(At Least Where We Live)

You’ve heard the slogan. We have, too. But in our little corner of Texas, somebody must’ve washed the state motto on hot and shrunk it. Around here, everything’s smaller—or at least it feels that way, in the funniest, most endearing way possible.

Take our address. Locals tell us we “live on a mountain.” I don’t know what geological chart they’re using, but if our driveway is a mountain, then my staircase is Everest and the curb by the grocery store is K2. Our “summit” is a slightly ambitious hill with excellent self-esteem. I respect the confidence. When the wind hits just right, you can almost hear it whisper, “Don’t look down.” Down is six feet, Kevin. Calm yourself.

The trees (a.k.a. polite umbrellas)

Our trees are small, tidy, and deeply considerate. They are the sort of trees that say, “Oh no, after you,” to the sun. They offer suggestions of shade—like, “What if I covered four square inches of your forehead between 11:02 and 11:06 a.m.?” If Texas is famous for big, sprawling live oaks, then ours are their minimalist cousins who read tiny-house blogs and say things like, “Do you really need two leaves?”

They try, bless them. We cheer them on. Raspberry names them. Bay Bay waves at them. Alien (currently crawling, standing, babbling, and attempting to cruise) grins and pats the bark like it’s a neighborhood dog. The trees are small, but the relationship is huge.

The deer (pocket edition)

Our whitetails have the dimensions of very athletic Labradors and the social skills of a PTA president. They step out at twilight like, “Evening, folks. How’s the little one?” They clear our teensy “mountain” in gentle hops, as if they’re wary of scuffing the terrain. Antlers? Think tasteful headbands. If they joined an HOA, the bylaws would read: No antlers above eight polite inches.

They munch, they mosey, they leave tiny hoofprints like punctuation marks on the yard. Meanwhile, our cats stare out the window and pretend they, too, are deer. (Jinx believes this with his whole heart.)

The river (a reflective ribbon)

We were told there’s a river nearby. We found it. You can skip a stone across the width of it, catch the same stone, and still have time to wonder whether it was a river or a very ambitious puddle with a current and a dream. It doesn’t roar; it whispers. “Hi. I’m doing my best.” Same, friend. Same.

It’s perfect for little kid legs—no scary banks, no yelling “Back up!” every five seconds. Raspberry counts ripples. Bay Bay announces colors: “Brown shoes! Brown water!” Accurate. Alien tries to drink the air. We call that science.

The towns (blink-and-you’re-there)

I adore our small towns. The main streets are two and a half porches long, the post office is the size of a pantry, and the coffee shop knows you by name before you tell them your name. The local Facebook group is basically a group text with road updates and lost chickens. You don’t “go downtown”; you wave at it as you pass by.

Even the parades are compact—half a marching band, a float that is just a pickup with confidence, and precisely four dogs in patriotic bandanas. It lasts nine minutes and ends with lemonade. A triumph.

The famous Texas bigness we do have

To be clear, not everything is smaller. The sky is still huge—one of those widescreen, surround-sound heavens that makes toddlers point and grown-ups hush. The heat? Generous, shall we say. The mosquitoes clock in at “absolutely normal and not at all tiny,” and the sunsets bring their own volume knob and twist it until you have to step outside and say, “Okay, fine, I’ll feel feelings.”

And then there’s the heart. That part is not small. Not in the way the school receptionist remembers you from last week, or the neighbor texts, “Hey, y’all need milk?” Not in the way Matt shows up on his break with donut holes for the boys and a coffee for me. Not in the way our little mountain of a hill becomes a castle for pretend play, a runway for deer, a stage for cats, a training ground for Alien’s wobbly steps.

Exhibit A: Domestic “bigness” at home

Inside our small Texas, the cats are dramatic (Bunny’s full name is still “Dust Bunny Who Is Also A Cat,” and no, we will not be taking questions), the crumbs are ambitious, and the love is extra-large. Our house won’t win showroom awards; it will win participation trophies for “Most Lived In” and “Best Use of a Laundry Basket as a Boat.” The blinds? Let’s just say the cats believe vertical blinds are a lifestyle and not a product. Everything’s smaller in Texas, except the opinions of felines.

Why I like it small

Small means shorter distances between people. Fewer lanes to cross when you’re apologizing after a hard morning. Shorter lines. Quicker “hellos.” The grocery store is ten minutes because that’s how long it takes to chat, not how long it takes to park. When things are small, your kindness has less room to get lost.

So yes, maybe the mountain is a hill with delusions of grandeur. Maybe the trees are bonsai-in-progress and the deer come in pocket sizes. Maybe the river is a ribbon and the towns are postcards. But the good stuff—the sky, the sunsets, the welcome, the laughter floating over our little porch—none of that shrank in the wash.

And when someone says, “How’s life up on the mountain?” I just smile and answer honestly: “Breathtaking.” Then I climb the three heroic steps to our front door, king of the hill, ruler of the small, and very, very happy about it.