You Can't Go Home Again, Part II

Wherein Our Heroine Examines the Larger Issue.

When I was growing up in Hollis, NH, the town was sleepy and small. It probably had more acreage taken up by apple orchards, cows and hay fields than house lots. There were about 50 yards of sidewalk in the downtown area, and the first stoplight was installed (with much argument) at the "four corners" in the center of town only after several accidents.

Fast forward thirty years. The cows are gone. The apple orchards are mostly there, but many former hayfields have giant McMansions rising like an unlikely crop out of the rocky soil. Every visit now incorporates some observation of change: a new building, a beloved shop closed, old neighbors moved away. But observations of change tend to ignore the things that remained the same. There is still only one stop light. There are still few sidewalks. Last I checked, I was still an active cardholder at the Hollis Social Library. Like my mother's house, my mother's town is filled with life which begets both change and inertia.

There are plenty of Hollis "kids" who decry the changes, mourn the loss of "their" town and rail against the McMansions, the construction projects in the center of town, and the influx of new people. But many, if not most, of those who mourn are like me: we have moved away and make infrequent trips back to our hometown. We live near and far, but not in the town we refer to as "ours."

And so, it isn't ours any more. When we return and point with indignation to each new building, each changed landmark, the people who still live here smile tolerantly and change the subject. They were here when that foundation was laid. They watched as the studding went up and speculation went on about what it would look like, who would live there. We simply see the accomplished fact. They lived through the process and will continue to do so. While change hits us all at once with its emotive power, the residents have time to see what we do not: the evolution of a town that is still living. They may not want that house there any more than we do, but they also know the futility of ranting against the change, and they have had time to reach acceptance. The alternative is to live in a ghost town.

It may not be ours any more. But if we choose, we can still see home in the horseback riding ring, the town green with its war memorial and in the springtime flowering of each old apple tree. The past, our "home," is there if you look.

Posted: Tuesday - April 13, 2004 at 08:42 AM | |