An update of an old column
“Are you local?” asked the man wearing an LL Bean jacket and shiny new hiking boots.
“Well…” I looked around cautiously to make sure no real locals lurked around the corner. “Yes,” I lied. “I’m local.”
“Thank goodness,” he said, obviously relieved. “Can you direct me to a pharmacy?”
As I told him, I glanced around nervously; worried my lie would be discovered. Because I am not local. Oh, I can fudge the issue with semantics. I can claim that I am a local. After all I’ve lived here for 47 years. But I can never be a local.
You may say, “That’s ridiculous. You should be able to call yourself local, and what’s all the fuss about anyway. What determines a local?”
Some say a true local must be born here. My children are locals, born in the North Shore Hospital. After that, it doesn’t matter if you move anywhere in the world, you will always be local. I know this to be true because I am considered local in a small South Dakota town. All that’s necessary when introducing me are the words, “This is Albert’s girl,” and immediately people know who I am.
Others say a true local claims at least two generations in the graveyard. Some say three or even four ancestors are the real qualifications. You might ask “You mean this excludes me from ever being a local?” Yes, but look at the bright side. If you die and are buried here, your grandchildren will be local.
I suppose the above standards are too harsh for this era of inclusivity and instant gratification. “What you mean? I’ve lived here six months and can’t call myself a local?”
Therefore, in the spirit of community, (drum roll please) I offer my solution to the problem—levels of local. People can, for the most part, fit into one of the following categories and move up the ladder towards ultimate localness— if they desire.
At the bottom of the rung are the tourists so unfamiliar with the area, they’ve been known to ask the name of the big river outside the Blue Water Café. Easily recognizable, they are the people in the cars driving the wrong way down Grand Marais’ only one-way.
Next we have newcomers. They ask questions like where’s the movie theater, where’s the 24-hour grocery store and where in the heck is the dry cleaners?
Vocal locals: a new breed. They live here for about 10 years, overwhelm public meetings, foment change or lack of change and eventually move away, leaving permanent residents stuck with the results.
Quasi-locals: I include myself in this group. We share the following traits: We’ve lived here over 10 years, driven to Duluth in a blizzard and own a pair of real Sorels, not the fancy ones. We never use street addresses so when someone asks, “Where is 1432 Rosebush Lane?” We answer, “Huh? Oh you mean the old Fistbee house where his sister lived?”
Quasi-locals know there’s no such thing as recycling pick-up days and that a shopping trip means five hours in the car. We’ve driven to Duluth in bad fog, sometimes drink our morning coffee at Holiday or Super America, and own a pair of rawhide snowshoes.
Top of the local ladder: People born here or on the way to Duluth.
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