Over the last week, I’ve found myself wandering through small towns along the river – through Kentucky, Indiana, and Ohio.
And I keep thinking about the same thing: Why are we so drawn to small towns? I know I am. I always have been, but the desire to be a part of a small-town community is growing the older I get.
There is something about arriving in a town small enough that you can park the car and simply start walking. You can wander down Main Street, turn down a side street, walk past old houses and churches, stop for something to eat, and eventually find your way to the river. That is exactly what we did when we entered Augusta, Kentucky.
There isn’t necessarily a long list of things to do. And this is part of what I love about it. You simply walk. You look around. You notice things. Most importantly, you encounter people.
Over these last few days, we have met people on sidewalks and stopped to speak with them. We’ve talked with people in restaurants and shops. People say hello. They make eye contact. They tell you something about their town or ask where you’re from. Each morning we walked into the General Store for fresh brewed coffee, homemade breakfast, and always greeted by residents who meet every morning.
There seems to be a kindness that comes a little more easily.
Of course, small towns are not perfect. No place is. And I don’t want to romanticize them into something they aren’t. This is not Hallmark.
But I do think they remind us of something we may be missing. A life lived at walking speed. There is beauty in slowing down and moving more intentionally through life.
There is something different about experiencing a place on foot. When we drive everywhere, the world becomes something we pass through. On foot, we become a part of it. You are in the middle of it.
We notice the old brick building with the faded lettering. The flowers someone planted beside a front porch. The church that’s probably been standing on the same corner for generations. The little restaurant where someone holds the door open as you walk in, and they notice you.
I believe this is what draws most people to a small town. Life feels a little more human when we’re moving slowly enough to actually see one another. For generations, much of life happened in communities where people knew one another. You knew the person who owned the grocery store. You knew who lived down the street. You knew the family sitting two pews ahead of you on Sunday morning.
There are certainly disadvantages to everyone knowing everyone’s business. I understand that. However, there is something valuable about being known, too. I believe we were meant for community.
Today, we can communicate with someone across the world in seconds, yet it is entirely possible to live for years without knowing the person a few doors down. This leads me to believe our fascination with small towns is partly a longing for community. Not followers. Not contacts. Not another group chat. Actual people. The kind you bump into while walking down the street.
I have also noticed something else. I truly believe we do not need so much to entertain us. Small towns don’t have endless entertainment. There may not be a dozen places to shop or a hundred corporate restaurants to choose from. You will not necessarily move from one attraction to another. And yet, I never find myself bored. In fact, quite the opposite.
I find myself wanting to linger. To sit somewhere and have a cup of coffee. To wander through an old shop. To walk another block just to see what is around the corner. To sit near the water and watch boats go by or the ferry go back and forth.
It makes me realize that somehow, we let the world confuse us into thinking that having more equaled a fuller life. When in truth, some of the best parts of life have never required very much entertainment at all.
A long conversation. A walk after dinner. Sitting on a porch. A good meal. A book. A puzzle. A church community. Knowing your neighbors. Watching the sun set. That’s what I find so compelling about these places. They seem to hold onto things that the rest of the world is moving quickly away from. Not perfectly, of course.
Small-town residents have cell phones, internet, busy lives, and Amazon delivers just like in the big city. But the scale of the place itself seems to encourage something different.
You can walk instead of drive. You can recognize faces. You can become a regular somewhere. You can add to the community by spending your money on services and in businesses owned by your actual neighbors. You can learn the history of a building instead of watching it disappear into a sea of new construction. Another thing I noticed is that old buildings are made into something new – not torn down.
There is a sense that people came before us and, God willing, people will come after us. This thought naturally changes the way we see our own place in the world. The more I think about it, the more I wonder if our attraction to a small town isn’t really about the small town at all. Maybe we are longing for a smaller life.
Not an insignificant one. A life with a little less noise, less rushing, less consumption, less scrolling, less pressure to constantly be somewhere else, doing something different. And more room for the things that have always mattered.
Faith. Family. Friendship. Home. Community. Work worth doing, meals around a table, knowing people and allowing ourselves to be known.
That’s why I can walk through a little river town I’ve never lived I and somehow feel nostalgic for it. It reminds me of something familiar. Maybe something we have forgotten.
Most of us aren’t going to pack up our lives and move to a tiny town. And I don’t think we really need to. Maybe the better question isn’t Where should I live? But rather, How do I want to live?
We can learn someone’s name. We can shop at the little place owned by a family instead of always choosing the easiest option that feeds into corporate. We can take a walk without putting in our earbuds. We can sit on the porch. We can invite someone to stay for coffee. We can put the phone away when having a conversation with someone. We can go to church on Sunday and stay long afterward to have a conversation with others. We can become regulars. We can now our neighbors.
We can choose, wherever we live, to make our world a little smaller and our relationships a little deeper. Maybe that’s what these little towns keep reminding me.
A well-lived life doesn’t necessarily need to be a bigger life. Sometimes it may simply need to be the one we are present enough to notice and take part in.