“Ryan?”

I looked into the food truck with hesitation—pretty sure I knew who I was looking at but at the same time sure that I might be totally wrong too. The person leaning out and looking at me had a warm smile and the same light blue eyes that I recalled as a kid. Not in any weird kind of way, just the more memorable features from a boundless mental catalogue of all the people you’ve met in one’s formative years.  Back when the world still felt so sharply defined.

“Yup,” he said in the affirmative, continuing to look right at me. 

“I’m Megan Hallinan,” I begin as a way of explanation. As always, I try never to assume too much. “Unassuming” in fact, was one of the terms used in a certificate of achievement presented to me by a Falmouth High School teacher during my sophomore year. To this day I have never been quite sure if this was the most glowing adjective to give to a student, but even back then, I could hardly blame him. For better or for worse, the descriptor is probably spot on.

“I know who you are,” Ryan cuts me off before I can feed him amplifying information. For example how one of my sisters had told me that he was at the Falmouth Street Fair, and how I might not recognize him after so much time. But none of that was necessary. He recognized me just as I pretty much recognized him. 

All of this shouldn’t be too surprising, given that we are all from the same small town that to this day has “grown” to a year-round population of 15,00 people. When we were kids, Mashpee had no high school, and as such you developed a pretty good awareness of who was who across kindergarten through eighth grade.  Ryan was at least one grade ahead of me, and he had a sister in a grade behind me, so the odds were even better that we were aware of each other. 

“There are so many of you,” he explained, pointing out the fact that there are five Hallinan kids, “….you look and sound alike…” he continued, by way of explaining our out-sized recognizability, even if a person wasn’t exactly sure who was who. And so even without further explanation, I understood what he meant. 

Indeed, whenever I am home and doing things like dropping into Stop & Shop, I kind of wonder who I might be passing in the aisles. Surely I know some of them or we share some unidentified connection—but on the whole, I don’t really run into people I know. Time kind of does its thing, and I feel as though I remain anonymous without one of my siblings beside me. 

I always find it fascinating how a person occupies space differently depending on their current geography. I think about the zip code where I perform my job: it’s a major city and an ocean and sea away from Cape Cod—and then I reflect on Cape Cod itself. In a big city, it is far easier to walk into a bar and order a coffee with little more than a hello and goodbye from the person serving. But then I shift scale and return to the place where I grew up; suddenly the probability for familiarity shoots up. Even after thirty years of not seeing a person—I recall as he serves me a wood-fired pizza that these original faces are pretty easy to place no matter how many other places I’ve lived.  

But being away from home is not a guarantor of anonymity, either. I think about the house next to me on the road where I grew up in Mashpee. The kid was older, but of course we were all aware of each other’s families. Fast forward to reporting to my first ship in the Navy, and the division of sailors I lead included the kid from next door. I’m not even sure how long he lived in there—but he remembered my family name. The size of our big family. In telling me his story since Mashpee, I’d learned that he was a published biochemist who didn’t make it out of SEAL training—so he’d been redirected as a Gunner’s Mate. Life is wild. And my little hometown is not always so little. I know that we all encounter moments like this one.

When you are little, you spend most of your time being shuttled around from place to place. You’re slotting yourself into whatever you are supposed to be accomplishing and there’s not much else. The real focus is on getting to do ephemeral diversions: what you get do in after school or weekend activities with neighborhood friends. If you’re unassuming like me, you were never really look at your town’s commercial streets and imagine that one day you’ll fit into that patchwork. It was once I grew older that this started to mean something. I would bump into people I recognized as the once-younger versions of themselves. We’d trade a few words to learn a bit about what we were doing these days. And then you continue on.  It seems like a small thing, but through these exchanges I always gain a true appreciation for community.

My brother has a small business doing woodwork and resin art. He’s got himself set up pretty well and he really enjoys his craft. I love to observe him in action while interacting with customers and especially when he people ask where he is from. He’s just another grown up wandering around, but at the same time as an adult, I can now see more clearly how all of these people take on added value. The bonus is that since he still has such strong roots at home, now by extension I find that he is the family anchor. 

There was another time when I flew home and my sister picked me up from the South Shore ferry. Before heading home, together we made a quick diversion to her local Stop and Shop.

“Hey!” she said as we pulled into the parking lot, “The fire truck is outside!” 

By making this observation she was suggesting that perhaps one of our sisters, a firefighter based in her town, was on duty and might be with the truck. We went inside and it didn’t take long until we spotted a firefighter—alas, our big sister was nowhere to be found. All the same, we had a connection to the big stocky guy walking towards the cash register…even if he was going about his day unaware of our what that connection might be. 

“Hello,” my older sister walked up to him, followed by a quick identification of who we were. Sisters of his co-worker. “What?” He looked us up and down with a moment of disbelief. We might look and sound alike, but we are all pretty different people. The three of us laughed and then posed for a selfie before allowing him to continue on with his pit stop.  Community can be fun when you get moments like this, and I always find great satisfaction in teasing out the webwork. 

This last time at home felt brief but beautiful. I was actually brought into touch with many more people than just one pizzaiolo from my Middle School days. All of those stories though, are for another time.  Before I knew it, I found myself back in Rome and using my scissors to cut into a pizza (because in Italy, they don’t really pre-slice round pizzas for you). It was delicious and traditional—exactly what I’ve come to expect when I’m too tired to cook after a long day. 

But in eating a pizza margherita, I’m still thinking about Ryan’s pizza—it was a sweet corn creation that I’m not quite sure would gain traction in Rome– knowing how they are such purists here. But it’s a pity because the pizza was fantastic. Something that I was happy to dig into not only because of the taste and high quality of the crust—but also because it reminded me what a real treat it is to be home.

Much like those carefree childhood moments, I got to partake in a fleeting opportunity of thoughtless enjoyment. But this time, as an older person, I made sure to assume nothing and instead really understand what was so good about it. No matter how big or how small, I appreciate what comes out of our towns, and how, sooner or later, I get a chance to see that we all have a part to play.