IDEA REVISITED: WHY I LIVE WHERE I LIVE

At one time, Esquire magazine ran a periodic feature called "Why I Live Where I Live" in which writers of note discussed their hometowns. Usually, the locale featured was of the variety of Key West or Martha's Vineyard or Montana, a place where writer's block finds its remedy in a walk along the seashore or amid the sprawling outdoors.

These pieces appealed to me not so much as a dissection of the writer's art, but as travelogues. Writers require little but inspiration to practice their craft, and inspiration is where you find it.

For some, residence might have been coincidental to literary discipline. Had Hemingway never seen Paris or Africa or the Gulf Stream, his writings might still be celebrated. Had Faulkner been a Yankee, we might still know his art.

And for all that, the facts remain that Esquire no longer runs its "Why I Live Where I Live" feature and I am no writer of note. Still, I live in Cape Girardeau and what follows concerns that.

I like Cape Girardeau. You find no eye-rolling from me when introducing myself from this city, the way you often get it from others when admitting they live in a small community.

A friend of mine used to claim in a stand-up comedy routine that persons can have themselves declared legally dead after living eight years in Cape Girardeau, a loophole that offers considerable tax advantages. It's a good line, one I think most in Cape Girardeau wouldn't find dreadful. A good community must have a good sense of humor.

The lament sounds familiar when it comes to small towns: nothing to see, nothing to do.

I accept this to a point. However, I consistently find when you visit someone in, say, Chicago and describe for them your interesting day at the art institute or the Sears Tower, they respond, "Oh, I've been meaning to do that" or "I haven't been there in years."

The number of people who live in St. Louis and haven't been to the top of the Gateway Arch is probably staggering.

The fact is that people, regardless of where they live, create their own small communities in which there are limited acquaintances and activities. In the smallest burg or largest metropolis, you aren't out making new friends or doing new things every day. Human nature dictates that you fall into comfortable patterns of behavior. Thus, where you live makes less difference than how you deport yourself in the narrow personal community you've created.

All this may merely be rationalization for lack of success, since success remains irrationally linked to large cities. ("If I can make it there, I'll make it anywhere.") Cape Girardeau is not New York City ... thank goodness. Still, without delving into the psychological angles of these observations, there are appealing aspects of Cape Girardeau worth noting.

Through happenstance more than geographical affection, I have never lived in a house more than 25 miles away from the Mississippi River. In a quirky, reassuring way, I enjoy the idea that I can walk out the door of my office and chunk a rock into one of the world's mightiest waterways three minutes later. (Do newspapermen who work near the Nile feel the same way?)

There is a bench where I occasionally spend quiet moments, atop the terraces that front the Common Pleas Courthouse, where there is a clear view of the top of downtown buildings, the floodwall, the river and Illinois beyond. It is from there that it strikes you how graceful a fit Cape Girardeau is with the Mississippi. Some river towns bear their waterways like they would a rail yard or a fleet garage, exacting only their utility. Cape Girardeau doesn't fit this type, paying homage to the river and letting the sweep of history and nature create a singular spot.

There are a lot of things about this city I like.

I like the roguish legend of the city's founding, of the French ensign tossed from a patrol boat and left to swim for it, making landfall at a river promontory and eventually having his name attached to this community.

I like the fact Cape Girardeau has streets named for a Beatles song (Penny Lane) and a Beatles album (Abbey Road). Nothing yet to honor the Stones. (Is there a Sticky Fingers Boulevard in the future?)

I like the determined, preposterous rivalry with Jackson, borne of decades of athletic competition. It is healthy as it is corny.

I like the fact Bloomfield Road heads toward Bloomfield, Gordonville Road heads toward Gordonville and Perryville Road heads toward Perryville. In simpler times, people did things in simpler ways; where are they now?

I like the fowl who occupy the lagoon at Capaha Park; considering their steady diet of bread crumbs, they are remarkably even- tempered.

I like the look of the Academic Hall dome and the big flag in the County Park. I like my neighbors and my neighborhood.

I even like the routine task of spelling the city's name for those at the other end of long-distance calls ... and then assisting with the ~pronunciation.

Working last Saturday, I walked downtown for lunch at a sidewalk table and to take in the crowds milling around from the docked riverboats. The sun was out and I tried my civic best with a welcoming smile for the guests (though I may have inadvertently thrust hospitality on some townspeople).

The visitors, no rubes when it came to river towns, were strolling about in groups, snapping pictures, taking carriage rides, and they genuinely seemed taken with the place.

I kept wanting to say, "Yeah, I know."