Adventure 2 in a small town

   fter renting the little house—and surviving Mr. Turner’s pop‑quiz—I went outside to figure out my actual address. No contract, no paperwork, no “Welcome to your new home” packet. Nothing.

So I checked the house number on the porch. Then I had to drive three blocks just to find a street sign, because every single one of them was turned. I thought, Surely there aren’t three streets named Broadway. But in this town, who knows.

I finally marched into City Hall and told the clerk, “I live at 210 Broadway.”

She stared at me like I’d just announced a UFO landing. “Who moved?” she asked.

How should I know—and who cares? “I don’t know,” I said. “My address is 210 Broadway.”

She squinted at me. “Where is Broadway?”

The City Hall clerk. Asking me. Where her own street is.

I smiled politely and said, “I’m assuming the three signs that say Broadway are just turned, and the street out front is Broadway.”

She nodded slowly, like she was solving a math problem. “Oh. Hmm… Who are your neighbors?”

I had been in town for five minutes and she was asking me questions like I’d lived there since the Eisenhower administration.

“They really don’t like strangers,” I thought. “I must be the first one she’s ever encountered.”

So I said, “Mr. Turner is my landlord. He’s on the west.”

She let out a huge sigh of relief. “Oh! You live in the Fields’ house.”

I did not know who the Fields were. I would soon learn.

Turns out the Fields were currently in jail for having an old‑fashioned gunfight across Broadway with the guy across the street. Not a metaphor. Not an exaggeration. A literal shootout like it was 1883.

Anytime someone asked where we lived, we’d say, “Fields’ house,” and they’d launch into the same story about the gunfight. Every. Single. Time.

Our official address—printed right on my utility bill—was:

“One block south of the post office, two blocks west, middle of the block.”

Not a number. Not a street. Just… directions. Like we lived in a corn maze.

And that’s when I realized: I hadn’t just moved to a small town. I’d moved into a geographical suggestion

Living in a Small Town

We were visiting a small town when I spotted the sweetest little house for rent. Picture‑perfect. Porch swing energy. I asked the landlord, Mr. Turner, “How much is the deposit?”

He said, “I don’t need a deposit. I just have some questions.”

I thought he meant normal rental questions. He did not.

Mr. T: “Why did you move to our little town?” Me: “The cheap rent.” (He blinked like I’d said a cuss word.)

Mr. T: “Who are you related to?” Me: “Do I have to be related to someone?” Mr. T: “We don’t want no strangers in our little town.” Me: They let you in… (I did NOT say that out loud.)

So I said, “Morris family.” His eyebrows went up. Apparently that was the magic password.

Mr. T: “How many kids will be going to our nice little school?” Me: “Two.” (I still don’t know why this mattered. Was he taking attendance?)

Mr. T: “Will you be having any wild parties?” Me: “Not that I know of. Do you want invited to one?” He did not laugh.

Mr. T: “What are your children’s names?” Me: “Why? Do you need one of them for a deposit?” Still no laugh.

Mr. T: “Are you going to join the Lions Club?” Me: “Do I have to?” Mr. T: “No… but it would be the neighborly thing to do.”

Then he asked, “What church do you go to?”

Me: “I have to go to church?” (The look on his face…) “I belong to the big one.”

That seemed to settle his spirit. “Well,” he said, “looks like you’ll do.”

I asked, “Aren’t you going to write any of this down?” He waved me off. “What for? I won’t forget it.”

I pulled out cash for the deposit.

Mr. T: “Oh, I’d rather have a check. I’m afraid I’ll lose cash.” Me: “I only have an out‑of‑state check.” Mr. T: “Is it any good?” Me: “Yes, but…” (I could’ve been lying. He had no idea.)

He shrugged. “Well, then it’s good enough for me. I know where ya live.”

He took the check and handed me the keys.

And that’s how I passed the Small‑Town Background Check — no paperwork, just who ya know.