Death of the Small Town

The drive home from a recent business meeting near Yellowstone took me through Southern Idaho, and, on a whim, I pulled over in Blackfoot to see whether I could find a small town drive- in to get a bite to eat.

It's not that I wanted a burger, particularly. Rather, I hoped for some fresh cut fries (this was Southern Idaho, after all), a chocolate shake, a line of locals, an eager, fresh faced teen behind the counter, and the energy that one can feel at "the" place to be on a summer evening in small town, USA.

Alas, no drive in, though I dutifully drove the entire length of "Business 1-15." So, I tried Pocatello, the old railroad town where my father grew up and both grandparents lived out their lives. The yellow house was gone, and the chestnut tree, and even the large, smooth boulder in front of the place next door that we used to treat as a slippery slide. I looked in vain for the old feed store, Hawkes Feed & Seed, and couldn't find that either, and the warehouse district felt tired and empty. And no drive-ins to be found, anywhere. One last try at McCammon, with the same results, and that was that.

Over that same stretch of highways, backways, and business routes, I suspect I saw no less than 15 Subway Restaurants, a dozen Burger Kings, at least that many MacDonald's. I could also see--and feel--how the energy had shifted from main street to the strip malls at the outskirts of town and closer to the freeway.

The slow death of small town America isn't exactly groundbreaking news, but I felt it keenly on that little detour to find a decent milk shake. I know it hangs on, in pockets here and there, and each of those towns may hold a classic drive-in that I just missed, but the change--and the loss-was palpable, and left me feeling melancholy.

We live in a world of fast food, the internet, and iPhone, where communities are built around interests rather than geography or industry, but all this technology, even as it expands our capacity to interact with others, can feel oddly isolating and alienating. The dull monotony of the strip mall. The stranger neighbors. The decayed urban core. The rusty old warehouse districts and faded signs. We drive around, one to a car, running a seemingly endless list of errands. We sit up late, typing on the keyboard. Alone. And the glow of the computer screen washes away memories of moon and stars and fireflies, campfires, and the neon sign above the local drive-in on a summer evening.

So, where did I wind up eating? Subway. In the end, I had little choice.

(Photo courtesy of kyfireengine on Flickr; available at http://www.flickr.com/photos/21946699@N02/3345523269/.)