Hillsdale, My Bedford Falls

When freshman year arrives, and new students see the thriving metropolis of Hillsdale, we begin to sound a lot like George Bailey:

We are fully intent on shaking the dust from this crummy little town off our feet to see the world. Our only excuse for being here was the college, and, quite frankly, the town was the only downside of the college.

Hillsdale was a rickety old place. Abandoned warehouses, nonfunctioning railroad tracks, and an antiquated downtown. One passing through would not give it a second glance—mainly because the only reason one sees Hillsdale is if they are passing through. It’s like Oklahoma. It seems everyone here has somewhere else they need to get to. And the sooner the better.

But when one is sentenced to four years in this old town, one begins to see things. There are little houses which can barely stand, yet they boast beautiful front porches which testify to a time when the porch was the threshold of the home, the place where drinks and conversations were had, and cigars were enjoyed on a summer night.

There are old bookstores, churches, and coffee shops; hole-in-the-wall diners, a post office, and a courthouse; murals, ice cream shops, and parks. Lampposts line the main drag. So do people. Friendly people. People who will say hello and stop to chat. Just because.

Maybe Hillsdale is old and drab. But I love her. It is my favorite place in the world. And when I return to visit, I will greet her like an old friend—like George Bailey greeted Bedford Falls when he was given a second chance at life:

Thank you, Hillsdale. You have been my Bedford Falls.

It only took me four years to realize it.