Try That In A Small Town

Discovering the Unseen Magic of Small Towns

Unlike the Jason Aldean song, what follows isn't a warning but an invitation to experience the charm of small-town life. I grew up in Hunterdon County, New Jersey—a place where independent farmers were the backbone of the community. While I and most of my friends weren’t farmers, we were surrounded by them, living in a world where getting to your neighbor's house required a bike, and the outdoors was our playground.

In this rural setting, farm stands were almost as common as mailboxes along the winding roads. But these weren’t the bustling markets you might imagine, crowded with shoppers and lined with parking lots. No, these were simple, unmanned stands offering fresh vegetables, eggs, and other homegrown goods. Prices were clearly marked, and a cash box sat nearby. There were no attendants, no surveillance—just the trust that you'd take what you needed, do the math, and leave the correct amount of money. Need change? No problem, just make it yourself from the box. This was the “honor system” in its purest form.

Years after I moved away, my mother remained in the area, and though many of the independent farms had vanished, a few of these stands still dotted the landscape. One day, someone from Bergen County—where life moves a bit faster—was helping her with errands. As they drove by one of these stands, she asked them to stop and pick up a few items. To their amusement, they were baffled. "Why doesn’t anyone just take everything and run?" they asked. Welcome to life in a small town, where trust still means something.

A Sweet Encounter in a Small Town

Fast forward about fifteen years, and I find myself embarking on a new adventure in Florida. It’s a town roughly 40 minutes north of Orlando. Sure, you can grab a Pubsub from any of three locations within a 10- to 15-minute drive, but there’s still a small-town vibe here that stirs up memories of my past.

Not far from my new home, just about five minutes away, I drove past one of those familiar farm stands. This one was for honey. Naturally, I couldn’t resist—I had to stop the car and buy something. The stand offered two different bottle sizes, some with honeycombs inside, and even jars of bee pollen (which, to be honest, I still don’t know anything about). A price chart hung nearby, along with the ever-present cash box.

As I stood there, trying to decide which honey to buy and figuring out how much cash to leave, a pickup truck pulled into the driveway. Out stepped an older man—though, I should note, some might call me an older man now too, but I still feel young at heart! Anyway, he got out, and we struck up a conversation. It was midday, and he had just returned from watching the new "Godzilla x Kong: The New Empire" (2024) movie. That alone gave me a chuckle, but I digress... I asked him, “I guess you’re the one who makes the honey?”

He grinned and drawled, “Well, naw, son. The bees is the ones makin’ the honey.” Fair enough, I thought. “But you do the collecting?” I pressed.

“Not no more,” he replied, shaking his head. “Mah son takes care’a that now. These days, if I git stung, I blow up, an’ that ain’t no good fer me.”

As we talked, I shared my own story about growing up with farm stands like this one and how a friend helping my mother couldn’t quite grasp how they worked. He nodded, “Well, we had us some trouble here too, y’know. Now, I ain’t sayin’ it’s right, but if I caught someone stealin’, I’d take ‘em out back an’ introduce ‘em to the bees.”

He then drifted into a reminiscence of days gone by. He’s been livin’ there for 50 years, and he told me, “Back then, you coulda put a cot in the middle’a the road an’ gone to sleep. If somebody come by an’ woke ya up, well, you knew somethin’ was happenin’. Now, you try that, an’ these crazy drivers’d run ya over quicker’n you could blink.”

People tease me for buying that honey. It’s true, I don’t use much of it. “What are you going to do with that honey?” they ask. Well, it’ll last for years, I’m sure. But that conversation? That’ll stay with me for a lifetime.

So, Try That in a Small Town

So, try that in a small town. Make those memories. There’s something about the simplicity and authenticity of small-town life that you just can’t replicate. Writing these words brings to mind a conversation I once had in Skagway, Alaska—about as far from the Florida heat as you can get and about 15 years prior, but still, another small town with its own unique rhythm.

It was during a cruise, and we had a day to explore Skagway, a town that seemed plucked straight out of a history book. For lunch, I wandered into a little place called the Sweet Tooth Cafe — which is unfortunately no more. It wasn’t much to look at from the outside, just a cozy spot that probably hadn’t changed much in decades. When I walked in, the place was packed, every table taken, but the greeter—a friendly, no-nonsense type—looked me over and said, “We’re full up, but if you don’t mind sharin’ a table, you can sit with Larry over there. He’s a local, and don’t worry, he don’t bite.” (Now, Larry wasn’t his real name, but that doesn’t matter for the sake of the story.)

So, I took a seat across from Larry, an older gentleman with a weathered face that spoke of long winters and hard-earned wisdom. He was the kind of person who’s seen it all and didn’t mind sharing a bit of it with a stranger. As we talked, Larry started telling me about life in Skagway. “Y’know,” he said, leaning in a bit closer, “tourists come through here all the time. They see this place in the summer, with the sun out, the streets bustling, an’ they fall in love with it. Next thing you know, they’re dreamin’ of movin’ here, imaginin’ a life of peace an’ quiet, away from the hustle an’ bustle.”

He paused, taking a sip of his coffee, and then continued, “But what they don’t realize is that this here’s just the surface. When winter comes, it’s a whole different story. The tourists are gone, the cruise ships stop comin’, an’ the town shrinks down to maybe 800 people. It gets cold, dark, and real quiet. If you don’t know your neighbor, if you ain’t prepared to lend a hand or need one yourself, well, you ain’t gonna make it through the season.”

His words struck a chord with me. It was a reminder that small towns, whether in Alaska, Florida, or anywhere else, are built on community. They thrive because of the connections people make, the trust they share, and the understanding that everyone’s got a role to play. It’s not just about where you are, but who you’re with and how you live together.

Larry’s story made me think about all the small towns I’ve known, each with its own character, its own stories. Some are tucked away in plain sight, hidden gems that reveal themselves only to those who take the time to look. Others, like Skagway, seem caught between the past and the present, holding on to traditions while slowly adapting to the changes that time inevitably brings. But no matter the place, one truth remains: it’s always about the people. The real heart of a small town isn’t in its buildings or its scenery, but in the lives of those who call it home.

So whatever “that” is—whether it’s stopping at a farm stand in rural Florida, sharing a meal with a local in Skagway, or simply striking up a conversation with a stranger—do try it. Embrace the moments that seem small, because in those moments, you’ll find the stories that truly matter. And when you do, those stories will stick with you. They’ll become a part of you, following you wherever life takes you, long after you’ve left that small town behind.

Because in the end, it’s not just about the honey you bought or the meal you shared; it’s about the connection you made, the glimpse into someone else’s world, and the way those experiences shape you. That’s the magic of small towns—their ability to leave a lasting imprint on your heart and mind. So go ahead, try that in a small town, and see how those memories and stories weave themselves into the fabric of your life, creating something truly unforgettable.