Town’s dead, pizza, cokes, apple pie, chocolate frozen yogurt, Andy Griffith movie, bluegrass on NPR, cat sleeps on my lap, lights turned low, husband snores softly from his green Lazyboy, its Saturday night in urban USA.
This is the town where I came with my mother in our ’59 Plymouth and we children sat in it watching the people on the sidewalks while she shopped in Hackworth’s. It was in this town where I walked down the street to TWL to buy a can of hairspray shortly after earning my my driver’s license, and walked right into a boycott because the store did not hire black clerks. This is the town where my fiance and I got our marriage license. It is the town where my youngest child discovered that the colors of Christmas were red and green. It’s the town where my heart jumped up and leapt right out the car window when one of my daughters was learning to drive and almost ran over street workers. She had been turned around to look behind us because she didn’t like using the rear view mirror. This is the town where my husband and I and our eldest daughter walked in the survivors circle at our first Relay for Life, an event that raised funds for the American Cancer Society. This is the town where I sat in on county, city, and civic government meetings as a reporter and got myself into all sorts of trouble trying to be fair and honest. This is the town where I planted zinnias in the flowerbed at the public library, picked up children to take them to Vacation Bible School, and prayer-walked around the courthouse the morning before Barack Obama was voted to be our president. Its my hometown. Its the definition of small, honest and dying.