There's a tree-lined street that runs north and south in our town, one of several tree-lined streets, actually. The trees on Main Street are sycamores. They grow tall. They're strong...like surviving hurricane-strength winds strong. We know this, because we have had several hurricane-strength windstorms blow through over the years...
And the trees still stand.
This afternoon I attended a memorial service for a friend, someone who grew up in the same small town with tree-lined streets. We both rode bikes on the uneven sidewalks (many buckling because the roots of those sycamores forced them up...). We played in the parks. We picked up candy at the Farmington A/G. We swam at the Lagoon pool.
So much has changed in the almost fifty years since we began grade school in our small town. It's no longer all that small, ever since the dairy and other farms on the west side of town have been converted to homes and a first-class shopping center.
We're even getting a state liquor store.
But, the area of town, the main and side streets that existed back in 1970 and before, they still remain. Many of the old homes--including pioneer-era homes--are still there. They're a testament to people wanting to live here, people wanting to stay.
There's a lot of insanity in the world today. We are inundated with crap news on a twenty-four hour loop. And even though I came form a gathering where friends and family said "good-bye" to a much-loved man, driving down the main street of a town where I grew up, where friends and I ran and biked and hiked all over, it reminded me of the good that once existed. And as long as the seemingly ever-lasting sycamores stand like sentinels against the wind, I believe much of that good has never left, but is fighting to be seen in a world of confusion.
Living in a small town, or a town that still feels small...well, it's something special.
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