I’m standing on the front stoop of an impressive Federal-style brick home. It’s drizzling rain but I’m sheltered by a huge entry way recessed into the front façade that provides a welcoming introduction to what might otherwise be an intimidating structure.
I try the doorbell—no response… I’m not sure it’s working. I feel like I’ve somehow gone back in time into the early 1900’s as I pull the antique, custom-made screen door open. It creaks, as if on cue, in perfect pitch to my imaginings. My friends Scott and Susan live here so I’m confident I will be graciously received; but still, I can’t shake this sense of intrusion as I ease the screen back to reveal an imposing and ornate door. The Smiths, in an effort to make guests feel welcome, have hung a fall-foliage wreath that encircles the antique brass knocker. The wreath does its job, I do feel less like I’m intruding—that I’m not violating their welcome. The large window-less door is surrounded by leaded-glass side lights whose laced coverings block any chance of detecting whether there’s movement within. I reach up and lift the knocker—ah…perfect, it too creaks in protest as it clanks solidly against the pediment.
The rain-soaked swish of a passing vehicle catches my attention—I can’t resist turning to see if it’s someone I know; habit, I guess. This is, after all, Rushville, a place where everyone knows everyone.
The rain has turned up the wick now, crackling off the multicolored leaves that carpet the area giving it a shiny, quilted look. Two huge maples, every bit as old as the Smith home, stand like sentinels at each front corner; their bulging roots have lifted the massive, cut-stone, sidewalk slabs out of position. Like a super slow motion earth quake, the sidewalk has been undulating imperceivably for over a century.
I knock again. Still no one answers so I turn to watch it rain. I consider making a dash for the back door. Another car shushes by on the wet street and for whatever reason I follow its movement as it heads east, up the slight grade toward Fisher’s Garage. I stare, transfixed, as it crests the knoll and disappears down the slope eastward and out of town. My gaze returns to the rolling sidewalk just in front of me and thoughts of those who once walked that way. When the maples were saplings and the stonemasons laid the sidewalk as straight and true as the bricks that comprise the Smith’s home.
It suddenly dawns on me that from where I’m standing, I can see each business, now closed, that once made Rushville a fully self-contained community. I look west, at the corner of Main and Market, where two proud bricks face one another. One was, in my younger days, Murphy’s Rest Home. The other was a wonderfully restored commercial building whose billboard painted sides once read, “Funeral’s, Pianos and Home Furnishings.” On the northeast corner of Main and Market sits the former grocery/general store, in remarkably original condition.
Turning my gaze directly across Main, I see two beautifully restored antique homes. On eastward I can see the former bank building (from which I received my first car loan). Beside the bank is the former hardware store above which rests the original Community Theater— whose stage and sloped seating remain completely intact today on the second floor. Across from the hardware and bank I see the last vestige of Rushville’s independent businesses: Lowell Fisher’s Auto Repair/TV Sales & Repair/Stereo Sales & Repair/Lawn Mower Sales & Repair/Gas Station & Towing Service/ad infinitum.
If you ask Lowell’s wife if the business is closed you’ll get a firm, “Yes!” If you ask Lowell, he just smiles. He, like everyone in Rushville, has something to smile about. They live in a village that in my opinion couldn’t be more inappropriately named. Because there’s nothing rushed about Rushville, and I pray it stays that way.
The Bible warns us about getting in too much of a hurry. Speaking to us as if we are hyperactive children it quietly says,
“Sit down and be quiet and know that I’m God.” Psalm 46:10
Eventually Scott answered the door. He’s recovering from major surgery and together we’re learning to slow down and make the most of the important moments. I think he’s in a good place. “No-Rush Rushville.”
Read Ron’s column, Simple Faith, each Saturday on the Faith Page (page 3) of the Lancaster Eagle Gazette, or visit www.lancastereaglegazette.com.