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.

The Hard Work of Writing

"Writing is its own reward."
– Henry Miller

In my junior year of high school, an English teacher encouraged my writing. She seemed to think I had an interesting way of phrasing things and a certain style to putting sentences together. Some of the things I turned in for homework made her smile, a few things made her laugh. Even now I am not totally sure what prompted this teacher to warm to what I had written then. I’ll choose to believe Ms. Buttram, who just passed away a few weeks ago, saw a little potential then provided a little encouragement in order to fuel a passion inside me.

Of course, at 17 I knew it all. I had it figured out, you know how the world and it’s ways just had to bend to what I wanted. So, when pressed about what I planned to do when I was on my own, I would often tell people how I was going to become a writer. My parents were typical parents for our hometown and their generation. They had reached a nice level of accomplishment in their lives by working hard and honestly. They had earned what they had providing well to their family. Between the two of them, there wasn’t a great deal of formal education but they did understand the value of education. They also understood the folly of living off a dream not rooted in reality. Understand, they encouraged me to live out my dreams but they also very realistically tried to inform me how difficult roads could be when they required hard work and perseverance.

 

Meantime, I would read about writing. Write what you know, all the articles said. That, and the obvious, just write. So, I did. I tried. As I did, some of what my parents had talked to me about began to sink in at some level. This was going to be work.

In college though I could prove my ability with my first essay for a veteran English professor. She looked the part, too. A headful of grey hair, harsh-framed glasses and a tough personality was what I found on the first day of class. I just knew though I could win her over with that first essay. Of course, when that essay was returned to me a few days later there was enough red ink on the paper to make me believe she had somehow pricked her finger on the paper then nearly lost her life bleeding all over it. I still had work to do. I began paying attention and started making some progress. By semester’s end, the only red ink Ms. Scott left on the final essay were the words, “Nice work!”

Other opportunities came to learn more about writing. Writing for radio and television had it’s own unique tricks. Writing in a more journalistic approach also brought different skills to bear over time. Time passed. A living had to be made. Sometimes those skills were called upon and they, frankly, to this day, never seem to be too far away. Still, that teenage dream of writing the great novel just never came about.

I don’t feel cheated though. I have put my hand to writing various things over the years. Some see the light of day here. Some will likely be discovered by family after my time on earth has ended. Some are worth keeping to remember then to re-read. Some are worth keeping to remember, re-read and learn how to do better the next time. Mostly, writing today for me is just some way to crystallize my thoughts away from the noise of a world that never quiets for anything or anyone and that feeling is satisfying enough to quell any hunger that longing produced years ago.

When I sat down to write this piece I was struggling some with what to say and with where what I wanted to say needed to go. So, I just started to write. Yes, that is lesson one from that playbook I first read when I was much younger. And, of course, I began writing about what I know, that other first lesson learned from before. And so, I just began to build, one idea then another. Along the way, other lessons that just writing, and writing about what I know, popped up and each time this happens it brings home the hard work that writing can often be and the lessons, hard-earned, learned from doing so. There’s pacing your thoughts. There’s placement of ideas. There is finding just the sweetest spot to place a dash of humor or irony. There’s the whole idea of re-reading just to revise or even rewrite, a concept I long fought against but one I have come to realize is my bestest buddy. There’s also knowing how lengthy what you write should be. Then there's finding just the right way to determine how to wrap all of it together into a neat-enough package to safely be tucked away inside someone’s memory.

After all these years these things I have learned along the way are still enough to stir up some passion about writing. This particular piece marks the 200th published post for this blog. Thank you for taking the time to visit now and then. Thank you also for providing encouragement to someone who likes to work hard at finding ways to say things through the written word.

“We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.”
—Ernest Hemingway