This March, I was back home for the entirety of Spring Break for the first time in a few years. Although my parents live inside our
city village limits in a house I’ve never called home, I still feel like I’m home when I pull into town. The other night, the lights in the grain elevator were on for some reason, and it looked faintly like a sliver of skyline in a city. Grain elevators are the skyscrapers of small towns like ours.
One day, as I walked to the post office with my 2 1/2-year-old nephew, I kept telling him to come to the side of the street in case a car came along. No car came, and he stayed in the middle of the street, carefree.
Every time I go home, I will get into conversations with my parents about the latest news around town, and someone’s name will come up, and I’ll ask for a reminder of who they are and who belongs to them (and probably where they lived and/or live as well as the names of their grandchildren.)
My Aunt hosted a Mary Kay party out at her house about six miles southeast of town. Several ladies her age came, and everybody bought something (which really surprised me because Mary Kay is not cheap and these ladies are not all that interested in the produce), but what I enjoyed the most about this particular party was the time afterwards, as the ladies sat around the table with their coffee and snacks, enjoying conversation about times gone by. How pleasant are their lives out here in the country.