Welcome to the land of the living dead

“Welcome to the land of the living dead.”
- Ruby in “Brownsville Girl” by Bob Dylan and Sam Shepherd.

The Rust Belt is teeming with life this week as light-jacket weather has arrived. The snow is melted and the debris of autumn and winter is exposed to the eyes: leaves that haven’t completely decayed, sticks and stones and litter including half-crushed beer cans, empty, faded cigarette packages and thrown-out-the-window butts that had been buried beneath a dirty-white tundra of snow and ice.
Puddles have formed in the low spots and potholes, creating mirrors to reflect the welcome sunshine and making some street corners sparkle despite the grime.
There’s beauty in this Shenango Valley, splendid sights to see if you take stop time and take it in: Aging houses and neighborhoods full of old stories told by busted-out windows and sagging porches. Old men are sitting on front porch furniture that was bought in the 1980s, kids playing in the streets, moving out of the way of cars blasting music that adds to the booming vitality that blooms in the sun.
The WPA-laid red brick streets are filled with life in Farrell and even the dogs seem happy to just be outside without shivering.
There’s hope in the air that still has a bite of cold; hope that things might improve this year; that bigger and better things are around the corner for this neglected corner of America.
It’s been a long time coming; a wait that’s been punctuated by false-starts and pipe dreams that didn’t come true.
It’s left a weight on the shoulders of the bread-winners that’s eased for a moment by the thaw and sunshine. Troubles can be forgotten for a moment and hope prevails.
There’s a quiet dignity that comes from enduring tough times, a dignity that hasn’t yet disappeared, even with job losses, crime epidemics and drug problems.
There’s hope yet for this place that we call home.