I visit my youthful stomping ground less and less each year. Somehow, the place seems damaged to me. Like a ripe apple that has fallen into the grass. It might be shiny and delicious looking on the top, but when you bend to pick it up, you can see it’s mushy and bruised underneath.
don’t judge fallen fruit
by the color of its skin
rot begins inside
I pulled to the side of highway B and walked to the center of the bridge that spanned Wakenda creek. I stared in disbelief at my childhood playground. I spent countless hours here hunting, fishing, throwing smoke bombs at passing cars, fighting make believe wars, exploring life and learning about love. Now just an impersonal ditch cut through unrecognizable farmland. Gone are the grain elevators that in my childhood seemed to touch the clouds in the sky. No more houses with white siding and green shingled roofs. No childhood home, no trees, no life… Nothing left except the tears in my eyes.
time must move forward—
leaving only memories
to fill up my heart
I guess every town in America has one. Heck, maybe even every town in the world. You know what I'm talking about. The cruising loop. The place every teenager goes to see, and be seen by, anyone that counts.
Even Wakenda, Missouri with its population of 150 people had one. Of course, with its 5 streets that ran north and south and another 5 that ran east and west, (if you were generous with what qualified as a street) it was a little harder to define it as cruising the loop.
Cruising Wakenda was more suited for using one's feet or a bicycle than a car. Fortunately, since walking didn't cost more money than what I had in my pockets, for me that was never a problem.
Wakenda, Missouri in the late 1960's and early 70's was a pretty small town with not too many places where one could "hang out". We had the drive that circled the elementary school, Womack's Garage, the grain elevators, and the alley behind the pig lot was just about the extent of it.
But sometime, when one of my older brothers felt generous, I was invited to ride along to the big-time cruising in Carrollton. Where we drove the loop past the Dog-N-Suds, over the railroad pass, around the roller rink, up to the park, around the square and down the hill to Bruce's Burger Bar. Pretty much, the same thing, except now, I had to help pay for gas.
cavemen on dinos
from tar pit to volcano
cruisin' on Friday night
It's the sad truth. Look through any family photo album and you'll find a bazillion pictures of the first born child. Their first haircut, first lost tooth, first Christmas or first time pooping in the potty chair. But with each child born, the amount of photos begin to dwindle. Until that last child almost becomes invisible. It's not our fault, they say repetition stifles imagination.
So, being the next to the youngest in my family of 15. I grew up in the shadows of my brothers and sisters. It's like my entire life was an afterthought. At family gatherings, the conversations would always center around tales of—do you remember that time—like I was suppose to know what went on fifeteen years before I was born.
I wore clothes that were not mine but leftovers from some one elses lifetime. When I looked through the family photo albums all I saw were faces of children I never knew. Even my parents were worn down shells of those frolicking thirty somethings I saw in those pictures.
from isn't that too cute
to eh been there and done that—
first born versus last
Back in the old days, the evening news only lasted 30 minutes while we ate supper. Not that there was less going on. We just didn't need to know each time the president farted or Tay-Tay and Trav-Trav make googly eyes at each other.
the evening news
doesn't report reality—
it entertains us
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