I grew up in rural North Carolina in a small community that would make Lake Wobegon look like the big city. We had a general store with two gas pumps, a garage and a few churches and used the post office of a nearby community.
There was no cable television; we could only pick up the three major networks and an independent that played karate flicks and Elvira late at night. If the weather was clear, and we had the antenna pointed just right with enough tin foil, we could get the other channel that carried reruns of Hogan's Heroes and Benny Hill.
The elementary school I went to was the same one my parents attended; only when they were growing up, it served grades one through twelve.
The Methodist church we went to was the center of the community. I played on its baseball and basketball teams and when I outgrew them, I joined its softball team. Games were held against other community and church teams and were as much a social outlet as a recreational one.
Each year we had a Fall Festival at the church, a day of fun and friendly contests, and most everyone turned out. Softball games, horseshoe pitching, sack races, even an egg toss. Youthful laughter and squeals of joy filled the air, overpowering the pleasant banter of adults. Children chased each other around for no reason other than to expend their boundless energy.
Throughout the year, fund-raising dinners of chicken pie or Brunswick stew or barbecue were held by the Volunteer Fire Department. There was always a good turn-out because the food was bursting with down-home flavor that could only be conjured by the little old ladies that cooked it.
Someone once said the only thing constant about the world is that it's always changing. That you can't ever go home because once you leave, it becomes but a warm fuzzy memory.
Now, in the community I grew up in, they have cable television and satellite dishes.
The general store still has two gas pumps and the garage still adjoins it, but the store has changed hands and no longer has that same country feel.
The elementary school looks exactly the same as I remember, as if God had plucked it up from 1978 and dropped it back down thirty years later.
The Methodist church still sponsors sports teams but somehow, they don't seem to win as much as I remember. There's still a Fall Festival held every year and the same games are played; and yes, the children are still bursting with giggles and fathomless energy.
The Fire Department still has pig pickins. The barbecue is as good as ever, maybe even better; next time I'll buy an extra pint for the freezer.
I notice the families that now make up that community and realize things have changed. Some of my friends have moved away as I did, while others have stayed. I see little carbon copies of them playing in their yards when I drive by.
New faces attend the chicken pie suppers but so do familiar ones, rounded and etched with the lines of age, still smiling and laughing at the same old jokes.
Some things about home have changed considerably while others have surprisingly remained the same. It's a wise old saying that you can't ever go home; but sometimes, if the mood is just right and the weather is clear, you can drop by for a nice little visit.
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