Change and Memory

                                                              

I’m not the same little city that I grew up in. I’ll never forget there was a sign in a window. It was broken, and it said, “This was our home.” I didn’t really understand what that meant until all the homes that were on this nice street, Davis Avenue—even the street has a nice sound to it—were gone. People went away. They had to put up apartment buildings and a senior center. That’s just the way it goes, but that day I saw that window and the sign in it: “We used to live here.”

That was a fun street to play on. At the end of the street, there was a nice-sized field; nothing there but chestnut trees, and that’s about it. I guess that’s why I didn’t need to go to Chestnut Lane. No, they're

really big houses there. I had a few friends that lived on that street. The house was always filled with somebody in it, whether it was Grandpa or Grandma; cousins, the dog; the cat; sometimes the piano ringing outside; occasionally the drums coming out of a garage; or some of my buddies and I banging away on our instruments. It’s amazing that the neighbors really never complained. You didn’t call the police or anything like that; if you had a problem, somebody might be too noisy, you just knocked on the door.

It’s community; we should just take a look back. I don’t have to go very far; we should pick a date. Let’s go with 1933, an interesting year. We had what was called a “banking holiday.” I guess the bankers needed a vacation from holding our money, and that was the day it all started to change.