In a few months, my family and I will be making our annual trek to my hometown in western Pennsylvania. Compared to Houston, where summer highs can reach 100-plus degrees, the temperate summer and lush greenness of my parents’ place in the country is itself enough to look forward to.
I’m proud of my hometown.
It’s the kind of place people inevitably deem quaint. Despite its cliché connotation, I suppose the term is apt. There’s a market house built over 100 years ago which is still operational today. My grandfather used to be a popular figure there back in the day, chatting for hours with patrons as they perused his assortment of garlic, peppers and onions displayed in old-style bushel baskets lining his booth.
In the center of town is the city park, protected by dignified oak and maple trees that stand with a patriarchal air. They shade a gazebo, water fountain, and several traditional monuments commemorating the founding fathers and fallen heroes of past wars. It’s my youngest son’s favorite place for some one-on-one time with me. Like any rambunctious 6-year-old, he heads straight for the old cannons where he can climb the pyramid of cannon balls stacked nearby.
Surrounding the park are the city’s original high school, the library and National Guard Armory. The armory is home to the “Bloody Bucket Division,” who earned their tough-as-nails nickname from the Germans during World War I. The most notable structure is the town’s centerpiece: the county courthouse. The courthouse is surrounded by four impressive stone churches—Methodist, Baptist, Episcopal and Unitarian—all built during the early to mid-1800’s. As if these weren’t enough, several more churches are mere blocks away. Such a dense collection of places to worship led one visitor to famously quip that, “this town must have many sins to atone for.”
Every time I exit off Interstate 79, I ease back on the gas to a leisurely speed conducive for taking in these and other landmarks that served as the backdrop of my life growing up.
I took them for granted back then, which might be why I now take the long way to my parents’ place, pointing out to my five children the significance of one place or another as if I were a tour guide in Hollywood. However, their zombie-ish “uh-huhs” tells me they are more interested in Spongebob’s antics than they are knowing that President William McKinley attended college here, or that the oil industry was born 30 miles outside of town. That’s okay. After the tenth or twelfth trip here, these facts will sink in for them eventually.
I harbor genuine excitement over one of the country’s oldest operable wooden roller coasters being located nearby. It’s unassailably cool that John Wilkes Booth allegedly left clues regarding his plan to kill President Lincoln in one of the town’s hotels. But there’s also a contrasting emotion that tempers this enthusiasm: sadness.
The water from the park fountain gurgles in a laboring fashion similar to that of a terminally ill patient struggling to draw breath. The armory has recently been sold off and will likely be demolished. And the market house—universally viewed to be a symbol of the town’s economic health—sees only a trickle of business, underscoring the lack of money available to spend on preserving such relics.
Before some soulless corporate muckety-muck devised the concept of outsourcing jobs so my mother could argue with some kid in New Delhi over why Dell didn’t ship her the right computer monitor, that park fountain spouted water ten feet into the air. The armory was a symbol of patriotism and sacrifice. And that market house bustled with vendors and buyers who spilled out onto the building’s exterior walkways. To witness the past erode brings on an inevitability that’s impossible to escape. Like my parents and grandparents, I soon would be prefacing childhood memories with the phrases, “there used to be,” and “I remember when.” Things change.
Normally on these visits I don’t have much of an opportunity to catch up with friends. But on the last trip I visited with a guy who was my best friend before the natural forces of adolescence channeled us down different courses as we entered high school. We did the normal things boys do—build forts, fight bad guys, ride bikes. One time we sneaked onto the bus our church used to pick up children for Sunday school and then proceeded to help ourselves to the best iced sugar cookies I’ve ever tasted. Problem was, those cookies were intended for the riders, usually poor kids from broken homes who rarely received such treats. Needless to say we were caught and paid the price for it.
I arrived at the restaurant before he did, unsure of what to expect. It had been 10, maybe 15 years since we had last spoken. Then a few months ago, through the magic of Facebook, he found me. As kids we had different temperaments. I was quiet and standoffish while he was eternally energetic and always in motion (today they call it ADHD), so it made me curious as to who would walk through door. That person turned out to be a mature, charming and funny man. He had joined the police force, was a loving husband and a father of two. Our time sharing stories and laughs proved to be a highlight of the trip for me.
As we got ready to leave, my friend congratulated me on my upcoming book, the mention of which reminded me to set some expectations for him on the topic. “Man, I have to say that the book…well, I’m afraid some of the people around here might be surprised—offended actually about some of the stuff I wrote.” My friend and I grew up in a traditional God-fearing environment that emphasized clean living and Christian values, none of which I hold any particular grudge against today. Yet, in sharing my experiences gained in a world far away from such a wholesome environment, it was sure to make for both good gossip and scornful judgment. Because people tend to remember you within the same context of who you were when they last knew you, such negative reactions concerned me.
An understanding grin spread across my friend’s face. “Oh, Ron, you don’t need to worry ‘bout that with me. I’ve seen or done pretty much all of those things they say you shouldn’t. That’s just who we are.” He shook his head. “And look at it this way, if we hadn’t gone through some of that stuff we might not be with such wonderful wives and have such great families.” My friend’s words—simple and insightful—gave a peace that allowed me to reconcile the innocence of the past with the reality of who I had become after leaving home.
We shook hands and said our goodbyes. As I watched him turn the corner, a comforting thought occurred to me.
When it comes to hometowns, some change is a good thing. The kind that transforms those who were once so prominent in our lives into the best versions of themselves. And one day, it will be my children who have grown into the men and women they were meant to be. They will have their own experiences—both good and bad—to draw from as they mature. For now, though, I need to pass on as much as I can so they will have what they need to become the best versions of themselves when that future day comes.
—Photo s-a-m/Flickr