The Partial Observer by Jan Costello
A Poem of Community and Belonging
In 2019, Janice (Jan) Costello of Gilbertsville submitted “A Poem of Community and Belonging” in response to a prompt for entries to the annual LEAF Council on Alcoholism and Addictions Art & Poetry Contest.
Before her death in 2022, Jan posted her thoughts on the poem, which encompasses life in the Village of Gilbertsville, on her Facebook page. She described it as “a genre-bending, brain-storming struggle to represent life in this and any number of small towns realistically. If you have the patience to read through it you will recognize yourself and your neighbors—whether you live here right now or only in your memory. And you will see that already there have been changes. This is a small holiday offering, a way to remember all that we have been and still can be if we keep our eyes focused on the best things and allow the petty to slip away.”
EDITOR’S NOTE: A friend of the late Jan Costello brought this piece to our attention and suggested we run it. Ms. Costello’s account of life in the Village of Gilbertsville is not only apropos as we say goodbye to the old year and usher in the new, but also because—with only a few exceptions—it could have been written about any one of a number of communities here in Otsego County. We hope you enjoy “A Poem of Community and Belonging” as much as we did.
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Write a poem about finding a sense of community and belonging, they said.
Okay. Brainstorm a few ideas. Decide what kind of poem to write. A sonnet, maybe, or an ode? In free verse? Rhyming couplets? Maybe a ballad. But certainly not an epic. Not about this little place. Not much happens here to write about. Make some notes about what to include…
Mention the parades—patriotic holidays with marching band, American Legion, auxiliaries, scouts, a classic car or two, maybe some candy thrown. Fire queen, spectators in red, white, and blue. Then a steep walk to the cemetery and the blasted guns firing and taps echoing in the valley. Add on that once a year there’s a pet parade. And how all summer long, beginning around then, the slightly-illegal but almost professional fireworks send folks driving around in search of the best views.
Mention chicken barbecues, whether by scouts or firefighters, doesn’t matter. Do not fail to include the delicious perfume of the special sauce blanketing the village and how there’s always someone in the food line you haven’t seen since this time last year. Catching up gives you something to do while waiting for the chicken to get done.
Mention the church lunches and suppers that raise a few bucks to keep the buildings open and the bills paid. Don’t forget the real purpose is getting folks together. Say that even the people who don’t attend don’t want the gatherings to go away just in case they want to show up some day when things slow down a bit and they need something to do.
Mention the country store—NOT a convenience store—with the unassuming old-fashioned ambience and a solid clientele of foodies who know they can get a cuppa, a good meal, a bit of local gossip. They know they’ll have to wait their turn if only one person is working that shift, being both cook and cashier. Do not leave out the weekly mouth-watering, hip-expanding delicacies by local artisanal bakers who could be making a killing out there in the real world if they chose to leave the village. No doubt about that. Thank the bakery gods for them.
Mention the one-time school-blacksmith-shop-library dating from the 1820s where the wi-fi is free and so are the books, the companionship, and the village history. Don’t forget to shout-out the faithful librarians turning generations of kids on to reading early, and the world-class historian fiercely guarding the wisdom of the ages while somehow keeping it relevant. Don’t forget the time in the ‘70s when drowning the village was a serious threat. Mention the heroes who proved that its value as a living presence outweighed its proposed future sleeping with the fishes under the waters of the Butternut. Saved by a sense of history and community.
Mention the farmers’ market—a little collection of pop-up awnings that sprouts every Saturday morning in season with homegrown and homemade goodness underneath. Don’t forget to say you have to get there early for the best selection, because the raspberries and asparagus sell out fast. But if you can’t make it early, just give the vendors a heads up to save your favorites for you, and maybe they’ll even deliver.
Mention that Santa stops by via a lit-up fire truck every Christmas Eve and hands out stockings to a long line of kids whose parents and grandparents and maybe great-grandparents enjoyed the same excruciatingly delicious excitement back in the day. Don’t forget to add that Santa and Mrs. Claus patiently pose for pics with each family and then drop by certain homes where people can’t get out much anymore, as do the carolers earlier in the season.
Mention the special chairs set aside for fans of a certain age at the high school basketball games, those guys who’ve shown up for years and supported every team, some awesome and some God-awful, not that it matters. Every team has solid support court-side in those chairs. Don’t forget to say the chairs are getting a little more empty each year.
Mention the society that has a burden of care for the one-of-a-kind beauty of the village, the keepers of the unique structures and customs and landscapes that draw wanderers back long after they’ve moved away. The ones that inspire social media comments that begin, “I remember…” or “Do they still…” The answer is, yes, you remember that accurately and yes, we still do that here. It’s what we do and when you come back you can do it again, too.
Mention the noon whistle whetting the villager’s appetites, and the times the siren goes off not at noon but at all hours to summon men and women who serve out of a sense of duty and compassion for no pay whatsoever, pure servants to their community. Oh, there’s that word I’m supposed to be writing about…but now I’m thinking about ambulance calls and downed trees and power lines and flooded cellars and county fair parades and the training nights and all the times They. Show. Up. And I can’t be thinking about community. Or am I?
Mention the Grange and its breakfast with the aforementioned-Santa and the Halloween party, the school dictionary donations—stubbornly not going digital—the graduation awards, the bus trips, the Monday-night meetings, the dinners, the food booth at the fair, the important informational sessions, the acts of service. Don’t forget the social aspects of this group—it ranks #1 for that.
Mention the historic and beautiful landmark with its rich back story, including its various lives, its specter, its decline and almost-death, its resurrection and return to glory as the architectural star of many an occasion—proms and weddings and quilt shows and bazaars and Easter egg hunts and concerts. Don’t forget about its tireless caretakers who actually live there, even though they pretend to have homes of their own outside town.
Mention the artists and crafters, all the professionals and amateurs who shape and polish beauty with hands and hearts for a living or just a hobby. The writers, the musicians, the makers, the fixers, the carers, the entrepreneurs, the house painters, the floor finishers, the healers and growers; add in the farmers, educators, pastors, lawyers, naturalists, book readers, dog walkers, chicken raisers, cat keepers, Morris dancers, quilt makers, race runners, canoe paddlers, trash recyclers, river-cleaners. And don’t forget, do not forget, the peacemakers.
Mention the road race and the other ways that folks memorialize their loved ones, not least the tranquil hillside cemetery, full of names of friends and more than a few enemies whose quarrels are ended but not forgotten. Add that we’re not good at forgetting. A good thing when it’s about love and sacrifice and dedication and—well—community. About—you know—belonging. Those folks up on the hill all belong there together now, and someday we will, too.
Mention the unsung heroes—the guy in shorts riding a bike when snow and frigid temps have everyone else bundled up to the eyes, his tire tracks marking a strange serpentine path along the deserted street to the home of someone who needs checking on. The folks shoveling and plowing and blowing out neighbors, picking up and delivering mail from several antique PO boxes. Postal workers who know your habits better than you do and never have to look up your box number or combination. Don’t forget the village and town workers patiently—or not— putting up with the quirks of their citizens and picking up the trash and clearing the roads anyway, and oh yeah, the activists running for office or just stepping up and taking on thankless jobs because who else will do it? Mustn’t forget to mention them.
Mention the pulling-together times, emergencies of weather, health, national crisis, personal loss, planetary alignment, and what have you. Don’t forget the food bank donations of time, money, and victuals; endless school fundraisers that somehow sell out; concerts and plays and ballgames and assemblies. Kids who grow up here and stay because they can’t imagine living anywhere else. Kids who grow up here and leave but are so glad they didn’t grow up anywhere else. Drivers too old or too young, whose barely-adequate skills mean that everyone watches out for them. Streets where families with little children live and folks are extra careful. The eyes of neighbor on neighbor that can feel intrusive and annoying but can save a life, too. Add a word about the community page on social media where trivia and items of extreme urgency show up with equal frequency and provoke equally-passionate responses. Thumbs up to that.
Mention the parks and what nice places to gather for birthdays and anniversaries and reunions and church services. Don’t forget the little kids’ sports teams and the Fourth of July games. Play equipment crafted by a village father. A tree planted in memory of a lost teen. Summer rec— free and open to all. Just ask.
Mention the villagers whose habits define each day, whose vehicles and dogs and eccentricities are as identifiable as their faces. Whose genes flow down through the generations like sap through the spring maple trees. Add that there are quite a few transplants these days, and summer visitors, and that times have changed and the community has had to evolve and accept, sometimes reluctantly, change. Don’t forget how they are learning to be inclusive when they could just as well go the other way. And definitely don’t forget to mention that all of this, all of these many, many things and so many more, are what keep this community a place of belonging. And say how we know it’s not perfect, but say also that we think it will keep on doing what it has learned to do so well. Be a community. Very small and somewhat mighty. Be a place. A place to belong.
And then mention that all this won’t fit into a poem. It’s too much to boil this sap down, to prune and arrange the branches of this village into verses on the page. To show, not tell, all that it is. It’s too big, this little place. It can’t be done.
Or maybe—maybe it is a poem. Maybe it’s truly a poem after all, the place and not the words. Call it a hymn. Call it an ode. Call it an epic. But call this place a poem. A poem of community and belonging.