I’m home this weekend. Not home home. Not where I live. And where Adam and I have our family and our every day life. But Wilber, home. It’s strange, I know…that as a 31 year old I would refer to a place I haven’t held a physical address in for over a decade, home. But I think it will always have a little ownership of the word home in my life.
I lived in Wilber from the time I was 3 until I graduated high school. I also moved back after my 4th year of college and lived with my parents. I finished my last semester of college while living with my parents, substitute taught and worked at the County Attorney’s office until April of 2005, when I watched as the town that I had forever known as home faded in the rear view mirror of a Texas-bound UHaul.
Now we make it back for Thanksgiving, Christmas and maybe the occasional random weekend. And of course, Czech Days. I shared a little about my hometown celebration in a blog post a couple of years ago and Barrett now has the same amount of excitement for the festivities and the time at grandma and grandpa E’s as he does for SuperHeroes, laking with grandma and grandpa B, and his birthday. So although we don’t get back too terribly often, we try to never miss the most wonderful time of the year.
Jonah and I went on a little kolache run this morning. It was a picturesque morning with sun rays amidst a fluffily clouded, but blue sky. The grass looked dewy, fresh from a torrential downpour the night before. The cornfields waved as I drove by. It is the type of day that makes me envious of the small town girl who got to grow up in this idyllic world. And as everyone bustled about, setting the town up for the big show, I found myself reflecting.
I drove around, as I often do when we are back, to familiarize myself with this place. The place where I gouged my leg when I fell of my grey Huffy. The place where I searched for crawdads in the creek {or crick}. The place where I went to my first dance and anxiously waited for that boy I was head over heels for to ask me to dance. The place that will always be my friend Rachel’s house even though her family moved out years ago. The streets that my friend Jamie and I would walk until dusk without a cell phone or a care in the world. A place where I felt safe and happy.
I drove by my childhood best friend’s house. Em doesn’t live there anymore. And neither do her parents. In fact, they moved when I was going into second grade. But it’s still her place.
We passed the little, white church where I spent every Sunday, sitting on the red pews and counting the squares and rectangles on the stain-glass windows.
We went by the City Park. The one that used to have a creek running under the bridge. And that used to be more green spaces than play structures.
I drove over by the pool. The one where I did swim team and swim lessons. The one where I later worked as a lifeguard and had some of the best summers of my life. Where my friends and I listened to Deanna Carter on repeat. The one that has since been completely updated and made way cooler than in my youth, complete with zero entry, new bathhouses and water slides.
Next to the pool is the outdoor theater. It was constructed when I was younger for the main purpose of Czech Days activities. It is where I danced the Beseda. And performed in the talent show. And it displays the words that can be found throughout the town, Vitame Vas, meaning, Welcome, in Czech.
We drove through the Legion Park and checked out the softball and tennis facilities where I spent my summers as a child and my springs as a teenager. They’ve since added one field and updated the largest field, making it more of a draw for tournaments.
I drove by the school where I went to fifth through twelfth grade. Where I went every day for all those years. Where I learned to drive. Where I went to prom. Where my 40+ classmates knew me as loud and a bit cooky. The school that looks much different as after I graduated, the District passed a bond issue and the facility was completely revamped and added onto with an elementary and new track.
And I drove by the house on west 6th. The house where I grew up. Where I shared a little room with dollhouse furniture with my sister. Where we had a couch with a hide-a-bed that we would tuck my friends into. Where my brother played basketball on the cement slab my parents poured in the backyard. It doesn’t look like it used to. There’s white paint covering the dark blue. And there’s a porch that makes it hard to remember it was ever even mine. And I swear, it used to seem much bigger.
But my parents don’t live there anymore either. They moved after I graduated and now have a more scenic backyard.
I drove. With the windows down, Jonah in tow and a little Kenny Chesney on the radio. And It occurred to me as I drove that while the places I took pictures of make up the town of Wilber, the pictures in my mind are really back where I come from. Though nearly every single spot has changed or been updated over time, my memories stay unchanged.
I drove and thought about how funny time is. And how, in reality, though everything probably looks better now, the small town that lives in my memory was in need of no improvement.
Because that’s what home is. The place where you grow. The place where, at least for awhile, your heart is. The place that holds on to pieces of you. The place where you come from.
You might also like
The Sticky Doorknob
January 26, 2016
When I find the right words
September 6, 2015
Making School Mornings Easier
August 20, 2015
