My home town, Nebo, Illinois, pop. 427

 

T racy Chapman and Bruce Springsteen "My hometown"

 It is July and harvesting is stirring things up in Pike County Illinois. Tractors are on the road; pickers are going down rows to collect the summer's corn.  Hay balers are out in the sun, stacking bales, and sweating up a storm.

My mother always spread a table of sweet corn, meat loaf, mashed potatoes, tons of foods.  And then, she laid out her pies.  Four pies?  I don't know.  I was the bus boy, the dishwasher, and the general cleaner.

What wonderful memories.

                                        Crosby, Stills, and Nash  1970s

 Our home.  Our house, Our hometown. Even though we have grown, moved on, have our own house those videos are in my mind.

 Jason Aldean   Try that in a small town.

 I grew up on a farm surrounded by corn fields, and a smattering of small towns. Without a doubt, every farm has at least a double barrel shotgun, a rifle, and maybe a handgun. Wild animals and wild dogs roamed and attacked livestock throughout the year, even a farm wife could stand with the farmers.

I once joked that if the BLM (2019) black lives matter came rolling to our town, there would be roads of tractors and trucks blocking every entrance. On those and on buildings throughout the business town there would be hunting rifles in the hands of farmers. 

Now, I have no jokes about this being cast as offensive, "Try that in a small town".

See what you think.  I am curious. 

 

Wed.Words...Tracing Home

Home

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. 

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.