I’m told that newcomers don’t always feel accepted in rural communities. We are accepted, of course; we just don’t realize it.
I’ve known folks who moved into rural communities and spent several years worrying about whether they were accepted or not. That’s silly. They have to accept us. Whether they like us or not is up to us, but they have to accept us.

As one who grew up in a farm community and has lived in three others, I’ve never had the slightest concern about the old-timers accepting me. Besides, I’ve finally reached the age where I’m nearly as old as the old-timers.

I think rural people actually like newcomers. Everybody knows what the established residents are going to do. Newcomers add a touch of suspense. That’s the big difference between farm communities and urban areas: Everyone seems a stranger in the city, but folks will spot you a mile away out in the country.

I used to stop at a little farm country cafe for coffee. I knew nearly everyone there, so I wasn’t exactly a stranger, but being from out of the area made me a “foreigner” of sorts.

The tradition at the cafe was to roll dice to see who bought the coffee. A touch of joy rolled through the place when I showed up. I always bought the coffee – partly because I was unlucky, and partly because I didn’t know the rules.

That’s the first rule of games: If you don’t know the rules, you lose.

“Okay,” I’d tell them, “I’m going to buy the coffee, but I’ll roll the dice if I have to.”

“Oh, boy! Foreign money,” one fellow would say. “It’s about time we got some outside money in this place.”

I think the best way to understand rural communities is to remember that anyone who has lived there less than 10 years is still pretty much a transient. Who knows how long they are going to be around?

Those who’ve lived here more than 30 years might be considered residents, but it’s way too late to become a pioneer family.
Readers may recall the story of a young schoolteacher who moved to a rural area of Maine and wanted very badly to become an established member of the community. After several years of residence, the young man was talking to a neighboring farmer about some new residents down the road.

“You know, I can understand that people like me will always be considered outsiders in Maine,” the young fellow said. “And I know it takes awhile to become established in an old community like this. But my kids were born here. Will they be accepted as natives of Maine?”

The old farmer kicked around in the dirt, and finally said, “You have a cat, don’t you, Jim?”

“Well, yes, we have a cat,” Jim said.

“Let’s look at it this way,” the farmer said. “If your cat had kittens in the oven, you wouldn’t call them biscuits, would you?”

Readers with questions or comments for Roger Pond may write to him in care of this publication.