Through insistance of a friend of mine, my sister's husband, I was dragged along out for the evening with them. A small family weekly event for them. Heading out onto the grid roads, a short trip in a vehicle, to a very small town, and, I say town loosely, actually, a hamlet. If you were to look at the small collection of old houses, you could say no more than 20 people lived here.

I already know of this town. I've already been to it. And I know some people there. But, I had never been to this "town's" library. Because the town is so small, the library is running on empty fumes. But the entire town is supportive. They want to keep the library open. So every Thursday, there's a big get together.

Cakes. Coffee. Tea. Everybody sits down. Everybody takes a book back with them, to create the need of supply and demand. The library stays alive this way.

My province, is strange. It is known for housing friendly people. Simple, some of them may be. But it isn't a lie, when I say, that most people in my province, random strangers and passerby, will often treat you better than even your friends. They will do more for you than you'd expect a stranger. My country, Canada, is even surprised by it. Elsewhere, in other provinces, people are not as open and friendly.

So, with this small hamlet? Something unique. Every town out here has an atmosphere. Its people, all carrying a different attitude. One town is starkly different in tone and atmosphere than the next. And this small hamlet is no exception.

I know one man already. Who, does his part every Thursday. The town mechanic. Withering. Old. In his 70's. A man that holds a wiry strength and an unbending will to never give in, or up. He works daily, in an old school, which he purchased, and retrofitted into a garage. Fixes machines in the town. And the area. And he works all day, every day, even when sick.

He does so because I've heard the words from him. He likes his job. It's not work to him. He is fascinated by taking apart machines and seeing what makes them tick. And then, reassembling them.

The man is a quiet mechanical genius. Chalkboards, in his garage, with mathematical calulations. His idea of making his own home built hovercraft.

So, I sit down in this small library. An old building. Small, and homey. Yet, well kept. Three computers. Even a TV of better quality than the one in my own home. I sit and I watch. I listen.

One man enters the library for the evening. A rather large man. Slightly pudgy. Aging. Shaved short beard. An old crumpled hat on his head, like you would see on old fisherman. And the first thing he says, upon seeing a new stack of books?

"Oh, fourth Harry Potter. Haven't read that one yet."

Instantly. You know the man is solid of head. He keeps up with the times. He knows what Harry Potter is. And implies that he's already touched into it. For such a beat up, old and weathered farmer? It was surprising to me.

He sits down with another man. Who, at first, looks mean. He looks hard. Like he doesn't want anybody to look at him, all in his corner by himself. And then, he converses with the other man and newcomer. Asks if his tomatoes survived the recent frost. Recieves a depressing "No."

Turns his attention to my sister and her husband. Asks the same. To a resounding "No." Instantly. Talk shifts with everybody in the library. "The weather's abnormal this year."

"I hear the gulf jet stream split."

"Maybe. I hear parts of Texas are getting our rain. We got some heat last week. Now it's cold again."

"Frost warnings for tonight and tomorrow too."

"You gonna have to buy more tomatoes?"

"No. I didn't plant them all. Held some back."

The man knows his plants. Knows that the weather is changing up here. Environmental damage and shifts are occuring.

I turn my attention to the new librarian. First day on the job. Replacing the previous librarian who has gotten on a plane to go out to the Ukraine to visit family for some time. She's being helped by the town's head honcho and head council. A woman who is short on humor and down to business. And, uptight. Everything she says has to outshine what you say. But she is still, supportive.

The topic shifts to the Ukraine and Russia, now occupying it. Asking on whether or not their librarian was taking a plane overhead, because it was risky airspace. Missle attacks and planes being shot down. Thankfully, no. Travelling by road once they land on the outskirts. Discussion shifts. Talk of how the Ukranians organize their towns differently than ours.

So, there I sat. Watching, and listening. Playing my part on stage when it was required. Conversing with the new librarian, who is hard on english because she too, is Ukranian. Having only been in my country for one year now. I get a library card, on being urged by my sister's husband. To help the town keep their library supported.

Looking at these strange people, people of the fields. Of dirt and grime. Messy, withered. But all starkly sharper than you would expect. And all, pitching in to help.

I say, why not?

Perhaps I will visit there more often. On Thursdays. I see the computers and how they're wired. I see how technologically rusty they are. They could use a hand. I could help them, in bits and pieces. And, maybe I want to. The small community holds much charm.

Now, I too, play, and do my part.