After I married and left my rural hometown, distance between my memories and actuality expanded, creating a hazy bubble of sweet recollections, locked in a warmth of happiness.
Wading in cold creeks, climbing up to the hay loft, and throwing bizarre mixtures of manure and mud at each other were all part of curious times at farm childhood.
After years of absence, driving through my hometown, reality was brutal as degeneration of home and stores collided with visions of childhood.
“Over there, that rubble…Evans and Vernice Franklin lived there…their house had a big porch…! And there…that was the post office where we visited with Patty Chamberlain…the windows are boarded up!...”
We turned left at the cemetery and drove up a mile or so to where my folks lived. I was filled with adrenaline when we pulled into that familiar driveway. Mom opened the screen door, waving a dishtowel. Dad walked from his old barn, his hat tilted to the side.
Here, at least, a bubble still remained, unburst.
Since that time, my folks are dead and the farm is owned by another farmer. The house is gone, replaced by a new house, which is good. Our old house was very old, built in the mid-1800s. Time moves on.
The underlined word above may be found at Elephant's Child site. Every Wednesday, different bloggers each month provide this word challenge. Please check her site, leap out of your comfort zone, and post either in the comment section or at your own blogsite.