by Francis Jock

Created on: February 10, 2008   Last Updated: March 03, 2010

Requiem for a Small Town

The passing of a small town in America is a painful process not unlike the inexorable arrival of death caused by slow poison. As if poisoned by some dark unseen force, our town has been dying for some time now. Decades of depression and struggle have reduced it to little more than a settlement of hollow burned out shells, once the proud shelter of a man's dream, and gaping foundations, evidence of a forceful extraction.

The reasons for its demise are many, but the main reason for its agony is its past, or more correctly the truth about its past. Let's call our small town River Mills to protect its identity, to keep the curious away from its ghastly demise when the spark of life will ultimately pass into the unknown. Don't turn away, River Mills could be your town today, or perhaps tomorrow.

River Mills is not unlike any mill town fading into the dust bin collection of small towns and villages all across the Nation. There is a characteristic uncertainty, a darkness that shrouds its citizenry and its dominion, resting along the banks of an indolent river in the northern climes of New England. The dreary darkness of northern latitudes has affected the character of anyone that lives or has ever lived there. Like so many other early settlement towns, it once based its economy upon the meager power of the river to grind grist, saw lumber and produce potash for export. Only the back-broken remains of a mill dam are left remind the traveler of what once was.

Most people from the area surrounding the town, including the Indians that once roamed the waterways and woodlands, avoid it entirely if they can. No unnecessary travel, no stops, no business is ever to be conducted there. It is a town best left to wallow in its own misery, like a spurned animal is left to survive or die on its own. It's best to stop in only to pick up a few groceries, no more than needed and no longer than necessary. Visitors have the eerie feeling that they are being watched; uneasiness not banished by the reassuring smiles of the store clerks with downcast eyes.

The only successful, or nearly so, commercial establishments in the town are the IGA now operated by Asian strangers offering stale tasting food and nearly perished produce, a bank that seems to change ownership every few years, and a single quick-stop gas station and fuel oil business. As you might expect, the town has had its share of drinking establishments on its dismal main street, but even these have dwindled

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