Goin' Home?

Standing in the doorway of his bedroom closet, Uncle Bubba wonders what to pack for his trip back to his hometown. He called his father, the Colonel, to see what the weather is like and he told him it’s pretty cool at night. He’s heard a couple flocks of geese goin’ over and the air smells like fall. Uncle Bubba walks back to the parlor; maybe he’ll pack a little later, after he’s considered it for a while.

Funny thing about going back to where ya came from, you remember it the way it was even if you know it ain’t the same. Generations have passed on and new folks have moved in to take their place. Old buildings are reused until all the life has been sucked out of them and then their abandoned or torn down and often replaced. But heritage is lost with those hand hewn timbers and lavishly placed brick that always seemed to me to be defying the laws of gravity. It took many men to build a city and the pride in their work lies in the pitch of the asphalt in the roads channeling water to the sculpted curbs. The expansion joints, like tacks of an old rollercoaster, evenly spaced over miles of gray sidewalk; each building facade an artistic competition between masons and carpenters.

Today my old hometown is someone’s new home; each day etching memories in their young minds of whimsical bike rides, school bus stops, and secret hiding places. Their stores are shiny and new but just as grand to them with that slim chance of getting a new toy every time they go. Good or bad it’s theirs and they don’t know old from new, to them it’s all new and that’s a great thing.