A trip down memory lane

I didn’t grow up in the country. We lived in the suburbs. Sidewalks. Streets with curbs. We walked to school, or rode our bicycles. We knew our next door neighbors, but not theirs. 

I knew the way to the nearest mall, movie theater, fast food restaurants, convenience stores, the Interstate. Five miles west or north were more suburbs. Five miles east was city. Five miles south was land cleared for new developments. And five miles further south was the beginning of country.

Country was where Grandma and Papa Dutch lived. Getting there was truly over the river and through the woods. They lived on a five-acre plot with barbed wire fences, pecan trees, and a propane tank that looked to us like a tiny rusted metal submarine.

There was a barn with an old pickup truck, a shed that was padlocked, an ancient outhouse not in use, and at the back of the property a railroad track and a trestle bridge that we liked to walk across. I found a ‘possum skull under the bridge one time. You don’t find many of those in the suburbs.

My other grandparents, Nonnie and Papaw, lived in the country, too, near their town’s main street. It was also next to railroad tracks. I remember a weeping willow, pecan and plum trees, a barn-like garage without inside lights. When the garage door was opened, you could only see what was in the center. Everywhere else was a dark mystery we grandkids never tried to solve.

We could walk a couple of blocks to the old high school. It was a two story brick building with a metal slide attached to the outside. It was used as a fire escape. On a Saturday visit, we’d climb up and slide down. The hot metal would always hurt.

Grandma was a retired seamstress who made curtains for Sears. Papa Dutch was a retired farmer and railroad man. Nonnie was a bank clerk at the local bank and Papaw was a cement truck driver. They’re all long dead. Memories and photographs. Just like we’ll all be one day.

I now live in the country. Asphalt roads and dirt driveways. No curbs. No sidewalks. The school bus comes by very early to pick up local kids. The squirrels play tag in the tree tops. The cats have free reign over mice and snakes. We know most of our neighbors by name and can even recognize them at the grocery store.

I wonder if our future grandchildren will recall trips to their grandma’s house as being like going to the moon? Long and boring. Not much to see. Not much to do. A bunch of ant hills and poison ivy. “But at least they had indoor toilets and somewhat fast internet,” they might say. “We baked cookies. Went fishing. Roasted marshmallows over a bonfire. Heard a fox calling in the woods. An owl. Saw living and breathing armadillos; possums and raccoons on the porch; hawks and humming birds nearby; bluejays screaming warnings about cats on the prowl.”

Remembering my past gives me the gumption to try and ensure future grandchildren have the same kind of fond memories. Good enough to entice them to one day sit at their computer, like I did recently, and search for satellite views of their Grandma and Baba’s house, just to see if it’s still there. A trip down memory lane worth taking, just for good time’s sake.