CALL ME SNAKE

My wife grew up in a city near Boston. The kids from her neighborhood were rather provincial, referring to outlying towns--that are sometimes called "the sticks"--by the disparaging term, "BF." (I won't say what BF stands for, but I will say the first part of the compound word is "bum." The second part of that compound word is a four-letter-word that was not printable in the New Yorker until recently.) Well, I just got back from New Hampshire, where I celebrated Thanksgiving with my wife's family in a "BF" kind of place--that is, if I were inclined to use such a term. My brother-in-law often points out homes for sale in his small village--one right across the street from their house, in fact--in an attempt to persuade us to move out there.

I think about it sometimes, wondering if could give up urban living and move to a more countrified setting--the kind of place (like the bar in Cheers) where everyone knows your name. I run into people I know from my neighborhood all the time, but they're always busy and the conversations tend to last about 30 seconds or less. In their smalltown, I fear those same conversations could go on endlessly. Which gives me pause and makes me think I'm not ready for such a radical change in lifestyle and habitat. But one day, who knows, maybe I'll be out there living with the rest of them folks in BF, wondering why it took me so long.