August 31, 2010
Sitting at Plate 21 in Toledo Ohio - the woman taking my drink order recognized me by my last name. She is actually the owner, and knows my last name because my little sister works here in the morning and on the weekends. Annie hates it. She's too young to feel any empathy for the middle aged woman trying to run a neighborhood coffee shop in the midst of a recession. To her, the owner is just an angry penny pincher who yells at her when she isn't doing anything. The failure rate of independent restaurants is 65 percent - and that is in a good year. I can't imagine what those numbers look like anymore.
I ran into my parents next door neighbor at the gas station, and I'm sure if I went anywhere else in this town I'd see more people from my childhood or that know my family. It's reassuring in a way. To be from somewhere. To be surrounded by people who don't just konw you - they know your family - they know your history. It's easy to melt into the history of your family and become a Gibbons instead of an individual. It would be the same if I moved to Mansfield, I'd be a Dillon - an automatic part of something without any effort on my part. in those places I am a part of a long history - anywhere else I'd stand alone.
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