No I.D. necessary

We opened new bank accounts last week at the local credit union. I sat in the lobby with our little four year old for an hour while my husband set everything up, then I signed my name on a few sheets of paper and left. A week later I went into the branch to cash an $800 check. I didn't have our new debit cards yet, didn't know my account number, couldn't even remember our new address. I handed the teller my check, asked for cash, then waited for her to ask my account number and whatever else she needed to know to look me up. After a few seconds of tap tap tapping on her computer, she asked how I wanted my money. Of course I had to open my mouth and say "Um, don't you need my account number or I.D. or thumb print or something?" No, she didn't. She'd seen me sitting in the lobby a week earlier, knew I had an account, and looked up my name from the check. Here's how she I.D.'d me: she asked, "You are the little gal who sat here in the lobby with the cute boy in the red shorts last week, right?" And that was that.

Hand-made swing in our new back yard

     I'll tell you why I'm loving the simplicity of our new backwoods life. For 16 solid years I would eat lunch at my favorite restaurant, Tia Rosa's, at least twice a week, and I always ordered the same exact meal, the salmon taco combo and a medium horchata. Week after sunny week for years on end, I'd order from the same two people, thousands of dollars worth of the best spicy, peppery Mexican food around. And in all that time, there was never even the slightest flicker of recognition, a smile or a "hey, back again?" or anything that indicated that they'd ever seen my face before. Once, after 15 years, I had lunch there 4 days in a row, and on the 5th day I asked the guy "You know what I want, right?" and winked. He looked at me like his brain had been erased overnight (because in that busy city culture of 7 million inhabitants it's not polite to intrude in somebody's life by memorizing their lunch order!) and he said "Excuse me?" So I ordered my usual and acted like I hadn't seen him 100 times that year either.
     Some days I get frustrated by small town life because I can't locate an organic roasting chicken within an hour drive, and the yoga studio is only open once a week, and the only Red Box in town is dismally picked over. But there's something so profoundly warming about being part of a community where the teller trusts you with $800 based on a pair of little red hand-me-down shorts. It's what home and neighborhood should feel like, I think.