansing, Michigan you develop certain expectations about the world. The people around you are gruff, in a hurry to do only what’s asked of them and go home. Why did Michigan craft beer start in Grand Rapids? Ironically, because that’s a city built by churchgoers who have community built into their hearts and souls. They like drinking with friends.
The blue-collar laborers drink their PBRs alone and they like it better that way.
My hometown can be a gloomy place. The auto factories are as functional looking as the machinery they house, as no-nonsense as those who operate the machines. Once wealthy neighborhoods have lost their shine. Elegant houses sit neglected and sad behind abandoned business buildings, and you think about keeping a gun in reach when you drive through there.
Everyone drives like they’re armed too.
I don’t go back there very often. Country living is different and I’m still adjusting. When I pick up the phone to call a repairman, I still brace myself for a terse (if not rude) exchange. And I’m always surprised when the person on the other end remembers me, or even if he doesn’t, he’s still friendly. We were told to expect a slower pace of life here. I didn’t expect the little kindnesses.
Or the pockets of magic.
The weather on Sunday was perfect, with just a hint of the coming heatwave. But the sun was higher than my spirits, which were still pretty high. Despite just saying I didn’t need more bread, I’d commented on a Facebook post and won half off a loaf of sourdough. Now, this may not sound remarkable. Just stay with me. So the weather was perfect, the sun at its apex, and I was off to acquire a bit of homemade goodness. The baker sent me her address and it was in parts unknown.
Parts unknown, practically right in my front yard (by country standards).
My once-sparkling car rumbled down the gravel roads I’d looked down with curiosity and no reason to explore, past thick woods, growing corn, and old barns. It was like another world. A special world. We turned off the sun-speckled path into blazing sun, only interrupted by the occasional old tree, and pulled up to a simple house with a chalkboard sign letting us know we were in the right place.
Our elven baker drifted out, golden hair and red robe flowing with the gentle summer breeze.
She didn’t need to ask my name or what I’d ordered. She had the fresh baked bread and a smile ready, and with them the sincere hope I’d enjoy the fruit of her labors. As I drove home, able to think of hardly anything but how I would enjoy it in future meals, another thought gently interrupted my gastronomic daydreams.
The bread wasn’t the reward. The Story I’d just lived was.
I’ve never traveled the world. I rarely get out at all. Wise people say not to invest in things, but experiences, and this tiny, seemingly insignificant moment, was just that. Two miles might as well have been two hundred for the change in the atmosphere. Despite my initial reluctance to commit to the purchase, I did it anyway and saw things I’d never seen before, met an artist, acquired a prize, and returned home. Changed? You don’t need to look too hard to recognize it was a Campbellian odyssey, a hero’s journey.
And all it took was going two miles down a gravel road.
