Our county: the last, best place to live

When I came to Nevada County in the summer of 1990, it felt like the "last best place." A place where children could stay innocent just a little longer in a country that seemed to be pushing them too fast toward an uncertain adulthood.

A place where when you nicked downtown to get mail or a few groceries, you'd see eight or 10 people you knew. Where all the post office counter people knew your name, knew about your life, your family.

A place where, when my car broke down in the rain, people stopped to help me. And where summer nights meant all ages out together, eating, dancing and enjoying the fresh evening air in the downtown streets.

We're just a speck on the map. People often say -Nevada County-is that in Nevada? It sometimes feels as if we live in a bit of Camelot in our two sister towns, tucked into the foothills of the Sierras.

I'm concerned about preserving what we have here. It's not just the physical environment that is fragile and precious, it's also our sense of community.

I remember the morning of January, 2001, when the man with the gun, in just a few terrifying minutes, spread death and destruction in our lives. On that gray morning, it seemed as if our good life had been shattered like a thin sheet of ice over a winter puddle, crushed with one big muddy boot.

But then something else happened, instead of that horror bursting our bubble as most cynics would say "nowhere is safe anymore."

Beneath all the loveliness, even sweetness, we called Nevada County, something else emerged: a foundation of community that we always knew was there, counted on, loved. A strength that waited, behind the scenes, till it was needed.

KVMR, our community radio station, as it broadcast coverage, kept referring to "our community." Finally, when announcing that the suspect had been apprehended, "our community can sleep better tonight."

Our community lived. Knowing that, I felt safe again.

And more recently, there was the outpouring of support for those who lost their livelihoods in the downtown fire. I attended that day at the Miners Foundry and enjoyed all the various talented performers. I also loved watching how two little girls with pink helium balloons kept running on and off the stage during various performances and no one cared. It felt like a big, old- fashioned family gathering.

I've heard that during the 49er fire, the community put on a five-day fund-raiser for the victims who lost their homes, donating clothes and other needed items. Some folks made chicken soup for the people on the local radio station who were working 24 hours a day to keep everyone informed.

At the fairgrounds, people paid $20 for a hot dog and when the California Division of Forestry planes flew over in formation, onlookers stood up, shouted and cried in appreciation.

In another instance, when a fire burned a local girl, and she was in a lot of pain, a man on Social Security donated a check for $25 and wanted to make sure that she spent it on something that gave her pleasure. Others donated hand- made quilts. When we built a local playground, we had so many volunteers that the program was overwhelmed with help.

We're diverse here in Nevada County. Conservative retired folks mixed in with New Age liberals, old logging families who mutter about the ecologists wanting to preserve rural quality.

But we celebrate together and, in the days following pain and tragedy, we join together to help.

I remember that sad January 2001 - the day after the shootings. I woke up to a light covering of snow everywhere. It was as if nature, so much a part of our lives here, wanted to make it better, to cover over all the darkness of the day before with a clean covering of fresh white snow.

We're lucky to still have nature hitting us over the head everywhere we turn, reminding us of the bigger picture, even our own insignificance next to a 200-foot pine tree, the Yuba River crashing over boulders, or a snow storm that cancels all the best made plans.

I'm not a political person, yet I can't help but feel that those who preach standing alone in righteousness, guns drawn and ready to fight to the death to protect their little piece of something, are not going to preserve this fragile gift we still hold in our hands called "community."

I'm tired of looking at the ugly signs against NH 2020 on Highway 49 or downtown Penn Valley. Can you trust people who will make you look at their signs just because they can, with no regard for the greatest good of the community?

Let's stand together as a community and find common ground. Let's treasure what we have and appreciate it and each other. Let's move on from all the arguing, listen to each other, and be the community that we are.

Our county is a light.

And for me, it's still the last best place.

Diane Covington is a writer who lives in Nevada City.