On the second day of the fourteen-hour journey northward, we cross into the county where I am from. Exiting off the highway, I search for the familiar. The only constant is change. Not remembering exactly what the landscape used to look like, I knew it had been different from what we passed on the road. Trees are bigger or missing altogether. Houses are in new places; some of the old ones are abandoned. Coming up to the corner I always expect to see the old church, even though I know it was moved to the historic district in town many years ago.
The stretch of land etched indelibly in my mind is what comes into view after rounding the final turn. Fields that have produced different crops over the years roll up against the base of the big hill. What once served as a place for little girls to slide down on their sleds in the winter is covered with trees--the tree I used to sit in, among them.
The barn, milking parlor and silos rest silently in the cool breeze after decades of use. A cooling pad for tanks of cherries is a reminder of the busy days of summer when trucks would bring the newly shaken cherries back from the orchard to soak in cold water before rushing them off to the processing plant. The best cherries I would ever eat were at the end of the drive-way where all I had to do was scoop some into a bowl to make a pie.
Old buildings that once housed families who came to help with the harvest have been torn down. A larger storage building replaced one of them while the other exists only in the step-by-step pictures taken to document the time I painted a flag on the door for a school project. A corn field takes over the place where the garden was once planted, and the rest of the yard is grass with trees that are bigger than I remembered.
The embroidered picture of the farm that I made still hangs on the living room wall; the picture of my sister and I playing a piano duet in the stairway. The door to my room is closed and though I know it has become the laundry room I want to open it to find my twin bed up against one wall with my sister's against the other, our green bedspreads neatly made and floral curtains on the windows; the shelves filled with our treasures. The trunk that contained my letters and journals is the only piece of furniture that went with me out into the world.
Taking the back way up to see my sister is like following an ancient map using landmarks as road signs. Turn at the house where so-and-so used to live and continue on the paved road even though the dirt road provides a more direct route. Go past the tavern that is further out in the middle of nowhere and keep heading north. Each small town heralds travelers in its own special way as we catch a glimpse of how life is lived there. I keep reminding myself that as beautiful as all of the flowers are, most of these places are thrust into a deep freeze for many months each year and though they may host visitors in the summer, in the winter they become ghost towns for the locals who are used to the hardship of prolonged cold.
Reunions with relatives and friends require the energy to tell life events quickly and convincingly enough so that questions do not persist. To account for decades of life is an onerous task. I can barely comprehend that so much time has passed. It is my story and I can tell it any way I want, and yet words seem inadequate when I look into the eyes of some I have not seen since we were children. Though we can be recognized by our resemblance to our parents, we retain the image we once had in high school--an image long replaced by who we became in college, graduate school and the life that kept moving us on at a brisk clip toward middle age.
The memories others have of us are thrown up against our own. In the midst of all of the sorting, I wonder exactly who I used to be and who I have become. Leaving home was something I always dreamed of doing even though it must have been a shock for those who found out after the fact that I actually got into that car after college and headed out West. Most probably did not know that I even came East to attend graduate school since I ended up in the same place after graduation where my original dream had taken me. Getting married and having our first child far from my home made these events more myth than reality since the local community was unable to participate. Moving to the South, having a couple more kids and buying a house reinforced the truth that I was never coming back to the place where I am from, except to visit. I still grieve this loss at times, but cannot be fooled like an out-of-town tourist thinking this place is warm and filled with sunshine like it was during the days of our vacation, because I know better. It is very cold in the winter and the sun may not come out for weeks at a time. Having moved away, I know of other places that are less cold and dark. There remains, however, a part of me who longs to sit a while longer on that beach with the fine white sand between my toes as the sun sets over the calm blue water.
Like so many celebrations, the class reunion was over before it began, leaving me feeling like I was a passenger on a bus with the doors opening too soon, forcing me out at the wrong stop. Walking back through the memories, I try to find something secure to hold onto. This time travel is messing with my mind. We light the lanterns to honor the dead trying not to think of who will make it to the next reunion and who may not. We have conversations with those we never spoke to in high school since our social groups did not intersect back then. Band geeks did not associate with football players even though we provided a half-time show at every game. Cheerleaders had no business talking with introverted nerds who expressed themselves more effectively in writing than by public displays of enthusiasm. We were all given a role to play and did not stray much from the script.
None of this matters any longer. Some classmates left town; some stayed and built a life. We all grew older. Some got married; some got divorced, and some never married at all. We have become parents and grandparents. We have found work and ways to contribute to our community. We all made choices. Some choices were made for us. In spite of all of our differences, we once shared a zip code and now share memories of growing up in and near a very small town by a great lake.
As the remaining few of us sat around a bonfire laughing at the running jokes that got funnier as the contents of the bottles lessened, along with our inhibitions, we looked at each other in the shadows remembering youth a while longer. And though we tried to sing along to a variety of different songs, there was only one song we all knew: "Country roads, take me home to the place I belong, Western Michigan, mountain momma, take me home, country roads." Even though we changed the words, I am pretty sure John Denver would not have minded.
The stretch of land etched indelibly in my mind is what comes into view after rounding the final turn. Fields that have produced different crops over the years roll up against the base of the big hill. What once served as a place for little girls to slide down on their sleds in the winter is covered with trees--the tree I used to sit in, among them.
The barn, milking parlor and silos rest silently in the cool breeze after decades of use. A cooling pad for tanks of cherries is a reminder of the busy days of summer when trucks would bring the newly shaken cherries back from the orchard to soak in cold water before rushing them off to the processing plant. The best cherries I would ever eat were at the end of the drive-way where all I had to do was scoop some into a bowl to make a pie.
Old buildings that once housed families who came to help with the harvest have been torn down. A larger storage building replaced one of them while the other exists only in the step-by-step pictures taken to document the time I painted a flag on the door for a school project. A corn field takes over the place where the garden was once planted, and the rest of the yard is grass with trees that are bigger than I remembered.
The embroidered picture of the farm that I made still hangs on the living room wall; the picture of my sister and I playing a piano duet in the stairway. The door to my room is closed and though I know it has become the laundry room I want to open it to find my twin bed up against one wall with my sister's against the other, our green bedspreads neatly made and floral curtains on the windows; the shelves filled with our treasures. The trunk that contained my letters and journals is the only piece of furniture that went with me out into the world.
Taking the back way up to see my sister is like following an ancient map using landmarks as road signs. Turn at the house where so-and-so used to live and continue on the paved road even though the dirt road provides a more direct route. Go past the tavern that is further out in the middle of nowhere and keep heading north. Each small town heralds travelers in its own special way as we catch a glimpse of how life is lived there. I keep reminding myself that as beautiful as all of the flowers are, most of these places are thrust into a deep freeze for many months each year and though they may host visitors in the summer, in the winter they become ghost towns for the locals who are used to the hardship of prolonged cold.
Reunions with relatives and friends require the energy to tell life events quickly and convincingly enough so that questions do not persist. To account for decades of life is an onerous task. I can barely comprehend that so much time has passed. It is my story and I can tell it any way I want, and yet words seem inadequate when I look into the eyes of some I have not seen since we were children. Though we can be recognized by our resemblance to our parents, we retain the image we once had in high school--an image long replaced by who we became in college, graduate school and the life that kept moving us on at a brisk clip toward middle age.
The memories others have of us are thrown up against our own. In the midst of all of the sorting, I wonder exactly who I used to be and who I have become. Leaving home was something I always dreamed of doing even though it must have been a shock for those who found out after the fact that I actually got into that car after college and headed out West. Most probably did not know that I even came East to attend graduate school since I ended up in the same place after graduation where my original dream had taken me. Getting married and having our first child far from my home made these events more myth than reality since the local community was unable to participate. Moving to the South, having a couple more kids and buying a house reinforced the truth that I was never coming back to the place where I am from, except to visit. I still grieve this loss at times, but cannot be fooled like an out-of-town tourist thinking this place is warm and filled with sunshine like it was during the days of our vacation, because I know better. It is very cold in the winter and the sun may not come out for weeks at a time. Having moved away, I know of other places that are less cold and dark. There remains, however, a part of me who longs to sit a while longer on that beach with the fine white sand between my toes as the sun sets over the calm blue water.
Like so many celebrations, the class reunion was over before it began, leaving me feeling like I was a passenger on a bus with the doors opening too soon, forcing me out at the wrong stop. Walking back through the memories, I try to find something secure to hold onto. This time travel is messing with my mind. We light the lanterns to honor the dead trying not to think of who will make it to the next reunion and who may not. We have conversations with those we never spoke to in high school since our social groups did not intersect back then. Band geeks did not associate with football players even though we provided a half-time show at every game. Cheerleaders had no business talking with introverted nerds who expressed themselves more effectively in writing than by public displays of enthusiasm. We were all given a role to play and did not stray much from the script.
None of this matters any longer. Some classmates left town; some stayed and built a life. We all grew older. Some got married; some got divorced, and some never married at all. We have become parents and grandparents. We have found work and ways to contribute to our community. We all made choices. Some choices were made for us. In spite of all of our differences, we once shared a zip code and now share memories of growing up in and near a very small town by a great lake.
As the remaining few of us sat around a bonfire laughing at the running jokes that got funnier as the contents of the bottles lessened, along with our inhibitions, we looked at each other in the shadows remembering youth a while longer. And though we tried to sing along to a variety of different songs, there was only one song we all knew: "Country roads, take me home to the place I belong, Western Michigan, mountain momma, take me home, country roads." Even though we changed the words, I am pretty sure John Denver would not have minded.
No comments:
Post a Comment