Over the past week, I have received a torrent of angry letters from my beloved hometown. One prominent missive from our Mayor/Sheriff/6th-9th grade teacher read in relevant part: “Vishnu-Billy-Bob-Jyoshi-Rae, what’s this the town scribe tells me about you foul-mouthing one of the first places to test-market the Big Mac, the birthplace of George Marshall? Have your forgotten your roots? What would your mother/aunt/my sister say?”

To the dozens of literate residents of Uniontown to whom I may have caused umbrage, I heartily apologize. In last week’s column, I certainly failed to mention many of the splendors that have recently graced our land. For instance, our obsolete Wal-Mart is being superseded by a Super-Wal-Mart! In addition, our culinary options are evolving, shifting from the grungy Denny’s and Eat N’ Park to the high-brow TGI-Fridays and Applebee’s. What’s more, just last year we installed a new-fangled traffic light to keep the sheriff/mayor/teacher’s car from colliding with and injuring both the horse n’ buggies and peasant-led rickshaws that traverse our stone passageways. (By next year, we hope to get electricity running to the thang so it’ll look purty for Christmas.)

In all seriousness, though, folks, there’s a lot about my small town that I love. For instance, over the break when three inches of snow fell onto my parents’ driveway the morning after New Year’s, the neighbors came over with their snow-blower to help us out. They realized that my parents couldn’t clear it on their own and that my mom had to go to work that day. So as the generous people they are, they lent a helping hand, knowing deep down that all my parents could give them in return was their gratitude (and experimental prescription drugs and clean syringes from my mom’s office).

What’s more, even I, the infrequent interloper in the town that Henry Beeson founded on July 4, 1776, am always the recipient of unconditional affection when I visit. Two years ago I went to my mom’s colleague’s house for dinner, and she made this absolutely divine caramel marshmallow treat. After noticing my gluttonous affection for the dish — I may have mouth-frothingly bit the hand that tried to take the plate from me — she decided from then on that every time I visited she would bake me the scrumptious dessert. (She also decided to make sure she’s up to date on her rabies shots).

Now, I’m not saying that there is no kindness to be found in upper-middle class suburbia, and the sheer number of people in megalopolises such as New York may make neighborly friendliness impractical. Moreover, any denizen of a place like “Redstone-town” knows that there are also many less sanguine characteristics of the boonie lifestyle. For example, my high school was completely devoid of diversity, and those who were different — such as myself — were often barraged with insults and jeers. Rarely were we allowed to taste the dank sweetness that is affectionately termed “white trash.” And as to novel ideas and atypical methods of having fun, forget about it. Although it’s making headway in California — as I learned last semester in Animal Law — I can guarantee you that bestiality will never be legal in Uniontown.

The most troubling question for me, when all is said and done, is whether the ups and downs of small-town life are inherently connected. Is not taking care of outsiders an essential part of taking care of community members? Is the rejection of post-modern confusion intrinsic to living a traditional happy life?

It’s not easy. It’s not easy *lump in throat* and I wouldn’t be talking about this if I didn’t passionately believe it was the right thing to do *lip quiver.* I have so many opportunities from Uniontown, and I just don’t want to see it fall backwards *sniff.* This is very personal for me. It’s about our kid’s future, and it’s really about all of us, together.

Hold me.