The Good Old Days

Little changes mean big moments.

I spent a week or so back in my hometown last year, tending my Mother after her heart attack. I get back quite often to visit her, but that was the first time in a long time I've done more than drive by the old entrance to the hospital. I had, through necessity, to go all around and through it, noticing what changes have been made there, and managed to drive by the new entrance they built in the last few years.

It's gorgeous, well-built, the architecture is nice - but I realized with dismay that it's the first time in almost 40 years I was not been able to point out the room my Mother stayed in when I was born. It was significant to me, because one of my favorite stories is how my Dad drove up onto the lawn to the window in the car so Mother could hold me up and show me to my older siblings.

Being from a town that's small enough to be able to not only tell those stories but go to where they happened and still see the place is something I treasure. I love my small-town roots, and I love being part of a community that has stayed much the same even while things have grown and changed. I don't resent the changes, but there is a little bittersweet tug on my heartstrings when I see evidence of that.

A few months before her heart attack, my Mother called me with news from the obituary page - the doctor who delivered me had passed away. I remember taking my ex-husband to a musical at the theatre here in town. I pointed down to the orchestra pit and said "Do you see that little bald man playing the violin?" My ex nodded. "Well, he's the doctor that delivered me!"

My big-city ex was flummoxed. He couldn't conceive of a town small enough to still know the doctor that delivered you (pun intended). After the play was over I walked up and said "Hi Doc!" He hadn't seen me in some years, and squinted a bit... "Are you one of my babies?" I grinned and said 'Yes sir!" He laughed and asked who my parents were, and remembered me then by name. Doc had been particularly fond of me, Mother says, because my first act on this earth was to grab his finger and cling to him as I exited the womb.

There's a man who writes novels set in a fictionalized version of my home town. His novels are gritty and sordid, about the worst side of the tracks and the hardest side of life. That's not really where I'm from in the grand scheme of things, but I'm no stranger to it. I've had both friends and relatives who probably show up in those novels under different names, and I certainly know the landmarks. I can tell you the real name of every area and store and gas station he mentions, because his descriptions are so vivid that a native knows exactly what he's talking about.

It's hard for me to have my heart so firmly ensconced in a place like that. It's so far from where I actually live now, and so small that people don't understand why I love it. I hear such trash talked about the home of my heart, and it hurts. It's not so backward, it's actually quite progressive. It's not so boring, there are more and more wonderful things happening here all the time. It's home, it's full of people I love, it's full of life and activity and growth. I'm proud to be from here - and I always will be.


Originally posted on TIBU on 9/13/2007, presented here with edits and additions.