When you grow up in a small town, you get to know and be known by most everybody who lives there, distant kin and incarcerated cousins alike.
But if you leave that town to live your life anyplace outside of "God's Country," coming back to visit can be daunting.
How many necks can you hug? How many dogs can you scratch? How many pickups can park in one driveway? And how much fried chicken can one woman eat without going to Wal-Mart for bigger stretch pants?
That's how it used to be whenever I came "home," as we say, for a visit; such a big family, so many friends, all those porches to sit on, all that iced tea to drink, all those stories to tell and retell.
Time would fly, as it always does, and pretty soon, "Good to see you!" would turn into "Hurry back!"
Time still flies when I visit my hometown. But lately I've noticed there are fewer necks to hug with each passing year.
One of the best ways I found to visit a lot of people in one swoop was to show up at church on Sunday morning. I could see all sorts of friends that way. Well, churchgoing friends, that is, especially my friend Jane. When we were little girls, I'd slide into the pew next to Jane and she'd grin real big and pinch me for being late.
She kept it up after we were grown. Most every time I came back to visit, I'd go to church and get pinched by Jane.
That's just one of a lifetime's worth of stories I could've told, had I been present a few weeks ago when Jane was laid to rest in the cemetery outside of town.
I told myself she would have understood why I couldn't get there in time for her service. But she still would've pinched me for it, if she could.
Sunday morning -- red-eyed from jetlag and frizzy-haired from rain -- I fished church clothes out of my suitcase and drove in a downpour from my sister's house into town.
This time, I told myself, I would not be late. Minutes before 11, I pulled up in front of the church. The parking lot was full. Not a soul in sight. Then I noticed the sign: "Join us Sunday morning at 10:30!"
My windshield wipers were slapping out an old Gospel tune, "When the roll is called up yonder I'll be there ..."
I might have gone in for the benediction, if there'd been anyplace to park. Instead, I decided to take a long drive to see some old familiar places: The houses where we lived; the river where we swam; the town that my grandparents called home; the cemetery where my mother and most of her family are buried.
I took an old country road winding through horse farms and green pastures and rolling blue mountains where sugar maples and dogwoods glistened with the first promise of fall.
I wish you could've seen it. I had wanted to go to church that day. Instead, it came to me.
Finally, I drove to another cemetery. Growing up, I never noticed all the "final resting places" about town. Now I'd swear they were everywhere.
I knew the spot where Jane was buried. My sister had taken me to visit it soon after I arrived. We had walked around reading all the names on the headstones -- Jane's parents and uncles and aunts.
This time I parked as close as I could get, but stayed in the car. It was pouring. When the windows fogged up, I rolled one down. I didn't care how wet I got. I just kept wishing I could have gotten there in time for Jane's service.
Suddenly, I felt a pinch and looked down to see a mosquito fly off with a chunk of my arm.
I laughed. She drew blood.
(Sharon Randall can be contacted at P.O. Box 777394 Henderson NV 89077 or at www.sharonrandall.com.)
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