I love my town of Cambridge more all the time. I love going to Joan’s to get my hair cut, to my little gym, to my friend Scott’s wonderful Round House Cafe,  seeing Heather at the Bead Store, Connie at the book store, Bridget and Margaret at the pharmacy, David at Hubbard Hall, Corey and Kim at the Food Co-op, George in his art gallery, Jack in his antique palace,   Bryan at the hardware store, and there is no better place in the world I know of to spend a cold and stormy winter night than at the Bog, a bar and hamburger haven on the edge of town.

The bar is a true roadhouse, there are all sorts of people in there, some of them tough and hard-looking, lots of families with kids. I have always seen the Bog as a very friendly place, a very warm place, it has so much character and the hamburgers are as good as hamburgers get to be. There’s a huge wood stove in back and a pool table, there is a long bar with people talking into the night – Kelly was tending bar and waiting at tables last night, she gets everything done efficiently and warmly, she graciously agreed to let me take her photo by the pool tables. She is the spirit of the place in many ways.

I have lived in lots of places, cities and suburbs – 15 in all – but never really felt I have come home before, and that is what I feel in Cambridge, that I have come home. This gift has come late to me, and perhaps this is why I appreciate it so much. Here, I am finding community and connection. And perhaps most of all, acceptance. I can’t say everyone likes me or approves of me, but I can say that almost everyone accepts me. It is good to be known.

There are lots of outsiders here, lots of people living outside of the tent. Here, nobody cares if I wears jeans every day with blue shirts, or if I am strange and moody. Most of them are as strange and moody as me.  Here when I ask to take somebody’s photo, they just say yes, they never ask me what for, or gussy up or look at ease. Like Kelly, they say, here I am, do your thing.

I think Cambridge was what much of America used to be, a place where people struggle to get by, and always offer a hand to others struggling to get by. A place of strong-willed and independent people, but loyal people, they do not forget  good turn, or a bad one. A couple in town just lost their home – and their dog – to a fire and the whole town is scrambling to raise money for them. I am where I need to be.

This weekend, when the temperature plunges well below zero and the winds are shrieking over the hills, you may well find Maria and me at the bog, hugging that wood stove, joking with Kelly. Can I get mashed potatoes instead of french fries, I asked? “You bet,” she said.