I live in a beautiful place. Like breathtaking sunrise over the lake while birds sing your personal soundtrack kind of beautiful. And no, I am not writing this from the balcony of my lakeside mansion while sipping artisanal espresso made by a butler named Giles. I live here because I moved in when this part of town was considered “the wrong side of the tracks.” Back then, the only things appreciating the view were me, a couple of squirrels, and a retired guy named Bob who walked shirtless year-round (we never spoke of winter).
But I got lucky. I settled in, built a life, and now I get to walk to a little sliver of land—what I call my nature recharge zone. It’s got a trail (sort of), trees that lean in like gossiping grandmothers, hedges bursting with birds, and a beach the size of a postage stamp. In short, it's perfect.
WAS perfect.
Enter: The Town.
Cue the menacing music.
The town, in its infinite and completely questionable wisdom, has decided to “beautify” this space. That’s local government code for: bulldoze the wild bits, slap down manicured lawns, install “accessible paved trails” (translation: hot concrete in July), and—wait for it—plastic playground equipment on shredded rubber. You know, because nothing says “nature” like the scent of melting tire mulch wafting on the breeze.
They've closed it. For a year.
A YEAR.
I now walk past orange construction fencing like a sad woodland ghost, clutching my reusable coffee cup and whispering, “But the chickadees used to sing here…”
Look, I’m not against improvements. I’m pro-accessibility, pro-family, pro-kiddo-slide joy. But I also wonder… have we lost the ability to just be in nature? Without Wi-Fi? Without signage? Without a QR code that tells us what the squirrel's name is and where to report his behavior?
When did we decide that wild things had to be tamed in order to be enjoyed?
Maybe that’s why I write small-town mysteries. In my stories, the trees don’t wear name tags. The paths meander without a map. There are no souvenir stands or artisan hotdog carts (although honestly, I might steal that for a future book). Just people, community, a whiff of cinnamon cookies, and yes—someone’s probably dead—but it’s all very cozy.
I write about the kind of place where the library still smells like books, the neighbors wave (but also watch you closely if you’re a stranger), and you can sit by a lake with a thermos of tea and absolutely no signal.
Some say that place doesn’t exist anymore. If that’s true, please don’t tell me.
I’d rather keep dreaming of unpaved trails.
And just to be clear—if you see a slightly feral woman muttering at construction tape near a lake, that’s me. Bring coffee. And possibly a shovel.
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