Small Town USA

OK. It's settled. When we retire, I want to live in Genoa, Nevada.

OK, maybe "settled" is too strong a word. Can we call it "on the short list"?

As a kid, I was sure that I wanted to live in a tiny apartment, preferably in a tall, narrow, aging home, in a big city. I'd walk to the quirky corner grocer, where I'd know everybody by name. When I could, I'd ride the train downtown to the theater and museums.

I never would have predicted that what I really want is a big, rambling house in a small town, maybe a town too small to even merit a stop light.

It should have occurred to me that my early childhood would affect where I'm most comfortable. When I was no more than 2 1/2 or 3, my parents or big sister would help me up onto the back of big, gentle Lady, our Thoroughbred horse, and I'd follow my sister or my mom, on sprited Querida, out of our back pasture and through the neighborhood, which was dotted with small ranches. There were two places within easy riding or walking distance where we occasionally went to watch the practice sessions of the local rodeo competitors. We ice skated in our back pasture. One of our dogs, gentle, razor sharp Duchess, was half coyote.

I was 12 years old before I ever vacationed anywhere except the wilderness. I was used to camping, fishing, swimming and hiking. Visiting my best friend in Sacramento, and then taking a day trip to San Francisco, was an entirely new experience.

I still didn't expect to spend my life in small towns. Then, just before our wedding, my husband's company transferred him to a small farming and ranching community. I was furious. I dug in my heels. "I'm not going. You can't make me. You can find a new job." Cooler heads prevailed, and I found myself in a town that had five brothels, but was just opening its first movie theater (two screens!) We had one grocery store, and a business that was a combination tire/craft/satellite store.

I loved it. We bought a home outside of town on an acre and a quarter, had two babies, built a chicken coop and brought home 24 baby chicks. We spent a lot of time on dirt roads, and discovered new favorite picnic spots.

When my husband's company offered him a transfer back to his old plant, we bought a home in a small town rather than face the culture shock of moving back to Reno. I loved our little town. It made the front page of the twice-weekly tri county newspaper when we got our second stoplight. The largest park, where the 4th of July festivities were held, was across the street from us. My kids performed at the community center in the yearly Christmas pageant. We were on a first name basis with the librarian.

Eventually, we moved back to the Reno area, buying a house two and a half blocks from the house I grew up in. (The ranches were long since relegated to memory; it was a ordinary, suburban neighborhood.) That's another story.

I still find myself feeling wistful when we visit small towns. I pick up real estate listings and think, "We could afford that." I daydream about ponds, a horse, farmhouses and trees. It makes no sense right now to move anywhere, but retirement and a place for my grandkids to visit isn't too far off in the distance.

I'm allergic to fur, but still find myself thinking about just one horse - just enough to pull a carriage. Doesn't that sound perfect for grandkids - and portraits?

This is what my kids did today:

We were about 50 miles from home, at an indoor pool that made this kind of activity perfect for a winter day, even though there was snow in sight of the pool.

I didn't feel like swimming; I felt like a solo day with my camera. So, off we went, to nearby Genoa, the oldest town in the state.

This is the equivalent of downtown:

This house is for sale, just two doors down:

My daughter tells me that no self respecting man would live in a pink house, but I work in the wedding industry. With its period furnishings and charmingly landscaped grounds, it looks like the ideal place to hold weddings. Would a self respecting man be married in a pink house?

Only steps away, on the corner, this girl fed three deer stale bread out of the back door of a cafe:

I know, it's always a bad idea to feed wildlife, but how charming is a place where this happens?

I spent the day shooting crumbling stone structures, horses, barns, and houses like this one:

Farm equipment sat in the fields like sculpture:

It was a day well spent, and a reminder of what might be someday.