Village life: I never thought I'd stay this long

The poet, Bob Hass, a gracious man, quickly turned the conversation to Brent and me and to Flint, where he was going to spend the next three days.

"There are only two reasons to end up in Flint," I heard myself say, "birth and work."

Brent and I grinned at each other and watched Hass - face soften, not quite with pity, he's too elegant for that. Let's say it was a look of empathetic curiosity.

"It 's true," I said, knowing I could turn the moment into a joke. "Brent was born here and I came for a job. What other reasons would there be, fine dining?"

I got through my first quarter of a century in Flint without giving this much thought. But now, in my 26th year, beginning a second quarter century, a pestering question keeps popping up.

What does it mean to live in a place for a very long time? What does it mean, particularly, to live in a place for a very long time that is, say, bleak, unglamorous, and at its best, notorious? What does it mean, in other words, to live for a very long time in Flint?

It's perilous to think too much about the past — one can begin to seem like a tiresome old fart.

But today is a frigid, overcast Saturday, paltry snow flaking down. It's monochrome and melancholy, just right for this confession — like most other transplants, I never thought I'd stay this long.

I vividly remember my first night here. I'd accepted a job as a social worker at Family Service Agency of Genesee County making $14,000 a year. I knew I'd have trouble making it on that pay, but after finishing my M.S.W. at Ann Arbor I was broke and unmarried and needed something to do.

I'd rented a small, sweet walkup on Avon Street. It had a sloping paneled ceiling, three dormer windows across the front, and best of all, a raised stone fireplace at one end of the living room.

All I'd moved in by that night was a chair, a couple of pans and plates, a mug, a sleeping bag and a radio. My landlady said there was a Hamady Brothers grocery at the corner of Court and Dort, and I drove out there for a few provisions.

That night the store seemed dirty, dark and depressing. A crazy woman caused some kind of ruckus, yelling incoherently in the checkout line. I wondered if she was one of our clients at Family Service.

Back in my apartment, I mixed up a box of macaroni and cheese, sat on the floor shoveling it in and asked myself what in hell I'd done.

I turned on the radio, and after fiddling around I found WFBE, the long defunct Flint public radio station. What came up, by happy chance, was "John - Jazz." It was my first moment of hope, and years afterward I got to tell John R. Davis himself how much that wonderful music meant to me that night.

I got used to Flint's roller coasters of disappointment and hope. Like the time I went out to Martorelli's, that reassuring deli on Dort Highway, only to find a sign on the door, Going Out of Business. The only things left on the decimated shelves were a jar of Worcestershire Sauce, a dusty bottle of Chianti and a box of sesame crackers. (I bought the Chianti.)

Just recently, I went to Clark's looking for a martini shaker. Ten years ago, that place would have had everything you needed for a party. But this time the clerk had to say they were out. Apologetic and morose, he sighed, "That's something we should have."

Now they're closed. Along with Cafe Panache, City Lights, Hat's Pub, Billy's , the Rusty Nail and on and on.

But what do I know? I've never lived anyplace as long as I've lived in Flint, and after awhile you start feeling, well, sort of bonded to its bad luck.

That doesn't mean I don't want to get out. I'm now married to a man with an apartment in LA and occasionally I flee the gray corners of Court and Dort for the blue, green and silver of the sparkling Pacific.

But apparently I'm not ready to pull up stakes.

When Gary asked if I'd like to write this column for awhile, I realized I might have a lot to say about this old town. So, greetings, and — more to come.

Jan Worth-Nelson has lived within walking distance of East Village Magazine since 1981, and prides herself on increasing crankiness. Her 2006 Peace Corps novel Night Blind is widely available. You can find many other examples of her essays, fiction and poetry on her blog, http://nightblindblog.blogspot.com/index.html, and her web site, www.janworth.com. She teaches writing at UM-Flint.