I was out for a walk last evening. This time of year it is especially nice, the temperature is just right, the leaves are just beginning to turn. I walked past a few homes where they were putting out Halloween decorations and exchanged a few pleasantries. This being the 21st century few neighbors know each other anymore, let along those living a block down the street. In fact I receive a few curious stares as I walk down the sidewalk. Having lived here now for about twenty five years or so I am still discovering hidden places. But I do know a few homes and who lives there, or did. A few I know little more than their name and others I knew a bit better, although I wouldn't say we were friends, acquaintances only. I had never set foot in their homes.
Recently one of those acquaintances passed away. He was a widower living in a rather large old home. I knew little of him, a retired Naval Officer, obviously a man known and respected throughout the community. I walked up the alley that runs behind his home and saw a large dumpster sitting in the yard, some bits of debris poking out of the top. Sadness came over me as I thought about what I was seeing. Here it is, pieces of this mans' life, now being discarded, thrown in the dumpster. It is apparent that someone is cleaning out the house. I have no idea who, but assume it is his children or other relatives. At least, that is my hope. What you leave behind should only be handled by those that knew and loved you in life, that's my thinking. An American flag that he had placed in his front yard before his passing still hangs from the top of the pole. It is faded now, a bit torn and looks forlorn. I know that he wouldn't be pleased with that at all and it rather bothers me. Still, it isn't my place to say or do anything about that I suppose, although I am tempted to replace it with a new one.
I'm not a native to Greensboro, Md. I'm a local however, as I live locally. That is how I describe all of that. To be native you have to have been born here. A local, just lives here no matter the number of years they have done so. For the majority of us, when we speak of home, that is the place we are talking about, where we were born. That gentleman was a native of Greensboro, born and raised. His family going back several generations. The town of Greensboro was founded in 1771 and has grown to a population of about two thousand five hundred. His family was here early one. As far as I know none of his children or grandchildren live in Greensboro or even close by, choosing places where work is to be found. If you aren't a farmer or a craftsman of some type there is little in Greensboro to interest anyone.
I mention all of that because with his passing, and now the cleaning out of his home, it is a generation past. I suspect that home will be for sale shortly. There is another older gentlemen I knew a little better that is now in a nursing home. He is a lifetime resident of Greensboro. His sons do not live in Greensboro either but in neighboring towns. This mans' home is being cleaned out by his sons, being prepared to be sold to help pay the cost of care. I see that as another generation past as well. He had lived in that home since the early 1970's that I know for a fact because he often told me. His children were raised there. I have been in that home, fixing a faucet for him, and I can tell you it was like stepping into 1960 in decor and feel. Knowing it will be sold and I'm certain remodeled, brought up to date, a new life begun, reminds me. It's a passing.
In a strange sort of way all of that is making me feel more at home. No, it isn't the home of my youth, my native land so to speak, but I am getting settled. I am starting to feel like I belong here. Perhaps because I can see things through the eyes of a stranger I notice these things. I have to say I'm getting acquainted. I know several in the cemetery now, more than I care to think about in fact, and that is a sign of how long I have been here. But I remain a bit detached as well, having no knowledge of farming, of what Greensboro was thirty, forty years ago. In speaking with those my own age I am an outsider. I do not have that "insider" information.
It could be said, history makes it home. Yes, I think that is it, history makes it home.
No comments:
Post a Comment