Across the street, an outdoor auction house hummed. People came from near and far to buy and sell junk. Buying and selling junk made folks hungry, so we peddled homemade chocolate cupcakes to raise money for the Halloween carnival. We always sold out.

One magical week a year, the Ferris wheel and bright carnival lights were visible across the field. We watched and waited and pleaded, listening to muffled laughter and music late after suppertime. At last we went.  Momma puked as soon as the Tilt a Whirl stopped whirling. 

We each have one of these places, a wide spot in the road unnoticed by most, a place vibrant only in  our memories.

When the whistle blows, factory workers drive past, thankful another shift has ended. Farmers haul grain to the river without a glance to the rubble where the grocery story stood—the grocery store where Daddy sent me off driving, alone, to buy cartons of Camel, before I was old enough to have a license.

Wrong on so many levels…but oh so right.

Although there’s nothing much to look at now, the weary sign marking the empty spot is a historical marker  to me.

talya

“This is what happened when one left one’s home – pieces of oneself scattered all over the world, no one place ever completely satisfied, always a nostalgia for the place left behind.” ― Tatjana Soli, The Lotus Eaters

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