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From Julia Reidy, Senior Software Engineer:

This is an open letter to my friends back home in Boston:

Dear friends,

I know there were a few of you who had some reservations when I told you that I would be moving to my new job in Williamstown. I took it in stride when life-long Massachusetts residents questioned, "Williamstown, where’s Williamstown?" I know that some of you believe that anything west of Worcester is "wild and untamed," and from the stories you have heard, you are afraid for me. Fear not! Really, it is not as primitive as you have been led to believe.

Let me start by assuring you that I do not need to milk cows or grow my own vegetables to eat. Although, I suppose I pass enough cows on my way to work that if I really wanted fresh-from-the-udder milk, that would be a possibility. In fact, I buy my food from a store a mere 15 miles away. Well, it’s a co-op actually, and I'm sure I will adjust to their granola and health-food selection. I mean, now that I think about it, it's a good thing that there are no fast-food joints on my drive home, or convenience stores, or any retail establishments.

I knew there would be adjustments. I was prepared for them. Now I can't let my gas tank run on fumes before it occurs to me to glide into a gas station. There are gas stations, but I don’t pass any on my way to work. In fact, we don’t have one in my little town. As long as I plan ahead, I can get gas right near that grocery store 15 miles away. It is important that I do watch because they do not (horror of horrors) have a CVS Samaritan van cruising the roads during rush hour ready to leap out and repair your car in minutes. I fear if I got stuck somewhere, I would have to walk — and walk — and walk. It might be miles to the nearest farm house.

Rush hour is different here. Unlike Springfield, which tries to be like Boston with their traffic report that describes 20 cars as "heavy volume," up here in Billsville there is no pretense of traffic reports. Yes, I know it is unthinkable to leave the house in the morning without checking out Smart Traffic and arming yourself with a coffee and a doughnut from the local Dunkin' Donuts for the hour-and-a-half battle through rush-hour traffic. Believe it or not, there aren't any Dunkin' Donuts on my way to work. Fear not, if I really get the craving some morning, there is one two towns over.

By Billsville standards, I am considered to have a rather long commute — 10 miles. I know it defies the imagination, but people here actually walk or bike to work, and most live in the same town. When an apartment came up for rent, I heard one woman turn it down because 6 miles was "too long of a commute." I wonder what the people here would have thought of my 80-mile (each way) commute last year!

I'm afraid my hard-won Boston driving skills, like speeding down the breakdown lane and weaving through traffic, are of little use here. While you are not likely to pass many cars on the way to work here, it's not completely desolate. I have driven by bicyclists, horseback riders, farmers on tractors, and twice I even passed a horse and buggy.

I know some of you have suggested that perhaps to fit in, I should dust off my old NRA Pro-marksman badge from camp and proudly display it. But, I hesitate to form bonds of friendships with my fellow coworkers based on our common ability to carry a gun. It is true that there do seem to be a disturbing number of upstanding citizens here who own guns. I definitely knew I was no longer in Boston when I discovered a refrigerator on top of a hill while I was hiking. Not on the side of the road, which one might expect, but halfway up a very steep hill. On closer inspection, I saw that the fridge was riddled with bullet holes. I was frozen in terror. Apparently people around here take their errant appliances out and shoot them. I’ve been afraid to ask the locals why.

I know that a few of you have mentioned that you can’t find my little town on the map.  Living in a town with a population of 200 has required a paradigm shift. The first sign of this was when I called information to locate the local post office. Upon not finding a number, I realized that the reason I couldn't was because we don’t have a local post office. Oh, the services that I foolishly took for granted in the Boston area! There have been whispered rumors that the way to get anything done in town is talk to a guy named Gene in a black Jeep. I think, for now, I will be satisfied with having my mail delivered to a Mailboxes, Etc.

I also want to caution you who visit not to be too trusting of the maps of this area. Just because there is a squiggle on the map does not necessarily mean that this is a passable road. They actually close roads here in the winter, putting up stone barricades and not even attempting to plow. I foolishly thought to explore the other end of my road when they opened it for the season. It quickly turned from a dirt road to a cow path to a deep-rutted mud river coming down from the side of a mountain. At this moment, in the middle of nowhere, without any human signs of life for the last 30 white-knuckled minutes as I attempted to navigate a Dodge Neon through places it was NEVER intended to go, I began to seriously consider a truck.

A truck? Me? I know, I know. You are convinced I'm being corrupted by these country bumpkins!

I keep telling myself that I’m not changing. Really. Just because I am wearing polarfleece and hiking boots to work, and spending my day working on pod subscriptions, doesn’t mean I have been taken over by the pod people … or does it?

— Julia

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Read more "Letters from Tripod" in the archive.

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