By Kate Stockrahm
Today was a nice day.
I woke up before the alarm, folded some laundry, washed all the dishes that would fit on the drying rack, and even wiped down the counters afterward. I opened a book I’ve been loving with the intention of reading for maybe 15 minutes before my next tasks … then read for over an hour straight, my green tea growing cold as I turned page after page, too engrossed in the narrative to care that I’d let the bag oversteep.
The sun peaked through clouds as I ventured outside, having chosen the wrong weight of jacket for the umpteenth time this finicky spring. After I swapped to a lighter option, we drove to Metamora to see my friend, Jordan Climie, perform in “Popcorn Falls” at the roughly 600-person village’s Historic Old Town Hall.
I found myself absolutely charmed by the one-room space, which featured a small stage with brown velvet curtains, checkered tile, cases of historical artifacts along one wall, and three rows of evenly-spaced milky pendant lights that hung down from the tall ceiling.
What I soon learned was that Old Town Hall was also the perfect venue for the two-man play, which centers around a bit of bureaucracy. (In quick synopsis: the former mayor of a big town moves to a small town to start over; the small town is going bankrupt; the mayor gets crafty to find funding, and the whole town needs to put on a play, in under a week, in order to secure a grant that will keep it from turning into the site of a new sewage treatment plant.)
It was delightful!
Popcorn Falls’ townsfolk called themselves “kernels” rather than citizens. The small audience caught every well-timed joke, and we laughed together in the darkness the whole performance. And, as the show demands its two actors play 20+ parts between them, I was mesmerized watching Jordan and his counterpart, Donovan Leary, seamlessly shift accents, adjust the set, and grab props without losing a beat. It’s always wonderful to be awed by others’ talent.
Then we strolled through a nearby neighborhood admiring homes’ porches and wood-detailing while the smell of fresh cut grass wafted over from somewhere, carried on a light breeze as the sun warmed our faces.
I was surprised to find myself in such a good mood for a Sunday afternoon, when life’s weekday requirements and realities are so close at hand.
But I was in a good mood, and we even stopped at a random dive that I’m sure we couldn’t find again on a map to eat fried pepperjack cheese balls and prolong the time between today’s loveliness and Monday’s coming reality just a little bit longer.
And while I thought the day’s spell might be broken as we pulled back into our Carriage Town driveway – it wasn’t.
Though clouds had rolled back in on our journey home, I could still smell fresh cut grass wafting from somewhere, and I waved to my neighbor ending her day as I’d started mine: with a book and a mug of tea… which was probably cold now from sitting on her porch railing as she finished just-one-more chapter.
“How pleasant,” I thought, as we ventured back inside, filled with the contentment of new experiences (and fried cheese) and deep appreciation for a simple, nice day.
Editor’s Note: This article first appeared in East Village Magazine’s May 2026 issue.
