Visiting Home On a recent trip home, myself and my cousin did a town tour. We drove around and stopped at places where memories were the strongest. We talked about people and of events from the past. It was bittersweet though mostly pleasurable as our memories were good ones. We drove by houses where once a upon a time we could name everyone who lived there. On this day some fifty years later we werent so sure. One of the highlights of our tour was the school. The high school is gone, torn down, progress or money saving seems to have been the reason, but the grammar school, lunchroom, and gym are still there. The gym has been dressed up with a new exterior and we found it open. Before we went in , I asked my cousin, “ How many rows of seats do you think there are going up each side?” He replied, “Eight”, in my memory it was much larger and said “Twelve”. Turns out there were only six rows on each side serving as stands and the entire inside though remarkably unchanged had shrunk, or so it seemed. Never the less on game nights the whole town squeezed inside and cheered us on. My cousin and I walked out on the court and memories came back. My entire high school athletic career or lack thereof had played out right here. I rode the pines and sat far from the coach, which meant the only chance of me playing was in a blow out, either by us or by the other guys. As poor a player as I was, I still practiced hard, ran the wind sprints, and the laps just like the starters did. It all seemed so important then and it was still important on this visit but for different reasons. High school years are full of dreams and youth. Youth gets away, but dreams are to be held on to. Next to the gym is the playground we used when we were in grammar school. At recess, dodge ball, tether ball, and softball were what we had played the most. I saw a pecan tree that I remember being first base during softball games. It wasnt so on this day, but years ago the base paths and the playing fields were worn clean of grass by the Keds and the PF Flyers on the feet of us kids playing ball. Just across the way were the sixth and seventh grade building, glass windows boarded up. For a few minutes I stood there and remembered the name of every teacher I had had through twelve grades, a remarkable feat since there are times now I cant remember the name of someone I met yesterday. It says something about the imprint teachers have on the young. As we loaded up and left the school, I thought of something that I figured I would never want to do. I looked at my cousin and said, “ Want to go to the cemetery?” He said, “Yes”. Obviously I had been to the cemetery before, but not sure I had ever “wanted to go” as I did on this occasion. Our family plot is near the road and so I stop the car close by. A cemetery plot bought and paid for by my grandfather, John Franklin Goodson. He, his wife my grandmother, my parents, my cousin parents, and one of my cousins, all who left us too soon, are laid to rest there. We stood there without speaking for a time, each of us with our own memories, our own sadness, and then decided to walk around. We walk the entire cemetery, coming across people we had known. We talked of memories and stories about them. We came across a few we didnt know at all and talked about who they might possibly have been. Visiting a cemetery is bittersweet defined. In our daily lives we think of those there, some more than others. It is an entirely different experience to see their names and life dates etched in stone. There is a finality with it. A complete confirmation that they are gone. Standing there looking at a marker, reading the full name and dates. Figuring the length of a life from the dates. No matter, it’s always too short. I am not sure why I wanted to go that day, it was a hard thing for me to do. Maybe I went for them. Maybe I was just selfish and went for me. My heart was saddened and my eyes were wet. What I do know, is that the hardest part about living, is living after they are gone.
Posted on: Tue, 01 Jul 2014 06:02:53 +0000
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