Wellington

What is it about a little town like Wellington that makes you want to stop? A warm, but windy day that brings almost the entire town outside? People staring up at a church steeple—crane nearby. “Are they taking it down?” you ask a man in a pick up truck. “No. Just straightenin’ it up. Them big winds a few weeks back tipped it,” he explains. Mothers and toddlers on big wheels watch. Retired farmers watch from inside the coffee shop. Cars park along the “main” drag. Barbers watch from their shop windows.

You stop to marvel. Not at the feat of righting the steeple. But to observe the observers. Something about a town of 4,800 that grinds to a virtual stop for something like this seems so … nostalgic. Mayberry-esque. This place seems a million miles away from the woes of Wall Street ... The politics of Washington ... The pettiness you found yourself entangled in just yesterday. What makes you want to stop here? To linger? To stay? To consider, even briefly, what it's like to live here? In this place with Streets named “Pleasant.” “Courtland.” This place where community is palpable. This place with the Hawleywood Hair Salon; charmingly restored Gothic homes with cutesy gingerbread trim; A group of preschoolers (and their teacher) going for a sideways walk … holding hands in a chain. Stay together now.

But reality blows up behind you in a strong wind, pushing you to move on. So you snap a few quick photos. Happy red trim on a restored downtown business. An overgrown collection of condos for birds. A beautiful wallpaper of bygone days—in the entry of a house under demolition.

You freeze Wellington for a moment in time. For those days when you need to turn around and peek through the closing door to remember there are many ways, places and times to escape the box.