By Ashleigh West.
Even as a small child, my attitude regarding my hometown of Avon, Massachusetts, has always been mixed. Graduating from a class size of 53 students, with just around 300 total in the whole building—which housed grades seven through twelve—there was little opportunity for meeting new people or, for that matter, meeting anyone in town who has not know you since you still ranked “princess” as the most desirable of career paths.
Anyone who has ever grown up in Avon, or who has even passed through it—which is everyone, even to those who might not realize it—knows that there is nothing to do in this small provincial town. Avon, as the townies joke, is two miles wide and you could pass through it in a blink. The town has the smallest land area and the tiniest population in the region, and it shows. Our claim to fame is the Jordon’s Furniture with the “M.O.M.” ride, which is actually nestled right on the town line limits. Recently, Avon has been recognized as that “place with the IKEA”, even though that honor technically belongs to Stoughton, but for the sake of argument I always agree. Avon is rarely on any maps, recognized by Google as an unbolded speck and nearly overtaken by the symbol for Route 24. When asked about my hometown, I’m met with furrowed brows and wrinkled foreheads, as minds race in vain to pinpoint these obtuse four letters. To end the madness, I dejectedly reply that “I’m near Brockton”, and the lightness returns once again.
Much of my life in Avon was spent roaming the town’s crumbling or nonexistent sidewalks with my best friend, while we contemplated our glorious futures once we finally popped this little bubble we call home and fell into something much more exciting. As much as I could not wait to grow up and get out, my life has forever been shaped in the only way one’s can when growing up in the quintessential suburbia of a tiny town.
I moved to Avon in the summer before fourth grade; the first time I ever lived in a house and had a real backyard that I only had to share with my little sister Fallon, and not multiple other children and their families. We had blue shutters, a big tree that only bloomed a cotton candy pink for two months, and even a small painted sitting rock, which Fallon and I silly-stringed multiple times over the years, speckling its white paint. When it snowed, the house was picturesque, resembling something straight out of a Kinkade Christmas card, sans the cheery chimney smoke, as we had never tried to use ours in the ten years we lived there. We lived on an unmarked dead end cul-de-sac—like many of the streets in Avon—off of Harrison Boulevard. Lost travelers from Route 24, whipping their tired vehicles around our street, in search of a way out of the maze that is Avon was a frequent occurrence. Most of our neighbors were much older, a few being grandparents, so there was a scarcity of playmates for us kids, unless their families visited them, which was not often enough for the social lives of rambunctious children.
I met my best friend the day we moved in. She lived on the next street over, but if I scaled our knee-high rock wall and ventured carefully into the Fernalds’ yard, I could be at Elise’s in record time. Fallon was the first to meet Elise, while out exploring the neighborhood with my dad, and the three of us became fast friends, bonding over our shared love of dress-up, Barbies, and books. Elise and I were in the same grade—practically sharing the same personality, and even occasionally the same desk—and over the school years at Avon we were known in spite of one another, our names spoken together so many times they formed a whole new word. Though we were a bit separated from the general student body, Avon was much too small for any real John Hughes-esque cliques. We were floaters. We both preferred the company of a book to the squeals of the latest who’s-dating-who lunch period gossip, and often spent our time in the library, a frequent hideout for the skippers and couch dwellers, where I was an aide and hoarder of the new books.
Everyone at Avon Middle-High School knew one another, no matter what grade you were in. Fallon and I, though a grade apart, shared a lot of the same friends and played soccer on the same Varsity team, with the likes of girls just starting middle school and those planning to attend college next fall. We sometimes shared the same lunch period and even once, the same Latin class—I learned my third year of the language, while she her second—Avon being much too small to hire a second teacher or fund a separate class. It was also impossible not to be involved in some sort of activity at school, with even the most nonspirited of students found at pep rallies or attending the annual winter concert—anything to just get out of class. The fact that Avon was so small allowed its students a unique opportunity to sample all sorts of extracurriculars and interests, and more importantly become leaders in those they were passion about. I was fortunate enough to have had the chance to be President of the Student Council and the National Honor Society, as well as Captain of the Varsity Soccer team.
Avon being Avon, we were also able to establish close relationships with the teachers and faculty, most of who taught more than one subject and even coached our sports teams because the school was so small. They became attuned to our individual strengths over the years and were able to really encourage us to succeed. One teacher in particular, my English teacher Ms. Howe, helped me realize that my hobby could not only be my passion, but that yes, I could study writing in college, even pursuing it as a career and that my dream of becoming a writer could be more than just a dream. I first met Ms. Howe when she was student teacher for my eighth grade Reading class, while she finished her degree at Stonehill College. She was fresh, exciting, and had an amazing eclectic fashion style. She was new—so our whole class immediately loved her—coupled with her younger approach and fun project ideas, the class became more than just reading a book and parroting back the summary. She made us creators, as well as thinkers. Two years later, she became my Honors English 10 teacher and sparked my interest in Creative Writing with the interesting and imaginative prompts she assigned. Ms. Howe encouraged us to think outside the box and instilled the “show, don’t tell” philosophy. My senior year she took on the intense task of teaching Avon’s first ever Advance Placement English Language and Composition course, as well as being the Senior Class Advisor and planning that year’s prom. That same year, I became her Teaching Assistant for her Sophomore Honors English class, where Ms. Howe became not only my teacher and mentor, but also my friend.
As much as in some ways I believe that growing up in a small town may stifle one’s experiences, especially when it comes to meeting new people, Avon allowed its residents and students unique experiences that only a little town can. Whenever I’m asked to reflect on my writing and how I got to where I am, I’m always drawn back to Ms. Howe and my little town of Avon and I feel lucky to have known what a community is and the tight-knit bonds it can foster. I feel blessed to have had the same best friend since childhood, going on over twelve years now, and know that our friendship has already survived so much and is based on more than simply growing up in the same small town. I’m fortunate to have had the experiences that I did in Avon, especially having so many of my memories of high school intricately tied to shared experiences with my sister. Knowing that I can always go back to that little corner of the world and Avon will still be Avon, just as tiny as always, comforts me like knowing milk will never be without cookies—no matter how big the world may seem.