Thirty-hundred

One day this summer a boy followed Hannah home. Hannah went to visit our neighbors. Our neighbors are neighborhood-famous for handing out popsicles to any kid who shows up on their front steps. On this particular day, Hannah went to their house then walked into our yard with a popsicle in one hand and a little boy two steps behind her. We quickly learned he lives a few houses away. He knew about our neighbors and their popsicles and so happened to be at their house when Hannah arrived on that day. The two hit it off and have become friends since that first day.

I realize at their age they are just bonding over Scooby-Doo movies and sour candy and games of hide-and-seek. Still, this has given me cause to study more about my role in protecting our daughter. I understand how quickly time moves. I know one day I will look out the front door to see some wet-behind-the-ears boy with a goofy grin staring back at me asking to see Hannah. Hopefully, this boy showing up this summer is my wake-up call to making sure Hannah understands why I, her dad, always will want to protect her and how I want her to know how to take care of herself.

He came to play with Hannah recently. They played outside on our porch and front yard for a long time. I sat in our living room, within earshot, considering some of the things I want to make sure Hannah knows as she grows older. Things like how she should be selective. She never has to just settle. And how handsome, like his twin sister, beauty, can fade over time. Things then changed.

The two came inside. Off they went into Hannah's room. One room away, I could hear more clearly most of their conversation. They were trying to determine what to do. Hannah rattled off a list of ideas most of which revolved around baby dolls or Barbie dolls even though she did offer to ride bikes outside. Now, Hannah the negotiator took over. If her friend could guess the number she was thinking, he could pick what they would play next. Her friend, realizing the odds were not in his favor, started his own negotiations, trying to whittle the number he had to guess down to something between zero and infinity. Finally, they settled on a number between one and one hundred. He tried a few guesses with no success. I listened to this with some pride, realizing my little girl was holding the line on what she believed. Sensing he was part of a losing effort, the friend tried some more negotiation. He asked whether or not the number was between thirty and forty. Hannah said that it was. I took her admission hard, realizing the number would be guessed within a few attempts.

The friend, sensing he had victory within reach began guessing again.
"32?"
"No."
"33?"
"No."
"34?"
"No."
"35?"
"No."
"36?"
"No."
"37?"
"No."
"38?"
"No."
"39?"
"No."
"30?"
"No."
"31?"
"No."

Since he was in another room at the time, I imagine the look on his face matched the look on my face at this turn of events. I had listened to each guess and knew each number between thirty and thirty-nine had been guessed.

"I guessed every number."
"No, you didn't."
"What's the number?"
"Thirty-hundred."

With that answer, I realized our stubborn, hard-headed daughter has her own way of protecting herself, whether she realizes it now or not.

Thirty-hundred. Yeah, that was my next guess, too.

30513 Memories: Progress and the Past

30513, five numbers zip-coded in sequence representing my hometown. As I write this, I moved away from there over twenty-five years ago. Even though I am content with where we live now, 30513 will always be a place I will call home.

We recently went back for a short visit. I have made countless trips down the same roads to get there throughout time. At certain times, I made the drive nearly every weekend. Now, it is often months between visits. Every time I go though I always end up feeling like it is still home.

My mom and dad have always lived here. With the exception of their first three days as husband and wife, my parents have lived in the same house their entire married life. When they bought the house, the front of the house was today’s back of the house and it faced what is now known as old Highway 5. The back of the house then is today the front of the house and the road that now connects McCaysville with Blue Ridge had yet to have been built. I notice when I go back how those who drive old Highway 5 seem to drive it more recklessly and much faster than I remember back in the day. I also notice how busy Highway 5 always is, no matter the time of day or night. Others have noticed, too, and, within a few years Highway 5 will be widened, a project long rumored but one that now seems inevitable.

Mom and Dad’s house will be untouched by the upcoming progress. They will though lose a spare garage used in times past as an auto body and paint shop by my brother and used now as storage for the rest of the family. I imagine there will be a few trips back for me to help sort through what is in that building before it is flattened. Progress has a price.

I am not sure how I feel about all the change. Likely, I won’t ever move back there, so any changes that take place won’t directly impact me. Still, wishing some things would never change has this strong pull inside me when it hits this close to home.

Of course, things beyond that small plot of land my family has called home have changed during my lifetime. My hometown and county have seen dramatic changes. Ways lives were lived here have shifted. Some changes were probably for the good and some things were probably better not changing. Just like that old garage that sits on my parent’s property that will soon have to be searched through in order to keep what is still useful, I find I have a lot of memories stored away about the place where I first called home. From time to time, I plan to dig through some of those memories to share them here. Maybe if things can’t stay the same, they can at least stay safe in our memories.

Our recent visit ended and we headed home. As we left, I thought how the proposed changes will be dramatic in many ways when they take place. As I pulled out of the driveway there, I could not help but have an old John Denver song run lyrics through my head.

“Sometimes this old farm feels like a long lost friend

Yes, and hey, it’s good to be back home again”

That old house on old Highway 5 with the 30513 zip code, in some ways, it will always be home.