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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.
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| Kitchen porch
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.
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I passed through many a town like you've described in my journeys criss-crossing this nation. It's sad. Once vibrant little communities falling into ruin. I used to fantasize about being wealthy and just buying up one of those towns and restoring it. Don't know what someone would do with a restored town like that though.
ReplyDeleteArlee Bird
Tossing It Out
It is heart-breaking to see those towns disappear! Our town was used by welfare to move people into cheap residences. Then drugs moved in with them.
DeletePoignant and beautiful.
ReplyDeleteAnd true for many of us.
To no longer have a hometown or farm home to call "home" is perhaps the hardest feeling about one's past: sense of home.
DeleteThis is very lovely, all those warm memories :)
ReplyDeleteSo many memories. Have to keep them alive, giving them to our gr-kids.
DeleteHi Susan - wonderfully well written ... and even though it's the States I can still see similar situations here ... and definitely where I used to live, even though it was/is just outside London.
ReplyDeleteLovely crafted post ... cheers Hilary
Time moves on, places have to change. Thanks, Hillary.
DeleteSo many have gone to pot, sadly. But the memories shall remain
ReplyDeleteThose are the gifts from the past.
DeleteThe places may deteriorate and disappear but they live forever in our memories and in old photos. We just have to keep talking about them to keep them alive.
ReplyDeleteWish I had more old photos from the farm!
DeleteI drove down the narrow street to my childhood home, about twenty years ago. The drives were filled with pick up trucks, as were both sides of the street. It was one lane, for all practical purposes. I slowed at the old house, considering how to turn around, as I had passed the two cross streets. Men in T-shirts came from everywhere and stared at me. I maneuvered my turn and left. It wasn't mine any more.
ReplyDeleteSuch a loss. Glad you found your way to another road.
DeleteWoot! Woot!
ReplyDeleteWell done, Susan.
Thanks, Sandra!
DeleteVisiting our childhood homes is a universal experience that tugs at everybody's heart strings. You did a terrific job capturing those feelings.
ReplyDeletethanks, Susan. Universally, you really can't go home again.
ReplyDelete