Living in a small community can sometimes feel suffocating, like when you can't behave badly anywhere - cut someone off at the intersection, act rude at a party, dislike someone's child - without severe and immediate consequences.
I grew up in a small town - and vowed never to live in one. But, then, I discovered that not all small towns are created equal. No place is Oz - even Oz isn't Oz, but I can't help but think that my island comes as close as is realistic to hope for.
This morning was an honest-to-goodness typical example:
Myra, caring and dedicated pharmacist and part-owner of what must be one of the homiest pharmacies left in America by day, is a fiber art aficionado of staggering talents. She spins, she knits, she evangelizes all things yarn. To say she has been encouraging of our family's humble bid to navigate our own sheep's fleece would be an understatement of enormous proportions.
We stopped into the pharmacy (or, as we think of it on Vashon, The Pharmacy) mid-week to pick up meds and Dylan lingered to ask her if she could recommend some way for him to refresh his memory on the knitting he'd learned at lunch club last year.
The result? This photo. Taken this morning in our living room. Our beloved pharmacist spending her Sunday donating her time and her New Zealand yarn and critiquing Dylan's cast ons.
I am nothing short of blessed to live here.