Post by kiev4a on Oct 4, 2006 15:28:27 GMT -5
This isn't photo-related but given the age of some of the forum members, I thought you might relate to this early draft of my most recent column, scheduled to appear next week in a local newspaper.
Not important . . . but possibly of interest.
We were on our way home from Boise, on a Sunday afternoon, when Sara suggested we take a detour and visit mom and dad.
Even the road leading to the town where I grew up has changed. The highway was two lanes wide in the old days (it was gravel when I was a little kid) and a car might pass our farm every 15 minutes on a heavy day. Now it’s four lanes of continuous traffic.
When I was growing up, our farm was about a mile outside the city limit sign that listed the population at 534. Now the sign is about three miles beyond where we lived, and says there are 16,000 inhabitants—probably a conservative estimate. The farmhouse where I grew up, now is surrounded by mini mansions. The building on Main Street where my parents published their weekly newspaper, has been a bar for more than 30 years. The high school I attended is a vacant lot. The cemetery, once “out in the country” is surrounded by subdivisions.
We wandered among the tombstones to the plot where mom and dad rest—dad since 1978, mom since ’86. They are surrounded by family friends and neighbors. I identified the parents of many of my school classmates—Johnston, Douthit, Welch, Kelsey, Reynolds, Brown, Caskey. . .
Before returning to the car, we explored the older section of the cemetery. Mister Grebe is there. He was the only practicing attorney in the community when I was growing up. He had an office in the back of a small frame building next to the newspaper. Mister Ward’s insurance agency was in the front part of the building. Mister Grebe was a very tall, thin, quiet man who always wore a hat and walked with a slight stoop. I thought he looked a lot like pictures of Abraham Lincoln (but with a smaller hat). The tombstone lists Mr. Grebe’s year of birth as 1884. That means he was 83 years old when he drew up an escrow document so I could buy my first house. I think he charged $25. I meant to find out Mr. Grebe’s first name while at his grave but forgot. When I was a kid, adults were always Mr. or Mrs., plus a last name.
Everywhere were family names I remember from my youth—Gregory, Fiss, German, Ward, Miller, Stills, Teed, Bird. Many of these people were members of the founding families of the community— born in the 1870s ‘80s and ‘90s but still around when I was old enough to form lasting memories of them and how they conducted themselves. And most of the examples they set were positive.
Maybe it’s because I have reached an age where one tends to be more reflective. But as we walked back to the car, it occurred to me that mother and father are not the only people in the cemetery of importance to me. A person’s character isn’t just shaped by his or her parents. Everyone you meet as a youth contributes directly or indirectly who you are. The examples they set are guides we use in making decisions as we travel the Road of Life.
Fifty years ago, in Small Town America, where everybody knew everybody, a child really was raised by the community. Although your’s truly is far from perfect, I believe the folks who now reside in that cemetery did a fairly decent job of raising me.
I wish I could thank them.
Not important . . . but possibly of interest.
We were on our way home from Boise, on a Sunday afternoon, when Sara suggested we take a detour and visit mom and dad.
Even the road leading to the town where I grew up has changed. The highway was two lanes wide in the old days (it was gravel when I was a little kid) and a car might pass our farm every 15 minutes on a heavy day. Now it’s four lanes of continuous traffic.
When I was growing up, our farm was about a mile outside the city limit sign that listed the population at 534. Now the sign is about three miles beyond where we lived, and says there are 16,000 inhabitants—probably a conservative estimate. The farmhouse where I grew up, now is surrounded by mini mansions. The building on Main Street where my parents published their weekly newspaper, has been a bar for more than 30 years. The high school I attended is a vacant lot. The cemetery, once “out in the country” is surrounded by subdivisions.
We wandered among the tombstones to the plot where mom and dad rest—dad since 1978, mom since ’86. They are surrounded by family friends and neighbors. I identified the parents of many of my school classmates—Johnston, Douthit, Welch, Kelsey, Reynolds, Brown, Caskey. . .
Before returning to the car, we explored the older section of the cemetery. Mister Grebe is there. He was the only practicing attorney in the community when I was growing up. He had an office in the back of a small frame building next to the newspaper. Mister Ward’s insurance agency was in the front part of the building. Mister Grebe was a very tall, thin, quiet man who always wore a hat and walked with a slight stoop. I thought he looked a lot like pictures of Abraham Lincoln (but with a smaller hat). The tombstone lists Mr. Grebe’s year of birth as 1884. That means he was 83 years old when he drew up an escrow document so I could buy my first house. I think he charged $25. I meant to find out Mr. Grebe’s first name while at his grave but forgot. When I was a kid, adults were always Mr. or Mrs., plus a last name.
Everywhere were family names I remember from my youth—Gregory, Fiss, German, Ward, Miller, Stills, Teed, Bird. Many of these people were members of the founding families of the community— born in the 1870s ‘80s and ‘90s but still around when I was old enough to form lasting memories of them and how they conducted themselves. And most of the examples they set were positive.
Maybe it’s because I have reached an age where one tends to be more reflective. But as we walked back to the car, it occurred to me that mother and father are not the only people in the cemetery of importance to me. A person’s character isn’t just shaped by his or her parents. Everyone you meet as a youth contributes directly or indirectly who you are. The examples they set are guides we use in making decisions as we travel the Road of Life.
Fifty years ago, in Small Town America, where everybody knew everybody, a child really was raised by the community. Although your’s truly is far from perfect, I believe the folks who now reside in that cemetery did a fairly decent job of raising me.
I wish I could thank them.