I have been asked to speak to a historical group at the “active-adult retirement community” now located where my childhood home once stood. The home of my youth, a brick veneered cottage located between two hills. A small house but a house full of memories that spilled out along the river road that ran beside it and up the hillsides flanking it. A homesite now covered by pavement, retirement homes and businesses.
I’m speaking about the history that I lived as a youth, the South in the Fifties and Sixties. As I have prepared for my speaking engagement, my thoughts and dreams have drifted to those “thrilling days of yesteryear. Hi-yo Silver, Away!”
My thoughts run through a gazillion emotions and memories. They flow faster than I rode my red Schwinn Torpedo through the ruts cutting the old river road leading to the Catawba and my youthful adventures.
It has been fifty years since I left the home of my youth, but recently I find myself thinking more and more about people I grew up with, family and friends, and a place that no longer exists anywhere other than my mind.
Mental images of mixed forests of pines and hardwood cut by streams inhabited by crawdads, frogs, turtles, and salamanders. Fields of tall corn, cotton bolls bursting white in the fall or thick hay and pastures. I remember ponds loaded with bluegill and largemouth. Mostly, I remember a dirt road that led to great adventures concocted by a youthful imagination.
I only spent eighteen years living there before leaving for college and a lifetime of work. Over time, I became a visitor to my childhood home…until it was replaced by progress.
Yet…I remember those first eighteen years with much greater clarity than what I did yesterday. No matter how I age, my thoughts wind back…back to the river road where I grew up.
I think of home and smile but find it depressing to return. The cotton, corn, and hayfields of my youth have been replaced by Walmart, QT, Publix, countless other businesses and miles and miles of parking lots. Joni Mitchell is singing in my head, “They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.” It was a paradise, I just wish I had realized it at the time.
Many of the lakes I fished have been filled in or have signs prohibiting the fun I had. The forests I wandered have been cut down and the river road sparking my youthful imagination supplanted by the perceived modern headway in the form of homes built for the youthful, over fifty-five crowd.
There are some landmarks I recognize, but a library and a small strip mall now sit where a home full of memories once sat. I do find solace that a library has replaced it. Both my grandmother and father were voracious readers…as am I because of them.
I have now lived on my little piece of heaven for over thirty years and it reminds me of my youthful residence…except it is hillier. It’s green in the spring and summer, cut with streams loaded with trout and nearby ponds and lakes are filled with panfish and bass. Sounds like I need to go fishing. There is wildlife galore and plenty of characters to study or ignore.
My old farmhouse is also filled with memories that flow out to the hillside it sits on…hopefully with more memories to come. My adventures are no longer youthful…but I still have adventures…I just don’t run from them as fast.
It is easy to draw connections between my present home and my home from yesteryear. I wonder? My daughter will be my present age in thirty-three years. I wonder what paradise will look like to her?
For more of Don Miller’s wanderings https://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM
The image is from Pinterest.