Boring, Maryland. It is a real place; one I am proud to call my hometown. Only 66 homes are lucky enough to live within 2 miles of the three big Boring landmarks.
I may be a little biased, but I count my house as an unofficial (read: updatable without historic red tape required) fourth landmark. The exposed chestnut beams have seen remarkable transitions since its original construction in 1866. From a blacksmith store, to the Boring Townhall, a transitional church and even a school- there are no shortage of stories under this roof.
My back yard holds another historical attraction. A Wye Oak’s branches bounce as fearless squirrel residents jump from limb to limb. This particular Oak is a descendant from the original Maryland State Tree in Talbot County. That tree was the largest Wye Oak in the nation and was 500 years old before a storm took it out in 2002. One of its acorns was tended with care, planted as a wiry sapling, and continues to grow with no pretense at all that fancy certification papers accompany this tree. The first official landmark is the Boring Volunteer Fire Hall, which hosted Not-So-Boring Bingo for ages. I picked up shifts in the Bingo Snack Shack when my health allowed. It was a three-minute walk to work that became two-and-a-half in the winter. I made more friends than I could have imagined among the regulars, with their lucky treasure troll collections and custom bags holding dabbers in every color. Bingo has now closed its doors permanently and while other bingo options are nearby, I will miss watching the slow parade of Cadillacs drifting by from our back-porch each night around 10:30pm.
The Fire Chief lives two houses away, and whenever the siren went off at the station, my husband, cats, and I would all rush to the windows. If we were lucky, we’d see him hop in his pickup, drive like Vin Diesel the 1/16th of a mile to the fire engine and watch him speed off to go save people. Unless it was good old Mrs. Ethel who called. Then Fire Chief was rushing to help Whiskers out of the walnut tree again.
The siren doesn’t go off anymore. Our neighboring fire station agreed to team up for efficiency and they now operate from a new location. There is still a parade of firetrucks that make their rounds on Easter. The truck sirens must give the poor waving Bunny a terrible headache but it’s worth it for all the smooshed children’s faces watching from behind glass storm doors.
The Boring Post Office is the second landmark. When I first moved in, I was incredibly excited to use Boring, MD as my mailing address. There were conditions, however. My mail would not be delivered to my mailbox. I would have to pick up my bills directly from the post office, which was still close enough to be plainly in view from most windows in my home. The post office had ancient wooden mail cubbies that could hold up to five envelopes. What a hipster’s dream! I was admiring the cubbies when Bucky the Postmaster came downstairs to greet me. He lived in the apartment above and heard the bell ring as I had opened the door. Bucky had a pretty good gig considering he had no commute, and his hours were 9am-11am Monday through Saturday. That was not a typo, the Post Office was literally only available for pickup for two hours. That meant as much as my husband and I would sacrifice for a hilarious bit, we would have to commit to waking up every single Saturday morning to pick up a weeks’ worth of mail, since every other day we would be at our jobs.
It was not possible to just pop in and out on Saturday mornings either. After obtaining my armful of coupons and explanation of benefits, the next step was a series of required pleasantries. Whoever was present among the assortment of the town gossips would be sipping on coffee from thermos, the original Yeti rambler. Saturday morning at the Boring post office was social hour, or hours, more accurately. After politely complimenting the appropriate number of grandchildren photos, I could finally offer excuses to get back home into my pajamas and relay what I’d learned in detail about Whiskers latest rescue to my husband.
I was close to excepting all the strange new mail rituals I would have when I learned the hard way an important bit of information. There is not a Boring, MD postage stamp. No, my wedding invitations would not be Boring official. It was picked up from a larger nearby town where it is stamped as if it was just regular old mail and not Boring at all. My visions of officially stamped Boring letters traveling near and far vanished, and suddenly this was all hinging on having my name on one of those gorgeous and historic mail slots that was smaller than a shoe box.
Eventually, I sadly agreed to use the neighboring town as my mailing address. Sure, there were other benefits like having access to my mailbox at any time, and not having to hide hangovers with makeup or else risk scrutiny from the Boring Thermos Crew, but in the end it came down to the size of the cubby. Turns out it was so small a lot of flyers and cards didn’t fit in the cubbies at all. Never mind my plan of picking my mail up once a week. The illusion all came crashing down when I saw Bucky had organized the mail underneath the counter by house number in a standard old USPS bin and didn’t use the cubbies at all. So, now we technically live in two different towns, but we also have Saturday mornings free for hibernating without time constraints.
The third landmark, also the most popular selfie spot in Boring, is the Boring Methodist Church. Its bell rang every Sunday at 8:55am to let everyone know it is time to worship. Each Christmas Eve the church lined our neighborhoods’ roads with milk jug lanterns. Its flickering lights glowed over miles of untouched snow. The darker the night became, the more those simple recycled plastic lanterns inspired an almost tangible Christmas magic. Full grown adults peeked from behind curtains, giddy with excitement and the joy of tradition.
The church decided to combine congregations with another one room church a short way down the road to conserve resources. Now the bell only rings during windstorms and there is a For Sale sign in front.
When long summer days arrive, my husband and I take walks along the railroad tracks. They meander through stunning farms with fields of soybeans and corn; dotted with farmhouses and barns that were built from a different century. I like to let my mind wander, imagining what life was like when those barns were first built.
The landmarks may be changing, but the people of Boring have not. Neighbors share lawn mowers, summer watermelons, and even cellars for those of us without basements when storms come through.
Boring is not only beautiful because of the bunnies and deer playing in the fields at sunset. It is beautiful because the people who live here care. We care about helping a neighbor change a flat, we care about Mrs. Ethel's cat Whiskers, and we care about waving to the farmer who pulled his harvester aside so a car could drive ahead.
It turns out I have been wanting to live the Boring life all along.
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