I was scrolling through Facebook when I ran into an
interesting post. A caption, “What a view!” accompanying what looked like a
photo—a person was sitting in the foreground observing a nature scene. Looking closer,
however, I realized that this “photo” was in fact a screenshot of a video game….
A virtual view from the Lazy Boy that only required a paddle, a PlayStation,
and a pair of thumbs.
That time brings change is no headline. Can’t buy a candy bar for a nickel, can’t by
a coke for a dime, can’t even buy a coke for a dollar. There aren’t as many
potato chips in the bag, eyesight isn’t what it used to be, and no one talks to
each other anymore. Kicking against the
pricks of change doesn’t do much aside from causing a sore toe, but it is
disheartening how some change—in particular technological change has replaced
some really basic, yet wonderful aspects of life—like a hike to a real-life
landscape, or a family gathering where everyone talks instead of texts, and
where everyone validates with head nods and back pats instead of the casual
click of the “like” button.
I am no strict opponent to technology and change (as I sit
here typing a blog post, knowing some will read it on their electronic devices),
but I have lately been reminded of those real-life places and those stepping-outside-the-door
sources of entertainment that have been a part of my small-town life.
This is my hometown cemetery. Early evening, before the sun
goes down, this cemetery has some of the most beautiful views, and the most
peaceful feelings. I say before the sun goes down, because at night, it is more
of a thrill. As soon as the headlights would hit that large, overhanging gate, we
were ducking our heads and trying not to look around too much—who knew what we might
see. One night, after a thrilling ride through those black gates and
100-year-old headstones the car horn started honking on its own. By the time the
windshield wiper started waving at us in the back window, we were pretty scared. We ditched the running car at an intersection and ran our butts home.
When we told my dad the story, he just shook his head and told us to go get the
car.
If you’re a small-town kid, a 4-wheeler is a big part of
your childhood and beyond. Even though you may only be able to drive around
your back yard in 2nd gear for a few years, eventually you prove your
abilities (an 8-year-old who accidentally hits the house may have another couple
of years added to the proving period—don’t drive forward while looking in the
rear-view) and are set free on the small-town streets and surrounding dirt
roads. I included in this picture the lawn-mower. We got this gem when I was
probably 11 or 12. When the 4-wheeler wasn’t working, it was a great substitute—with
6 speeds, this Craftsman could really get the blood pumping. If you hear anyone say you can’t ramp a lawn-mower, they’re wrong (shhh…don’t tell
dad).
The well had the best water—straight H2O without the
additives. Fresh goodness that only came during irrigation months. My
sister and I were sometimes sent to fill up a gallon jug for home. I would tell
my friends, “Get ready to try the best water you’ll ever drink in your life.” I
would teach them the trick that my dad taught me—how to channel the water into
a fountain with your hand. Perhaps it wasn’t that delicious to them, but I didn’t care. It was one of my
favorite places in the Spring and Summer; plus, it had the best
willows for roasting marshmallows.
This is the overpass. We would cart our friends from out of town down that long lane of fields and demonstrate the fun of getting diesel trucks to
honk their horns. We would run from one side to the other, slapping high-fives
when we could get any type of response…well, except for the police response
that came from “out-of-towners” traveling down the freeway with cell-phones. Those didn't merit high-fives, just disgusted sighs and eye rolls. We figured they simply couldn’t stand seeing kids have too much fun—“Why
aren’t they at home playing video games instead of causing our serene,
uneventful drive to be interrupted by a half mile of relentless honking!”
We called this the “office.” It literally had a
sign that said “office.” But this was a place that became a thrill at night as
well. Down a dark, unlit lane, it was a terrible place to have the 4-wheeler
break down; especially when you had to leave your city friends there to wait
while you went to “get help.” You’d come back to wide-eyes and stories of
whatever creatures they swore they heard while you were away.
Until I was about 10, this was a place I had strict orders to
avoid. Especially on Friday nights. My parents said there were too many drunks. In fact, I wasn’t allowed to go outside the house on dance-hall nights because the streets were lined
with cars from out of town and out of state. Party folk coming to dance with a live
band and most times, a lot of liquor. My granny used to play honky-tonk piano
at this dance hall, but my mom and dad said it changed too much over time. It has
been almost 20 years since my mom, as a town councilwoman, moved to make the
Cobblecrest into a beautiful park. I was proud of her for changing its
reputation and its look—from dirt and weeds to grass and trees. For any kid
from my town, you can guarantee that we all have the same favorite holiday—the 4th of July. The Cobblecrest has become a big part of why it
is a favorite. There is a dance party for any age and if you don’t want to dance, there is plenty
of grass to lay out a blanket and visit with friends.
And then there is my own acre of stomping ground. The
place where my dad has the most beautifully plowed dirt in town, with a border
of the most organized junk cars in town, and where my mom has made the most of
the yard’s odds and ends and created a landscape masterpiece.
This is the place
where dad taught me to walk on hand-crafted stilts and where we as friends would play
steal the flag for hours on Summer nights. This is where I would take a nap in the shade and wake up with sun-burned legs and a sock line and where me and my best friend would sit under the tree in our "place" and drink IBC Rootbeer from the bottle and eat treats from the local campground. This is where we
would lay on the trampoline and hold hands with our crush for the first time or rename stars—who cares that that one bright star is already famously
named Arcturus—to us it is CAJ 723. Casey, Amanda, Joni; July 20th
2003.
I'm sure most kids (and let me include adults) still enjoy views and diversions that don't involve pods, pads or PlayStation paddles--at least, I hope they do. Although these are only a few scenes that I love, there are many more--the front porch full of friends and family, a 1972 Volkswagen Beetle bursting with teenagers, and the sight atop water-tank hill--there it is, tucked against the red hillside, shrouded with trees, unknown to many a passerby on the distant freeway; my hometown. Perhaps you have had your fill of the virtual landscapes. So, close your laptop, leave your phone, and walk out your door. Your real-life view awaits....
