Why Woodville?

On being planted in unexpected places

Three years ago, we moved to a small town with just over 1,300 residents in a square mile area, a vast difference from our life in suburbia with a population of 17,000. In our old city, we sent our kids to school every morning then drove 45 minutes to a metropolitan area to work the obligatory eight hours before coming home. In the evenings the kids might play outside after finishing homework, but mostly we were running here and there--baseball practice, soccer game, school function, church.

Our lives were spread so thin and we wondered if we'd ever feel a sense of community. We spent time with people in pockets that stretched far and wide, but we didn't really live in community with many of them, if any. Our work friends lived all over the metro area. Our church friends also lived in a broad radius from the center of worship. Most people in our neighborhood came home, checked the mail, then retreated to their havens to cook dinner, help kids with homework, and watch TV. It felt as though we lived in shadows where we might never be seen...or even missed. People were so busy. We were busy.

We got out of our comfort zone and found community when we moved to Woodville.

When we told friends and family where we were moving, we were met with blank stares, puzzled looks and, eventually, the question Why? We were offered many reasons we shouldn't make such a foolish move:

Woodville is full of crime!

There are no jobs there.

Woodville is broke.

You're not the right color.

Woodville doesn't have anything to offer.

You'll never be able to sell a house there if you want to leave.

But none of that mattered because we believed Woodville was the place we were being planted. So after we settled in, I began documenting on social media my answer to the question Why Woodville? I posted (extra)ordinary things I would see as I walked around town as the sun came up.

I wrote about people who touched my life in an everyday kind of way. I told of those I encountered who were lighting up the world around them as they went about their seemingly insignificant daily tasks.

Last summer, barber Doug Dixon gave away free haircuts and promoted literacy

And people loved it. Sure, there were some naysayers with nothing positive to say, but people loved that I was showing them Woodville through a new lens.

I think you may enjoy it, too, so I’ll be using some space here in Release and Gather to share life as we know it in this rural town: the people we have grown to love, the community we have found, and a how our lives became more fulfilled when we released our expectations of how we should spend ourselves.

Here are a few ways I'm answering Why Woodville? this week.

“Aeroplane”

“Aeroplane” is 70 years old (although he argues that number since he was born on Leap Day) and still loves to paint. Painting houses is his main gig, but he loves painting murals and scenes. Most people don’t hire him for the murals, so he’s currently painting a giant ocean scene in his new-to-him mobile home. He says he’s going to finish the room with blue carpet so he can feel just like he’s in the sea.

He’s also currently sprucing up the exterior of my house with Benjamin Moore Wythe Blue. I have to keep a close eye on him so he doesn’t lose focus and start painting murals. I walked outside the other day and he had painted the garden hose holder Wythe Blue and had used the same color on a quarter of the porch swing, which I had not intended to repaint. He must be watched lest I should come out and find a mural on the side of my shed.

He claims he got his nickname because his friends say he masterfully stands at the top of a ladder and glides paint with a brush like an airplane cutting through the sky. I think they call him that because his head is usually in the clouds. He reminds me to dream big and worry less.

Even when he isn’t painting our house, he stops by to chat for a bit, catch a ride, or have dinner with us. This week we sat under the crape myrtles and talked about life for a while. In my past life, I wouldn’t have take the time to sit with him because I had a schedule to keep, but these days I have learned that the interruptions are usually the most profound parts of my day.

The other day I finished my day job working remotely as an IT security analyst and had just settled onto the sofa to write when I saw our friend Jessie coming up the front walk. My instinct was to run to another room and hope he didn’t see me—I had things to do, right? I reminded myself that I was trying to be more open to interruptions, but it’s tough when you just want some time with your thoughts.

I opened the door, and Jessie proudly presented me with banana peppers from his garden. They were stuffed in a giant styrofoam cup that was probably tossed on the street from the looks of the blue sludge in it. Jessie never chats for more than a couple of minutes when he stops by, and he always reminds me where to find him if I should need more peppers or someone to wash my windows.

Over in the apartments off 3rd Street—Number 2. Number 1 is the first one, and if you go to the next one, you’ll find where I stay. But I’ll be by next week to check on you and see if you need me for anything.

I settled in again and had just typed a couple of paragraphs when I saw a head bobbing in the window of the door. 17-year-old DJ came in to rest in the cool AC and get a snack before continuing his 1.5-mile trek home where he lives with his 83-year-old grandfather. He never has much to say, but we are there to listen. Sometimes that’s what a boy-growing-into-a-man needs most, especially when he has recently lost his older brother to a bullet.

Why Woodville? they ask. I wouldn’t trade these friends for any suburban life. They add vibrant color to our lives with their stories, personalities, and perspectives. They’ve always been there. We just had to get unbusy enough to enjoy the gift of their friendship.