Tuesday, May 29, 2012

A Memorable History

In my time working here, I have discovered just how little I know of this town. It is my privilege, however, to be able to research everything about the town that raised me--for my own amusement and for the amusement of our readers.

Each flip of a historical page sends me into a nostalgic frenzy--nostalgia for time and time lost. Nostalgia for time I have never truly known but long to know dearly. That idealism that sweeps you away and makes cranky elderlies on their porches shout about how much time has damned us all.

And as bad as things really are now, we all know we will be the next to don those porches and shout at younger generations. Time moves without us, sometimes.

History is a funny thing. Some of our history is written by eyewitnesses, and most of our history is written by those who consider themselves professional researchers. But all history really is, is a collection of memories. And however misleading, slanted or true any of it may be, it shapes our understanding of what we see now. A town is not just a town. It's a home to many before us.

I see the recovered film reels, parched for color and fraying at the ends, all with men and women who look kind of like us but with clothing beyond our time. The furniture is garnished with distracting patterns, but I can see the dust forming already that lingers in today's junkyards. Warehouses we regard as abandoned were once something to someone, but their age still shows--an even deeper history to which I am yet privy.

And if the walls could talk downtown they might tell us something more true. Perhaps that our haunted history is less than ghostly, or that the color of paint someone along the way used was a mockery to the craftsmanship of the men who built it. If everything I am learning now is false, or just a bit biased, I would rather accept it than anything else.

This town's history is full of large tragedies and small-town triumphs. So through all the shouting across the office, the phones ringing off the hook and the numerous tasks I am asked to complete throughout the day, I stop and take a moment and think about this town. There is a summer of history waiting for me to explore. Next stop will be a proper trip downtown, where the history comes alive.

If only that gaudy, yellow party supplies store would move farther out of the Square, then I could go back to properly enjoying it as it once was--a town of memories looking toward the future. (Because who needs contemporary progression, when indie kids are grasping at everything their parents refuted?)

Thursday, May 24, 2012

Home is where the funnel cake is

Originally printed in The Henry County Times, http://www.henrycountytimes.com/Archives/2012/05.23.12/opinion.htm
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Eleven years ago, when Zack’s grocery store still stood proudly and the Square didn’t seem quite as crowded, my family moved in and away from our lives in Clayton County.

We packed up our previous small dwelling and unpacked into a split-level house in a neighborhood barely constructed.

At the time, I was 10-years-old and upset that I had to make new friends at a new school, but it was all a blessing in disguise.

I was rescued from the loud noises, and unfriendly characters of the city in which I was born, and brought to a place that was bursting with Southern idealism and hospitality.

At the time, McDonough Elementary School was only grades third through fifth, and I was the new girl in a small school, with an old building and even older history.

To this day I cannot pass that recycled building, which now serves as the Henry County Schools Administrative Services, without lamenting the loss of the cafeteria and fifth grade hall that was torn down. That was the best year of my childhood.

When I finally was adjusted to life in McDonough, I realized just how drawn I was to the sense of a close-knit community McDonough had those years ago.

Walking through the Square, I still feel it.

Despite the glamour of bigger cities, I always find sanctuary in smaller towns. Perhaps I have watched too much of The Andy Griffith Show and Gilmore Girls.

Those who have lived in McDonough long enough can attest to how fast it has grown, but even the rapid growth has had its benefits.

For me, it gave me a chance to go to the same high school as my best friend senior year.

Ola High School, despite some of the students’ protests, was the best way I could have spent that final year before going off to college.

In 2009, when we walked across that stage, as the second class to have the chance to graduate from the school, I looked back at all the years I had spent in this town and could not help but smile.

It is the town where I met my best friend, Melody, shortly after moving. She was the one who really showed me this town.

When we were younger and Melody played recreational softball, I was there cheering her on in the dugout in Alexander Park.

She showed me the wonders of Los Avina’s Mexican Restaurant, and I still cannot resist buying a large batch of wings from Wings and Things whenever I come home from school—a pastime introduced to me during softball season. Even my first trip to Heritage Park was with Melody.

The only thing I have done without her is attend the Geranium Festival, but that is a tradition I made for myself. It is a hot, exhausting and fun event I try to catch every year.

I did a lot of growing and maturing in this town. I found myself here, and have been working on it while away at school.

Going away for college was difficult at first, and the longer I am there, the more I long to be here.

When I pass the “Welcome to Henry County” sign on the interstate, an overwhelming sense of joy hits me; it is that comforting feeling everyone knows but no one can describe.

I have come to find that the sweetest sign I will ever know is the one that reads, “Exit 218.”

When I pass that sign, I know I am back in my town with the quirky ghost-busting crew who runs the used bookstore, Bell Book and Candle, which I used to spend hours in during my years in high school.

I am back in my town where the funnel cakes at each summer event in the Square made me full and miserable in the best, sugary way possible.

When I enter the Square and see the clock on top of the courthouse stretching high above everything, I am at peace.

Every inch of that Square, and the roads that stretch from it, holds dear memories for me.

This is home.

Monday, May 21, 2012

100 Words: First Day on the Job

It’s those first-day jitters that get you—you feel awkward, you hardly know a soul, and most of your day is spent making up things to do between actual tasks. I don’t like first-day jitters.

I have a feeling second-day jitters aren’t much better.

I don’t want to do a lot of waiting again. I want to do something. I want to be stimulated for at least five hours. I want to have purpose. Isn’t that what anyone wants? Perhaps my purpose is coming. I feel safe here. Perhaps that is a good sign.

Sunday, May 20, 2012

I Love College?

Her car was already packed with more than enough necessary and unnecessary things--her mother's doing.

"Oh, I'm sorry! Ju... Just try to squeeze in here," Melody said.

She looked around at her mess of a car and lamented she did not expect to have to put everything into her car that morning.

"Surely my parents would've taken some of the stuff, but no," she said.

We made the drive up to the mountains where her new apartment stands, laughing and singing to music all the way there. We were received, later, by her roommate Amber. Melody's parents, following closely behind us with a mattress in the bed of their truck, managed to get there after we had time to soak the place in and reconcile this was the place my best friend will be calling home at least for another year. I suppose this is one of the woes of getting older.

When everything was unpacked, we sat in the new floor and did something we usually do: play games and watch television--until, of course, hunger beckoned us into the base of all anti-feminist jokes. Melody is deceivingly witty in the kitchen, and made a nice dinner. Some hours before, Amber came home from work and almost immediately went to bed, but even she was struck by the smells of a delicious dinner waiting.

I made a comment about loving cake-flavored vodka during dishes, and I should have known what it would ensue. Amber swept Melody and I into her car and made her way to a liquor store otherwise closed to get a bottle of it and shots for when her friend Maddie was to arrive. I suddenly wasn't okay with being an adult anymore.

The neighbors were already drunk, and by the looks of the amount of cigarette smoke in the air, they were hoping to each reinact the lyrics to the only song to make Asher Roth famous. They were close when we came by. Word was it an old friend was nearby drinking copiously, with a cigarette dangling from her fingers. She squealed when she saw us, and could not wait to catch up. I let the glass of wine I had stir in my hand while I watched her and everyone else.

"I'm a social smoker now," the friend said.

With a huff she blew smoke in the air and recalled quitting in December. She claimed it only happens anymore when she drinks. That was not comforted by the fact that it is summer, so the habit could blossom once more, but she didn't seem phased.

While I watched this country's finest get "shit-faced" on more than just the strawberry wine I had, social networks were buzzing with alcohol adventures. Most had nothing to boast. Some were of recent mothers who should remember morning sickness vividly, yet decided to stay out all night anyway. And others were, what I assume, in the same state as Melody and Amber's new neighbors.

But after a shot of "sex on the beach," which felt vulgar and sweet, I was ready for a glass of water and bed. I can remember the last time I was around such a thing, I'm just thankful to have always been a spectator.

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

The Quiet

Things are different around the house. There is a quiet here--not a joyful peace or suffocating silence. It's just quiet. I have remained distracted by three four-legged creatures who drool and crave attention; I clean house and cook... It's a role I have taken on before.

Years ago, when the same quiet shook our foundation, and engulfed us in its complete lack of comfort, I cleaned and cooked as if I had my whole life. Then, it helped distract me same as it is now. Some nights I just stay up cleaning until I know all evidential remains are scrubbed out of existence. I don't like change, but I've learned to cope. And I suppose coping with Windex is better than coping with a bottle of something else.