Village life: Staying here defies conventional wisdom

One year short of half my life. That's how long I've lived in Flint.

The truth of it hit me not long ago, when I realized I was at an anniversary milestone. I moved here, pulling up to my first East Village digs in a rickety 1967 VW bug. I was a single woman of 31 in August 1981. Thirty years ago.

And now I'm about to turn 62 and I'm still here.

Of course it seems sort of impossible. That 30 years, THIRTY YEARS, three decades — have zipped by quickly. A lifetime. My adult lifetime.

In the first column I wrote for East Village Magazine in March 2007, the headline and the gist of the piece was "I never thought I'd stay this long."

What surprises me most, as I reflect on this potentially perilous moment of reflection, is for the most part, I'm actually happy.

This defies conventional wisdom. People who live in Flint are supposed be sorry we're here. People in other, more cultivated, luckier towns feel sorry for us. It's old news that every time Flint hits the headlines it's something bad. Michael Moore, plant closings, contaminated brownfields, Don Williamson's red-white-and-blue hard hat, Woody Stanley wanting to cut down trees, the "saggy pants" episodes, a serial killer, homicide rates, arsons — you name it, minor and major lousy PR defines us. We all know the litany.

As I've often written here, I've ducked and bobbed around the realities of the place, at times hating it and rarely defending it. But the truth is, this is where I live and where I've lived and where I'm probably going to keep on living. Maybe until I die.

In 30 years a person changes. I've given up some dreams. When I came here, I considered myself a literary star in the making, and I was choosy about whom I hung out with. Some people just didn't make the grade. They weren't artistically elite enough for our collective taste. I was part of a circle who had talent and most of whom eventually moved on. I find it ironic that of that early crowd, all the Flint natives fled, and there's only one of us still here — me, the migrant from elsewhere. I'm proud of what we all did in those years, but I'm also a bit weary in remembering our cutting selectivity.

Now there's a part of me that couldn't care less. Writing is hard work with a dicey outcome. While I'll always probably keep up my scribner rituals, I've been beaten up enough to know the writing life can be cruel and miserable. What a discovery. That it isn't so much the worldly accomplishments of a lifetime, but the love that matters, the people I love and who love me. I can recount for hours the countless moments of generosity, good humor and downright feisty idiosyncrasy of one colorful Flintoid after another.

I'm remembering the cavalcade of characters. They go back right to the beginning.

Here's a wildly arbitrary collage, some you've already read about.

Gene Talsma at Family Service Agency, who tried to quit smoking by attaching one arm to a shock device, and then discovering he could trick the machine by using the other arm.

John Davis spinning jazz tunes in the basement of Central High School for WFBE.

John Kotarski who used to ride his horse to the bars downtown.

Paul Spaniola recovering from a heart attack in a recliner at the back of his pipe shop on Saginaw, and then living for another 50 years — so far.

Gary Custer, publisher of this magazine, cultivating his RipVanWinkle beard and skulking back and forth at midnight on his bike to Avon Street.

Charlene Palmer creating breathtaking icons for the St. Paul's Episcopal Church.

Grayce Scholt rising at 4 a.m. to write poems of lyrical grief from her house on Kensington.

Jane Bingham who knows everything there is to know about children's literature and sometimes slips me tiny amulets — a dolphin, a green glass frog.

Dick Ramsdell perched merrily on a ladder at the Farmer's Market, counting patrons.

Lisa Templin at Steady Eddy's bellowing out some rock-and-roll song back in the kitchen at 8 a.m.

Richard and Claudia Mach inviting me over for breakfast one day just to see their lilies.

Sherry Hayden and Mike Keeler who grow tomatoes and dill in their front yard and taught me all the trees at Woodlawn Park.

Vickie and John, the medievalists, who tell me about enchantment and ancient maps.

My neighbors Nic and Yvonne who named all their five kids for the presidents.

Half my neighbors sitting on one of our front porches just the other night in our pajamas at 11 p.m. out of concern when somebody got hauled out to the hospital.

My neighbor Shane Gramling, insomniac and vigilant, harassing aspiring cat burglars and keeping all the rest of us safe.

Our neighbor Don Harbin who outwitted repeated car thieves by decorating his van with cartoon art — such a fine madness among us.

And thus the town has delivered for me. It has delivered three decades worth of characters, of lovable, infuriating, memorable humans trying their best to make a go of life just like me. I know I'm in a saccharine red zone here. I see I'm getting soft in my old age.

But here's the upshot — it's almost been enough. Enough to make an old lady with a taste for good stories very satisfied.

I've often repeated to my students the line from Stephen King's memoir, "If you have to choose between living and writing, choose living — every time."

Living, even here in Flint, has been a damn good gamble.

Even for half a lifetime.

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Columnist and Poet Jan Worth-Nelson has lived within walking distance of East Village Magazine since 1981. Her 2006 Peace Corps novel, Night Blind, is widely available. You can find her essays, fiction and poetry on her web site, www.janworth.com and her blog, http://nightblindblog.blogspot.com/index.htm. She is the interim director of the Thompson Center for Learning and Teaching and teaches writing at UM-Flint.