Welcome to Newport, Population 762

I live in a village where the street names are heavily influenced by placement. For example, the street that is on the north side of the central village area is called North Street. There is also a West Street, which I think is located at the western side, and the street I live on, East Street, which, you guessed it, is to the east. The street with the bridge on it is Bridge Street, you get the point. And a river runs through it. Okay, so I always wanted to say that phrase from the long forgotten film of similar name. There’s actually a creek that runs through it. In fact, if you want to get out of the village and make it to somewhere that actually has a grocery store, retail stores, and a population of over 700 people, you have to cross over a bridge. This was made abundantly clear last year when the creek flooded over and two of the three main bridges were out for several days.

In the winter the village looks like a holiday postcard, or a Christmas snowglobe, with pure, white snow lining the streets and frosting the grass like cupcakes.

In the winter the village looks like a holiday postcard, or a Christmas snowglobe,with pure, white snow lining the streets and frosting the grass like cupcakes. Eventually that same fluff becomes hard-packed and dusty with exhaust fumes and other dirt that happens to saturate it. Until the next snowfall, when all is fresh and new again.The icicles hang down from the eaves of every house on the street, occasionally dripping down condensation when the temperature warms up just enough to tease us into thinking that the groundhog may have just been right when he saw his shadow. But we know better. We live in a little village in upstate New York. We know better.

The spring brings all the vestiges of a thawing out process that slowly but surely takes over from the snow, leaving behind what is commonly referred to as sludge (no, we don’t call our coffee that). That lends itself very well to being a major part of our fifth season of the year — the mud season. In which the rain comes down regularly, mixing with the residue of the snow that had been left behind, the ground still frozen down deep so the water doesn’t absorb. Instead, it sits on the surface, creating massive mud pools that would make any pig ecstatic. Eventually, though, the ground itself thaws, creating pores for water to seep in, ending the season of mud, and bringing forth the grass once again. Each year, however, we have to replant swaths of grass that have been killed by the harshness of the preceding winter.

If you drive on the back road you can see them all lined up like little toy soldiers, with kids splashing around in them, and their parents on the homemade decks, trying to get what’s left of their tans to stay put.

Summer is hot. Not as hot as the proverbial fires of hell, or even as hot as South Beach, but hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk on occasion, if you are so inclined. And by summer, I mean from July 15th until August 21st, because that’s when people who aren’t from here will still recognize the temperatures here as being consistent with their own summers. The clothing choices become dubious as shorts become shorter, tops become thinner, and shoes give way to flip-flops. Not sandals. Flip-flops. And the people on the corner finally take down their Christmas lights sometime around August (coincidentally when everyone else is putting up theirs). We don’t have a swimming pool in the village, but we do have backyards, perfect for housing personal above ground pools of all sizes. If you drive on the back road you can see them all lined up like little toy soldiers, with kids splashing around in them, and their parents on the homemade decks, trying to get what’s left of their tans to stay put.

Fall comes around way too soon here in Newport. The trees have apparently been dying to expel their leaves, and the leaves have been silent too long. Now they lie on the ground, creating an eerie rustling noise when our feet crush them flat. They are also colorful, not unlike clown fish when you first see them. The beautiful shades are, however, somehow muted, and eventually all fade to brown. Door screens give way to storms, rescued from their nine month languishing in basements village wide. Older folk begin the process of packing their warm-weather clothes for their yearly pilgrimage to their Florida timeshares, to escape the harsh weather here in the village, and we don’t blame them. In fact, we wish them well when we see them off in their Winnebagos, wishing we could join them. And before we know it, winter has taken us once again in its grip. It always seems like we are either approaching winter or inside of winter here in upstate New York.

As someone who was not born here, or went to school here, I am in the distinct minority, something that used to scare me.

I live in a village where 95% of the villagers grew up and lived their entire lives in a 30 mile radius from this very spot. They were born here, they went to school here, they got married to others who were born here, they had their children here, and they retired here. There are last names like Coffin, Moody, McEvoy, Grower, and Asaro that are like calling cards for anyone else from here. We know the histories of these families, and even if we’ve only met you once, we know what to expect, just because of that history. These families are all also interrelated because with a population so small it’s only natural that it would happen that way. As someone who was not born here, or went to school here, I am in the distinct minority, something that used to scare me.

There is a post office in the village, a rather small building that has enough post office boxes in it for the vast majority of villagers. It is a regular meet-up spot, it seems, as at any given time people are there to get their mail, converse with others, pick up packages, and mail off items. We also have a pizza place that is closed on Mondays for some reason. No one has been able to explain to me why this is. There is a local restaurant in the village too, pretty upscale for this place. A gas station sits on the outskirts, with a very small market attached. The newest addition to Newport is the farmer’s market across from the gas station that features an authentic barber shop, health foods, and an ice cream shop. We are moving up in the world.

This is my home now. I’ve lived here for eleven years, in this ode to harsh weather and small-town living. No, it’s not heaven, but it’s home, and I wouldn’t trade it in. Oh, and in the immortal words of the Starks of Winterfell: winter is coming. It’s always coming in Newport.

Sam