Home of roots and memories. . .

Good-bye to the former Great American - hello Town Square! 

There's something positive to be said about having roots in a place.  At least that's how I feel.  I suppose I didn't always feel that way.  Or maybe I did but in an attempt to maintain a certain facade and for fear of "what people would think" I just didn't talk about it.  I believe it is a normal youthful tendency to base our validity on the opinions of others (or our perception of their opinions.)  Over time, however, I have come to the conclusion that my true validation comes through an ever-growing conscience that determines right from wrong and by openly owning what is unique within my own heart.  My heart is firmly planted here in the Catskills where the Delaware River meanders through the hills and her east and west branches meet at the "wedding of the waters" at the base of Point Mountain.

The roots I'm talking about are believed, by some, to be a result of settling for something less than climbing the proverbial success ladder and folks who stay  or worse yet, come back, are considered failures.  They become (I believe the term for awhile was) "townies."  I think it has been proven time and time again that whenever we try to categorize people neatly into this group or that group, some sort of conflict will follow. The conflict, as I see it, is a result of our failure to look far enough beyond our own opinions to explore new things without the guarantee of a particular outcome.  In other words, often there needs to be a leap of faith.  

I don't know what will unfold now that the controversial Great American is gone.  [I do have to say that the very term (Great American) that we have dubbed that boarded up, disintegrating block building surrounded by crumbling pavement makes me laugh at us out loud.  Talk about salt in a wound.  I suppose the former name (Victory) would strike me as only slightly less amusing.]  As I was saying, I don't know what will unfold.  I only know how I feel since this leap of faith has begun.  First, I felt relieved.  Then, excited.  Finally, full of pride in my community.  I don't feel any nostalgic pangs, which is unusual for me.  Particularly since I remember the Victory Store being built on that lot and when it had its grand opening.  It was pristine and had that new-building smell, the aisles were wide and uncluttered and the cashiers gave out real miniature orchid corsages to every single customer, pinning them on as each person left.  I don't remember how long ago that was but I'd say the building has long outlived its dignity.  

I can still picture the old hotels that used to be along that street.  They were so tall and ominous looking to a five-year old walking to and from school.  One had huge pillars along the front.  Isn't it odd that what I remember most vividly are the sidewalks around them?  Maybe that's because I was such an introvert that I always looked down at the sidewalk and my feet when I walked anywhere, engrossed in my own imagination.  I did remember to check for traffic when crossing streets, though.  Other than that, I was occupied with things like not stepping on cracks or, through hearing bits and pieces of local folklore, imagining Fannie Read was peering at me out of her hotel window.  (I was too young to understand the timeline.  I thought she was alive yet and still living inside.)  There were a couple of good-sized grates in the sidewalk on the shady side of one of the hotels.  It made me a little nervous but I usually took that street just for the thrill of looking in those grates to see what new things had fallen in there since the day before.  Usually there were just sticks and leaves but sometimes something shiny would catch my eye.  Occasionally there were coins or pieces of jewelry but more often than not it was foil from a gum wrapper that had glistened.  I wondered whatever became of all that stuff and if any of it was ever retrieved.  As far as I knew, it was the "storm drain of no return."  When I was feeling quite brave, I would sometimes walk right on top of the grates, knowing they were intended to support pedestrians but not quite trusting that they would.  Unknowingly, I guess that was one of my own journey's leaps of faith.

I did move away on two separate occasions and have no regrets about doing so.  Neither move was because I was desperate to "get out of Dodge."  Both moves were work related.  First, as a single young woman (I could write a book about the antics of the "secretarial pool" but that's for another day.)  Then, as a young married couple.  It was an interesting experience to move back to Hancock and be the newcomer in my own hometown.  Some things had changed.  Some hadn't.  Some folks recognized me.  Some didn't.  I heard some wonder, "Who's that mother who comes in here every week with those two beautiful little girls?"  (That scored points with me, big time.)  Once introductions were made, my cover was blown but for a very brief period of time, I experienced what it was like to be the stranger here and what I found was the kindness of a lifetime and warm friends -- some of whom are not even from here!  =^)  It was Bob's idea, not mine, to move back to where we had roots.  I'm glad his farsightedness (so typical of him) was sufficient enough to offset my (then) shortsightedness. He knew what he was doing and I am grateful.

This little town, full of roots and memories, is embarking on an exciting new project.  Godspeed!

You can't go home again.  Yes, you can.