One of the benefits of living in a small town is that whatever you’re going through, the voice of experience is just a few phone calls away. What did you do when your goats escaped? So, how was chemo, really? and the ever popular… what are we going to do about the kids? You just ask around, and it usually turns out that the exact same thing happened to somebody, and you can go ask them.

The downside, of course, is that sometimes it seems like everybody knows everything about you, your goats, and your entire family. (I know how much money that big spender down the road is paying for chicken feed.)

A while back, someone asked me a question in that small-town polite way where if you don’t know the person you really want to ask well enough, you just ask the whole room at once and hope for the best.

And, of course… since everybody else knows what’s going on, they generally take a step back, and help keep the conversation on life support until the information comes out.

(So, uhm… how do you write a novel?)

In this case, it was a question about children, and of course, nobody asks me a question about children unless they’re

1.) aware that I was one, once (technically) AND 2.) desperate.

I bumped into the same acquaintance again, and I thought about asking how things turned out, but I thought better of it.

And then, it suddenly occurred to me that I don’t know how many people actually do know that I was a child, once.

Probably more than I know. I have chatty relatives.

But delayed curiosity has struck. Just exactly who did tell this person to come ask me?

I have my suspicions.