Growth from a Small Town

Not all birds migrate, and thus this is my tale as a non-migrating bird. Just because I didn't migrate, however, does not mean I didn't leave the nest. It has been several years since I left the nest, and that old small town. Though I live only thirty miles away, I must confess that I rarely return for a visit. I often take a route "over the hill" and "through the woods" to visit my family that lives in the countryside on the town's outskirts. The interstate route on my way to a larger city westward can also completely bypass the small town, so there hasn't been a reason for me to return; until now.

As I make my way down the interstate, the fastest route to my destination, I think of the many times I drove this route home from the high school I attended my senior year. I consider briefly the short-stint of an internship I worked doing paperwork for the nearby hospital's research department. I think of the friends that attended that same high school, one in particular, when I drive past his family's turnoff. I laugh at how we may not have been close back then, in fact, I didn't even know who he was! I was a transfer my senior year and only attended that school for half a day. I barely had time to meet anyone outside of mutual classes and early bus duty (of which we had neither together). For some reason though, he recognized me in college and we spent a great deal of time together. I was honestly glad he found me, despite how weird he was. As a matter of fact, I was weird too. My adventures wouldn't have been the same without him. He was just one of the most recent of the odd friendships I had established, aside from my husband's new introductions, over the years.

I realized I was already wearing my "sentimental shirt" today, and that this trip was going to be a reminiscent and thoughtful one; a flight path right down memory lane.

I pass by the turnoff I used to pick-up and drop-off a prior co-worker and close friend of mine who had moved there when I was in college. Our relationship had changed when he went back to Boise and his parents moved to another state, but still, I reminisced. I thought of the time I drove him to the new Irish restaurant while I was hyped up on a Monster Energy drink someone like me should have never downed. He had a good time mocking me for it too, and admittedly it was very well deserved! Somehow, I missed even that while appreciating the memory nonetheless.

As that memory fades, a new one begins as I pass another turn off belonging to one of my favorite former professors and supervisors. Yes, he was both. When I was selected for a highly sought after internship, he introduced me to a job I enjoyed and a new group of persons. Within this new group of persons, I found a crush, a few friends, rivals, and my future husband. I thought back to the Christmas party he held five years ago where most of us "unofficially" reunited. Had it really been that long ago? I chuckle as I think of the same party held six years ago where my future husband and I had confessed our interest in each other, and I attempted to steal a kiss when heading to his car across the street in our professor and boss's parking area. How times had changed. Why did something so important and relevant within my life happen in this small town instead of the location we attended college or elsewhere? My husband wasn't even from this town nor was our professor; odd, isn't it?

While I stewed on that thought, I debated which exit would be best to take. Despite the town's small size, it was spread quite thin across a broad surface area. I knew the funeral home I was going to stop at was closest to one of the last exits, but I had time today. It was freeing to have time, and I particularly wanted to enjoy it.

Before I passed the first exit, I noticed a home right off the interstate that my family had walked through and considered moving into. They didn't live in this town or outside of it anymore; they moved to a slightly bigger town eastward instead due to a lack of amenities and convenience in this one. It didn't change that for nineteen years this town had been a piece of my home and theirs. I decided to take that exit on the return from my venture, and travel onward.

I look at the man-made lake on the left-hand side of the road, and remember how to get to a 4-H acquaintance's house. I think about how on the other side of it, there was an elementary school my parents almost sent me to instead of the one I attended. I'd go to high school my senior year with some of those same students, and recognize their names and photos from a collaboration of Christmas poetry and stories the entire county school system compiled. One, as you've probably figured out by now, that I kept and still have after all this time.

On the opposite side of the road from the lake is a place I spent many of my youthful days; the Rifle and Pistol Club Shooting Range. Man, how many times had I been to that range? How many hours did I spend there, especially considering that nowadays I spent no time at all participating in such an activity. Back then though, I was known in two counties for my prowess and accuracy in the sport. It was my reputation; one my father and the members of that club were damned proud of, and one that followed me and was further validated at 4-H camp. My proficiency in skeet shooting and muzzleloading became a duality that led to some of my happiest relationships as well an additional reason for my outcast status.

Despite all the shooting sports activities I had been exposed to in my young life, I found the old-fashioned muzzleloader to be my favorite. There was something about the ritual of loading the measured black powder, inserting and starting the patch and ball, then ramming it all down the barrel, and finally adding the cap to aim and fire that just spoke to me. It was more intentional and purposeful than others of its kind. It required concentration, precision, and allowed plenty of time to mentally prepare to fire.

The family who introduced me to muzzleloading became my second family. Their daughters became two of my very best friends, and the two I have sustained the longest. Their father referred to me as, "the blonde one" and always joked about taking me home as their other sibling. His nephew actually went with me to the homecoming dance when I transferred high schools because I didn't have a date. This family bragged on my shooting ability when I was able to cut thin cards and feathers in half at quite a large distance. I took their muzzleloading course every year at 4-H camp, and enjoyed the activity at every "Jake's Day" when my father, brother, and I were members of the National Wild Turkey Federation. The impact they and this activity had on my life cannot be discounted.

Being female and having these skills and reputation proved to have its own challenges along with its rewards. The small town I grew up in did have a certain level of male chauvinism, and the specific county in which I was raised was doubly worse. Females with firearms are apparently an intimidating concept for some who cannot put away their childish definitions of feminism and masculinity. Dating opportunities for me were obviously non-existent for some time, but I was glad that field could be narrowed to those who could accept me for who I was and what I enjoyed. I didn't want to threaten the male ego anyway.

However, when a 4-H club for shooting sports presented itself, my family and I eagerly jumped and signed me up for the opportunity. I was beyond excited, but found myself woefully disappointed thereafter. The 4-H leader of the club had spent several thousand dollars on his son's, the club president, munitions, equipment, and training in regard to skeet shooting. His son had astounding accuracy and proficiency, but he missed one specific clay pigeon every single time. I barely noticed the miss and stood in awe of his skills, but I wasn't his father or him. In my first round of shooting, while I was unaware, I was left alone to continue after the leader saw me precisely hit the same clay pigeon his son apparently missed each time. The meeting was held elsewhere, beside the vehicles, instead of the tables and range. My father had apparently heard disgust and commentary on how I was doing, and realized this exclusion was intentional. Thankfully, my father was not one to stand for exclusion and insisted I could join the adult club and enter their competitions instead. I even placed at a regional tournament they had referred me to, which was a fond memory despite the fact I haven't fired a shotgun in years.

Still, that rifle range left me with far more positive memories than it did negative ones. Regardless of whether or not I'm participating in those activities at present, I cannot deny that they and the experiences and people within them have shaped me.

I top the hill as I come up to another exit; the four way intersection. I look at the new thrift store which used to me a VHS rental store; pre-dating Blockbuster and Redbox, just something small and locally owned. I recall seeing the same "Goosebumps" VHS tapes every time I walked into the store. When I was little, I hated that you had to walk through the horror section of the VHS tapes in that creaky, old, wood-paneled building in order to actually get to the children's video section. I never thought that made any sense, and now I wonder if it was some adult's twisted sense of humor. We went there on a nearly weekly basis though there was no gas station there at the time, unlike now.

That four way intersection across the interstate still doesn't have true traffic lights; just caution lights. I recall my Sunday school teacher scolding me about flying through there when I first got my license. Truth is though, you have to gun that intersection if you're crossing the highway and she wasn't. We have no hard feelings about it; it's a joke now. The intersection is just set up rather poorly and still is. Thankfully, I decide to turn left here, and just have to watch for oncoming traffic.

From here, I have two options; go into the heart of town via the college road or take the back way. I take the road up by the university and Fort New Salem. We went on a trip to Fort New Salem one year in 4-H; we learned how to make candles, spin wool, and do old-timey things. It doesn't seem to have fallen into disrepair, but it doesn't seem like it has had many visitors either. It was a fun trip, and I wonder if it is still in operation. Apparently it is "temporarily" closed.

I round up the windy curves toward the college, and my former best friend's apartment complex.

I wonder if the high school we both attended still has access to the university's pool for swim team. My swim team memories were some of my favorite at that high school. I wasn't a good swimmer. Backstroke was probably my best time, and I think that was because my mind works in reverse. The team didn't hold it against me though; they knew how hard I worked, and how hard everyone in the audience winced when I jumped in stomach first for the freestyle. Yikes! Two of my cousins and two of my close friends were on the same team with me. One of those friends became like a younger sister to me, one that I adored and that I handed my homecoming and prom dresses down to. She loved swim team and her mother was the coach. I wonder now if they are both coaching the team together (if it even still exists). She wasn't a migrating bird either, so the possibility isn't out of the question.

I pass my old elementary school. I come to the main street in town, and take a right.

I pass by the funeral home my 4-H leader's funeral was held a few years ago; where I paid my respects to her and her family. Her daughter had been one of my mother's close friends, and her granddaughter and I had known each other since the beginning of our lives. My mom's friend was pregnant at my mother's baby shower. Coincidentally enough, my 4-H leader's granddaughter and I were both pregnant at her funeral. Strange how that happened when we weren't even in contact, and hadn't spoken to one another in years.

There is a road that goes past that funeral home upright at a severe angle. At the top of that road used to be my uncle, former aunt, and cousins' property. I used to walk up that long driveway in the mornings before school when my parents dropped me off at the funeral home parking lot on their way to work. I hung out there with them after school ended waiting on my parents to pick me up, so were together often. We had countless adventures there, and the sledding was amazing! A brief grin spreads across my face.

I continue my drive to the funeral home on the other side of town, trying not to reminisce further until I've at least completed my mission of dropping off a condolence card. It's amazing how many thoughts, feelings, and memories can be brought up within the span of minutes. How many more would I allow myself today? Then, part of me said, "this is healing, and part of your process", so I continued my journey; my initial flight path to an unknown goal.

Author's note: This is a portion of a series, but is written with intention as a stand-alone piece if you do not proceed further. I thank you for your support regardless of whether or not you proceed with this series. If this has caught your interest, Part One and Two are available on the links below. Part Four will be coming in the next couple weeks. Thank you for any and all support. <3