Small Town Magic

“Are you going to the meat raffle?” is one of them.

Twice a year, the Dexter American Legion holds a meat raffle, and I need you to know that it is every bit as fantastic as the words MEAT RAFFLE imply.

You bring a cooler.

There are adult beverages.

There’s a great MC.

You buy tickets and spend the evening hoping your number gets called so you can go home with a really excellent cut of meat.

The whole thing feels like a missing scene from a John Hughes film.

Not the glamorous part of an '80s movie. The other part. The scene where somebody’s dad is at the American Legion on a Saturday night with a beer in one hand and a raffle ticket in the other, while his Igloo cooler waits optimistically under the table.

You look around the room, and there are your neighbors. Someone you know from the school. Somebody's sister. Someone from your club. The guy you've seen at Burger Night 400 times but have never actually spoken to.

Everybody is there to win meat.

Already, this is excellent.

But then it gets better.

Every once in a while, instead of steaks or a roast or some other coveted prize, they raffle off three cans of tuna.

And the room erupts.

TUNA! TUNA! TUNA!

Why?

I have no idea.

Who started it?

Don't know.

Do I need those answers?

Absolutely not.

We think magic has to be extraordinary.

I think a lot of the best magic is incredibly ordinary.

It's the inside joke everyone knows.

The tradition nobody remembers starting.

The event you put on your calendar every year.

The place where you walk through the door and recognize half the room.

It's knowing you should bring a cooler because there is a reasonable possibility you'll be leaving with a pork loin.

That's the kind of thing I mean when I talk about Small Town Magic.

Small towns aren't magical because they're perfect. Trust me. We live here. We know better.

They're magical because we keep creating these tiny points of connection with each other.

Shared history. Weird traditions. Local characters. Inside jokes. Stories that only make complete sense if you were there.

And those things matter.

In fact, I've started to think they matter a lot.

That's part of what Small Town Alchemy has become for me — noticing those things, telling their stories and turning some of them into something you can hold onto.

Sometimes that's a story.

Sometimes it's a sticker.

And apparently, sometimes it's three cans of tuna.

So yes, I'll be at the meat raffle.

I'll bring my cooler.

And when those three cans make their appearance?

You better believe I'm yelling.

TUNA! TUNA! TUNA!