The old trunk holds photo stacked on photo from past generations of family members. In some relative’s hand, names have been written; however, way too many have nothing on the back to tell me those pieces of my past. A deer is leaping. A child stands next to an elderly woman. A fresh caught of fish is on display for all posterity. Except, who caught them? Ah, pictures. They tell a story and too often just make me curious. Stack upon stack.
I cannot go home without thinking of the way Greenville was when I was a child. The fountain in the park was a place I padded around with water spraying into my face. The swinging bridge scared the bijibbers out of me. There was an old slide that I swear was a mile high. We watched fireworks at the park and swam in the pool.
Memories. It is funny how we capture them in bits and pieces when at the time we think they will remain intact forever. But life does muddle things. We pile up memories like bales stored in the barn. We toss them in and stack them. We can climb up them, but still many are buried beneath. Remove one and a flood pours in.
I can still feel my hand in Mom’s as we walked past the hat shop and the bakery. We shopped at the Palace and cruised the candy counter at Murphy’s 5 and 10. A burger and fries at the Hamburger Shop and maybe, just maybe, a phosphate at the corner drug store. I didn’t get to Maid Rite until I was a teenager. And, the last time I was there was with my cousin Gene who is now gone. My sisters registered their dishes at Gray’s Jewelers across from the Palace. Dad looked at men’s clothing at Fourman’s. We saw entertainment at Memorial Hall and loved to visit the old library.
There is so much I want to show Loren on this trip home. We can’t do it all. This is a long trip with a purpose, squeezing in the bits and pieces as we go. We are meeting everyone who will come on May 4 at Turtle Creek Country Club between 1-5 p.m. because we cannot possibly get around to see everyone. You are my memories. You are the people who were part of that history that lies within the old trunk. You are my readers whom I truly appreciate. For those of you who have not lived away from your stomping grounds, you might not realize how dear you are to the people who have moved away.
Greenville is one of my hometowns. Gettysburg was my neighboring town. Pitsburg was my school town. Arcanum, well, Arcanum is a lot of memories and probably my sweetest hometown. The memories are stacked, the pictures taken from the trunk. Yes, we are going home. Home to you.