I don’t have a home town. You know one of those places where you remember old Mr. Grayson and he remembers when he used to yell at you to get off the lawn and the only thing you have in common is remembering his wife’s chocolate chip cookies, but you always stop to say hello to him anyway. I never had one of those places.
My father had a home town where he grew up, where he is buried, where people from his past came to his funeral and remembered him and his family, were his family. The town isn’t there anymore. The corner grocery store his father owned was torn down years ago. Only echoes of the Baptist hymns are heard in the church his family supported through several generations. The town still has a spot on the state map, but it began disappearing years ago.
I wonder if it’s too late for me to find a home-town. I could be the crotchety old lady that keeps the half-haunted house at the end of the street. The one that yells at kids to get off the lawn, and keeps their errant baseballs, and scares them so bad on Halloween they wet their pants. Yeah, that would be fun.
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