To hear others expound on the merits of small-town living, you’d be convinced of the perils of either bucolic isolation or city anonymity. If you and your family are off-the-grid, say, homesteading in Idaho, you could be eaten by a pack of rabid wolves months before anyone might happen upon your compound. Choose to reside in some metropolitan block apartment in Queens, and your corpse could be well into being devoured by Mr. Whiskers before anyone thought to come looking for you.

Such is not the case in a small town. If you are a proud Smallvillager and you die, the authorities know within twenty-four hours.

Tops.

And once the word gets out you’ve died, everyone knows—unlike in Idaho, where you didn’t have any neighbors, unlike in Queens, where people are too busy to notice.

Now, let’s change the fact pattern.

You don’t die. Instead, let’s say you’re just having a hard time dealing with something serious in your life. Again, in Idaho, no one pays attention because no one is around, and in Queens, no one stays put long enough to listen.

But how might this shake out in Smallville?

People talk about the hard time you’re having.

But curiously—or perhaps, more accurately, sadly—these conversations exclude you.

The discussions about your crisis/depression/risk-taking behavior/withdrawal will happen—just not with the very person who needs help.

This is the curse of Smallville: gossip over compassion.

And it’s awful.

What might you ask brings this to the fore?

I happened to bump into someone today who I know indulged herself in scurrilous gossip about me. Had she not been with her children (and I’d not been with mine), I might have confronted her about it. You know, been direct and made a point about her speculations and ill-founded conclusions with a woman who once called me “friend.”

It’s hard to say why Smallvillagers do this.

Maybe they can’t help themselves.

***

The above essay, which I am republishing today with minor edits, was the most widely read on my blog in 2015.