The setting: A small town on New Year’s Eve

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“Small towns make up for their lack of people by having everyone be more interesting.”

— Doris “Granny D” Haddock, American political activist

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I could hardly believe my good luck when I happened upon a quaint apartment for rent above Hamlet’s Roost Diner on East Main Street, looking down on the town plaza. But it didn’t take long until I’d had it with the nightly eye-stinging, clothes-clinging stench of grilled liver and onions. I placed a desperate ad in the personals of the local Daily Tidings:

“Teacher with large dog looking to share a house, preferably with a fenced-in yard. ASAP - Call 482-1818.”

Soon after, a woman responded. I explained my predicament. She chuckled, telling me how it was common knowledge around town that “your apartment is always vacant because of those liver and onions.”

She, too, sounded desperate, living alone now in her house over on Parker Street. But hearing my male voice, she politely said thanks, anyway, she preferred a female housemate. I said thanks anyway, too, but to call back if she changed her mind.

She did. Lonnie explained how she was the sole owner of the house, now that she and her husband were divorcing and he was moving out almost as we spoke. It seemed messy and ominous, but I agreed to take a look.

It was perfect.

On the living room walls were several homespun needlepoints and photos of several stages of Bruno’s life so far. Bruno, her German shepherd. There was a fireplace. I’d never lived anywhere with a fireplace. In front of it was a plump, cushy sofa. Bruno liked to sleep on it, she said, and Jesse, my dog, was welcome to sleep there, too.

Signing a lease wouldn’t be necessary, Lonnie said. A handshake would do just fine.

The night before I moved, a burly, bearded guy knocked hard on my door.

“I’m Randy Love, Lonnie’s ex.”

I asked him how he found me.

“It’s a small town,” he replied.

I still possessed remnants of a big-city mentality, so I expected the worst. But instead of Randy throwing punches, he suggested we trade places because he needed a place to live, too.

We did. We shook hands on it, and we had beers at Hamlet’s Roost.

One day Lonnie came home with exciting news. Dwayne, the business manager at the nursing home where she was a nurse, had finally asked her out. She’d later give me a detailed account of their first date: “Saturday Night Fever” at the Varsity Theater, sundaes at the Sweet Shop, then a walk through Lithia Park while listening to Dwayne describe his small but growing side business — chicken farming.

Lonnie and Dwayne dated through the fall and into the winter. On Thanksgiving, he proposed. Lonnie said yes. They were married on New Year’s Eve Day.

The ceremony took place at the nursing home between lunch and dinnertime so the residents could attend.

At first, a handful of us transplanted city friends watched with uppity bemusement. I remember thinking: Who gets married in a nursing home midday on New Year’s Eve? Who has an uncle play “Here Comes the Bride” and “Auld Lang Syne” on the accordion? Who offers their guests bug juice, tea and prune juice in plastic cups and gives the residents a white daisy in a tiny plastic vase to take back to their rooms?

Many of the women still in the holiday spirit wore their Christmassy outfits. The men accoutered themselves in their Sunday suits or favorite flannel shirts and bolo ties. Some wore their faded but carefully preserved cowboy or John Deere hats but, once seated, placed them on their laps.

Residents in wheelchairs or sitting on cushioned folding chairs formed a semicircle near Lonnie and Dwayne. Les Holey, a local sheep rancher and justice of the peace, officiated.

Everyone brought with them serene smiles, which, of course, was Lonnie’s intention. You could tell Lonnie loved them all; in turn, a lovely woman turned my way and called Lonnie “our favorite child.”

Afterward, I walked back to Lonnie’s house. Bruno’s couch was gone, along with Lonnie’s photographs and needlepoints. I can recall so clearly how achingly quiet and empty the house was without her and her dog.

After supper Jesse and I strolled through town, passing McCarley’s Books, Geppetto’s Italian Eatery, the Rexall drug store, the Varsity Theater, Haircuts For All, Prince Puckler’s Donuts, Perrine’s Shop for Men, places by now I was comfortably familiar with.

Except for one: Normally I hustled past Cook’s Reception right off the town plaza, the adopted home of ferocious-looking local bikers and ranchers who always seemed that close to starting trouble there, and sometimes did.

But not on this New Year’s Eve.

Outside its entrance there lay Bruno, patiently accepting head pats from the many locals who knew and loved him. He perked up when he saw Jesse. They were fine hanging out together when the newly married Heffelfingers and all kinds of townies who knew them (and many who didn’t) waved me in. Among them were Paul Jenny, the town’s unofficial longhair poet laureate; Justice of the Peace/sheep rancher Les Holey and his wife, Pearl; Walter Ames, well-known around town for his Ford pickup cargo bed that he’d fashioned into a miniature working log cabin, and Randy Love — all drinking beer and toasting in another new year, together.

Dick Schwartz lives in St. Louis Park.