The Price of Infamy
I never wanted to live in a small town. I have a few times and I hated it. Everybody knows your Bizness …. or they think they do. Now I live on a small island. Used to be I felt reasonably anonymous. I kept a low profile the first few decades, no photos in the paper OR the post office. I still try to keep that part. Folks might know my name, but usually they don’t have a mug shot to go with it.
Still, you live in one place long enough, you’ll lose any anonymity you might once have prized. Folks come up to me all the time in town or the local grocery, saying Hi Skeeter, how ya doin’? Hell if I know half of them — embarrassing, for sure, but I’m getting, if not used to it, at least not losing sleep later. I just plead geriatric dementia. Pretty soon it won’t be a ploy, it’ll be a diagnosis. At least I’ll have years of acclimation.
I shouldn’t mind, I suppose. Not like I’m a Class 4 predator in the neighborhood. Although … that banjo I play might qualify for some community meetings with the sheriff to warn everybody. You can’t be too careful these days.
But let’s face it — privacy is a precious commodity, not one we should relinquish easily. Sure, we can grow a thicker skin, ignore the parochial paparazzi, try to keep our heads down but focused on the Goal, whatever the goal might be. Folks can think what they want … even if we’ve tried to create an Image.
Comes a time, though, when public opinion starts to challenge our self image. Fame, even small fry, small town notoriety, seems corrosive. Like having a mirror on the wall you try to ignore, but … you peek. And the reflection isn’t what you see when you brush your teeth.
I suppose I could pull back in. Or move away. Or change my name. It’s appealing some days. Except that I love it here. I’ve been back in the woods this month. Logging. Planting trees. Lining the paths with bleeding hearts. It’s a great escape. It might just be a start. Until the raccoons get too familiar with me.
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