The Power of Community Spaces

He was tall and lanky, the type you see in old Western movies. His cowboy hat, with its dirty, frayed edges and lopsided brim, had seen better days. Ruggedly handsome, he fixed his eyes on me confidently as I approached, while a country band wailed songs about lost love to a crowd of eager listeners. I instantly felt intimidated. 

“Someone told me I should talk to you about a job I need to get done,” I said, in as bold a manner as I could muster.   

His eyes shifted from confident to weary. “What kind of job?”       

“An outdoor shower at my place. You know, the kind where I can rinse off after brush cutting or cool down on a hot day like today,” I relayed, probably with too much enthusiasm. 

His eyes danced around a bit, crinkles quickly forming at their edges, and he let out a sigh as he clutched his rodeo belt buckle. “Well, ma’am, you already have one. Just go on home and pick up your hose that’s been sitting in the sun all day, and there you have it. Done. No need to build anything.”

And thus I was introduced to a new way of living in Eastern Oregon. After spending ten years working with various charitable organizations in rural parts of Africa and witnessing how humans could live so closely connected to the land, I set out to create a similar experience in my home state of Oregon. I searched extensively and eventually found an isolated two-room cabin on a small piece of land located near ancient fossil beds, not far from the town of Spray. The land had been deeded by the owner of a large ranch to a nephew who no longer wished to live in such isolation, but from my perspective, it finally felt like home. 

For eight years, I listened to and learned from my new neighbors. Not only were the locals helpful and friendly, they also took great interest in helping this city girl find her way through multiple mistakes and misconceptions. One woman showed me how to swing an axe so I could heat my cabin with wood, and another introduced me to ranch-gate etiquette after I inadvertently let two horses run amok. I was given the nickname “Pilgrim” by one highly talented and skilled tradesman, and I still wear that name proudly. 

From my new home, I continued my work as a photographer and expanded my services to include writing, marketing, and branding for small businesses, as well as leading immersion travel workshops. But it felt like something was missing. I longed for a deeper challenge, and after a good amount of soul-searching, my heart landed on a wish: to build community by coordinating gatherings that welcomed people with diverse lifestyles. 

 I kept driving past this old, shuttered general store that had once, at a more bustling time, been the focal point of social life in the area. After a nine-month negotiation period with the owner, I robbed my retirement account and purchased the building, along with an adjoining empty lot where the old post office once stood. I imagined turning it into a community center where locals and people from afar could all gather, make art, and listen to music, setting their differences aside. 

This wasn’t the first time I had navigated toward a totally different way of life, nor was it the first time I was influenced by my immersion in foreign cultures. I had spent twenty-two years raising three kids and working as a manager and executive in corporate tech when I gave away my tony leather briefcase, said goodbye (so I thought) to spreadsheets, and hit the road running on the career path I had always intended to pursue: I became a professional photographer and started making portraits of anyone who was willing to be in front of my camera. Making friends with a stranger, challenging myself to create an authentic and compelling portrait that contained a level of intimacy—it all felt magical and exciting. I started referring to this briefly intimate stranger-to-stranger exchange as “crossing the cultural divide.” And after securing a few years’ experience, I ended up working as a photographer with medical teams and non-governmental organizations in faraway places like Ethiopia, Madagascar, Tanzania, and Uganda.   

All the while I practiced keeping my mind open to the pulse of each new culture and adopted a set of protocols: Don’t make assumptions. Listen. Don’t act too quickly. Don’t force or change anything that doesn’t wish to be changed. Respect heritage values and religious differences, and garner advice from those who came before you. Be open to suggestions. Brave criticism. Love thy neighbor as thyself, even if you don’t agree with them. 

Spray, Oregon, population 130, is a sleepy little Wheeler County village located on the banks of the beautiful John Day River, centrally located between three National Monument fossil beds. It was once a bustling, merchant-filled town that boasted a ferry to carry people across the river, but most businesses have since closed, been torn down, burned in wildfires, or relocated to more heavily traveled throughways. Once a year, Spray bursts its seams when ten thousand people descend on its streets for the town’s rodeo and half-marathon, and rodeo queens from across the state line up for the parade in front of the old Spray General Store. When I decided to purchase the building, I fully accepted the responsibility that came with it: I was simply “borrowing” this iconic landmark, as the old store was a beloved building in the town. I spent nine months listening to public feedback at city council and community meetings; at one meeting, a council member declared, “We don’t care what it looks like, just open it again, please!” 

Plans to transform the space quickly took root. I secured a fiscal agent and began seeking grants to renovate the building and test programming concepts, from open mic nights to student film fests to blacksmithing classes and more.

The renovation involved installing a new insulated roof, restoring the front facade back to its original design, and building out the interior into a kitchen, full bathroom, guest quarters, and living/gallery space. Everything was completed on time and within budget—no small feat when living in a small town where everyone is competing for the same contractors. Meanwhile, our local business and tourism chamber contributed funds to ensure that we would enjoy a steady stream of concerts. Musicians started hearing about the town’s heartfelt reception, and offers to play at a discount started coming in. 

The community’s desire for activities to take part in was so great that we were asked to open the building even before renovations began. So, after years of being shuttered, the Spray General Store opened its doors to the public again in October 2021. I established a board of directors, and we decided on our first event: a film festival showing films made by local middle and high school students. We then developed our first art exhibition, Home Is Where I Want to Be, which displayed the work of forty local artists, twenty-one of whom lived in Spray. The show drew an audience from around the state, and was, for many viewers—visitors and locals alike—their first encounter with Eastern Oregon’s abundance of artistic talent. We hosted numerous musical performances, including one by a pianist from Austria who lugged his fortepiano to Spray, and lively workshops taught by artists who work with chainsaws, mosaics, textiles, ceramics, and many other mediums. When we heard in 2023 that we had received a Creative Heights grant from the Oregon Community Foundation, we were stunned. This would allow us to bring in even more artists and musicians. Our little village was in for an influx of talent—and not just from “the valley,” as locals referred to the populated western side of the state, but also our own artists from the John Day River Territory. 

During the thirteen years I’ve lived near Spray, I have developed an acute awareness of where divisions lie. City folk blast into town and make fun of (or worse, show disdain for) rural culture, while rural folks express exasperation toward “city slickers” who don’t know how to fix things or where their food comes from. Divisions also occur at the local level, between churchgoers and secularists, drinkers and nondrinkers, the affluent and the poor. Yet a couple of key things seem to hold the town together: a high level of respect for others and a sense of integrity. It has been relatively easy to bring people together over art and music, and our gatherings at the Spray General Store have been respectful, caring, and filled with a sense of curiosity about one another. Women gather on Friday mornings to share tips on handiwork; small dinners are held for birthdays; and squeals of delight are heard when someone finishes a ceramic mug, a mosaic flower pot, or a necklace made from local polished river stones. Divisions do occasionally arise: I’ve heard complaints about light alcohol use at concerts and have observed people’s open curiosity, or at times judgment, when they see someone who appears to differ from them in lifestyle or values. But more often than not, we see people from all walks of life, with various beliefs and political opinions, entering our doors and leaving their differences outside.

Still, certain truths remain. As humans, we tend to live within our own preconceptions and hold on to old traumas and judgments. Over time, these start to ooze into conversation, cracking the facade of our respect for one another. We see it globally, in heinous wars, and domestically, in our tragically divided nation. We are no different at the Spray General Store. While those who attend the workshops and musical performances readily express gratitude for the space, others bristle at the thought that their beloved mercantile shop—which once sold fresh produce and shotguns and had the most fantastically stocked hardware section in the basement—is now host to an “All are invited” mentality. I’ve heard declarations like “I will never go in there” and even threatening words about how I may be reverting the town back to the days when cowboys tossed chickens into the local saloon and the streets were filled with dancing revelers. And while the outliers may be small in number, their voices are loud in my mind. I return to the questions I asked myself while working in Africa for ten years: What exactly am I doing here? And am I doing harm? 

To some, yes, I am. To the little first grader who could not wait to raise his hand during a presentation and instead yelled, “Spray is coming alive!”—perhaps not.   

I would be naive to believe the platitude “We have all come together.” No, it is more like some have come together. But those who do choose to participate in our programs and events seem to be finding a common thread, a level of understanding, and even some gleeful joy in their interactions, despite disagreeing (sometimes vehemently so) with those who are sitting next to them.

I sometimes hear from people who come to our events that the store provides a much-needed respite from the hardships of living in such a remote location. These sentiments mirror those I heard when I visited remote African villages. There, I saw the vitality that emerged when people came together with others beyond their own family. Gathering in an inviting and inclusive space to exchange ideas, concerns, meals, songs, and handiwork has a universally positive effect on the shared goals of a community; it also gives individuals the confidence to tackle new projects, hear friendly advice, and feel an overall sense of belonging. Don’t we all wish to be part of a greater, positively functioning, whole? 

Rural American towns are suffering on many levels: housing and worker shortages, deteriorating structures, and the scarcity of basic amenities all contribute to hardships that are not readily apparent to many urbanites. Political favoritism is real. Voices go unheard. Too often, people isolate themselves in their homes, fearing the impacts of change. Social bonds are tightened only within one’s small inner circle, and lively debates in which people might exchange vital pieces of information have become nonexistent. Rural community spaces such as ours can serve as a place to meet on common ground and begin the slow process of fostering discussion and understanding, while making it possible to be open to the types of changes that will benefit the community. 

We must ask ourselves: How long can we harbor divisions, whether they be along national lines or within our own neighborhood, without perpetuating harm? For those of us who have been surprised by the joy that arises from being in community with people whose values or lifestyles once seemed far outside of our comfort zone, the store feels nothing short of magical. 

I trace it all back to that tall, lanky cowboy whose posture toward me seemed intimidating. Had I not engaged with him, he would not have given me the name of a builder, and I would not have my fancy (in his mind) outdoor shower with built-in benches. And if he hadn’t been open to talking, we would not have shared a memorable two-step dance at a summer-evening ranch concert. 

The practice of making art requires a level of curiosity. Listening to music requires an open heart. I believe we all meet through these mediums—music and art—and I am ready to traverse occasionally stormy waters to stay true to this belief.

And so it begins, one willing, outstretched hand at a time.

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