Newcastle confidential — Neighbors who are too dang friendly

Good afternoon, friends … and I mean that with the utmost tongue-in-cheek sincerity. If there’s one thing that hits you the minute you roll into Newcastle, it’s how incredibly friendly everyone is. Not that polite, city-style friendliness where they hold the door for three seconds and immediately regret it, then slam it in your face. No, this is full-contact, small-town Wyoming friendliness — the kind that makes you feel like you’ve been adopted by a very large, very nosy golden retriever with a slobbery chew toy already to mess up your favorite jeans.

I noticed it my first week. I was unloading boxes when three pickups slowed down. “Need help?” they asked. Before I could answer, four men in Carhartt jackets and camo hats had my couch on the porch, my fridge humming and my life story documented for the local grapevine. 

“You’re that fella from San Antonio,” they said knowingly, though I’d only told the gas station attendant my first name. Within 48 hours, I had seven casseroles, two offers to borrow a horse and an invitation to join the volunteer fire department “just in case you accidentally burn something down, which happens.”

At first, this seemed charming. Rural life at its best, right? But over the years I’ve learned the terrifying truth: Newcastle friendliness operates on a level that borders on tittering diplomacy.

Take Dale. Pleasant guy. Owns about 4,000 acres and approximately 17 dogs per acre that all look like they lost a fight with an army of well-trained, steel-ensconced porcupines. Last spring my truck wouldn’t start. Dale showed up with jumper cables before I even met him, but somehow he just knew. Then he fixed the alternator. Then he rotated my tires. Then he re-shingled my roof “while I was already up here,” he said. 

By sunset he’d organized a potluck in my yard to celebrate the truck’s successful resurrection. Thirty-seven people showed up. Someone brought a sheet cake that said “Welcome to the Clan, City Boy.” with extra emphasis on “City.”

I tried to repay the favor last month when Dale’s tractor broke down. I brought over a six-pack and my limited mechanical knowledge. Apparently, that was all I needed to do. Three hours later I was wearing his spare overalls, we’d rebuilt the carburetor, named the new transmission “Susan,” and I somehow agreed to co-parent his prize-winning heifer’s next calf. Her name is now Karen. She has her own Instagram and TikTok page.

The friendliness never stops. If you sneeze in Newcastle, someone 3 miles away will drop off homemade chicken soup and a conspiracy theory about why you caught cold in the first place (“It’s them chemicals from the refinery”). Forget privacy. Last week I mentioned to the guy at the hardware store that I was thinking about planting tomatoes. By the time I got home, six different people had dropped off seedlings, manure and strongly worded opinions about my soil pH. One woman left an eight-page manifesto on hydroponic gardening.

The lies we tell ourselves about this are magnificent. We say we love the “community spirit.” Really we’ve all been drafted into an unspoken pact: if you don’t enthusiastically participate in everyone else’s business, they won’t enthusiastically participate in yours when your well freezes, your horse escapes or your cousin visits and needs “just a little help” moving his entire life’s possessions via U-Haul at 2 a.m.

I’ve embraced it now. I wave at every vehicle. I know the names of everyone’s dogs, ex-wives and everything about their failed business ventures. I’ve attended town meetings that lasted longer than most federal investigations. I’ve eaten more mystery meat than a man should admit.

But here’s the thing — the real kicker that hits you after enough years in Newcastle. All this relentless, beautiful, exhausting friendliness exists for one simple reason, … if these people didn’t stay this aggressively involved in each other’s lives with genuine smiles on their faces, they’d have to admit they moved to the middle of nowhere on purpose. And none of us are ready to have that conversation with ourselves. “What were you thinking?” “I just wanted to get away from all the Walmarts.” “Well … you’ve succeeded.”

This is especially true while waving at the 15th truck that’s passed my house this morning, each one honking twice like we’re old war buddies. God, I love it here. 

Oh, yeah … Please pass the antelope burgers.

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