Going Home

I just wasn't getting anywhere with my writing, so I slowly pushed the chair away from the desk, and like a muted sound of rolling thunder from the casters upon the hardwood floor, I glided my way to the only window my home office granted me. Gazing out upon a blustery wintry world, I had a difficult time comprehending the telephone call I had just received.



"You had better come home, he may not last the night." my brother had simply stated.



Starring out the window, I glimpsed a group of neighborhood kids, using whatever was handy to slide down the steep sides of the newly plowed snow that hemmed the icy road from both sides. I found myself drifting back in time to when we were kids, and dad was working hard to support the family. Mom had her hands full also, cooking, cleaning and maintaining a home of seven. Back then, we all helped with the chores, and there were many to do. We raised our own meat, eggs, milk, fruits and vegetables, so there was always some type of task that needed to be completed. But it was part of life and we had nothing else to compare it to.



"Is Paul home?" I asked the mother of my best friend.



"No, he went fishing with Doug." she replied and shut the door in my face. I guess they were still upset about our last endeavor to create a little excitement in this town and needed additional time to recover. Though our parents were friends, they held the belief that the other's child was the catalyst of their own child's behavioral problems, but truthfully, my friend and I fed upon each other's lack of imagination, or in some cases, abundance of controversial designs and created situations that kept us in dire straights with our parents.



Paul wasn't available so I needed a back up plan if I was to survive the day without boredom. I went home, counted out 39 cents, and started my 2 mile trek to the local country store, walking the meandering country road that led to civilization. With my 39 cents in the pocket of my worn out jeans, I could buy a root beer drink and an ice cream bar for 13 cents, as long as I didn't abscond with bottle. That left 26 cents, and a quarter could buy a bag full of penny candy.



The day was beginning to look better as I visioned my soon to be had bounty of sugar.



This was the typical small "if we don't have it, you don't need it" type country store. And it boasted a tiny one chair barbershop attached to the rear corner of the store. For a quarter, we would all have our identical styled haircuts, courtesy of the former owner, a cigar chomping story teller that flicked ashed down the back of our necks while we sat listening to his tales. Most of the stories were of hunting and fishing experiences he had partaken in over his many years. I would sit and listen, all the while starring at a display of different caliber bullets attached to an old board and hung on a wall for decoration. Piles of "Field and Stream" occupied each corner of an old church pew used by those waiting for their twenty five cent haircuts, flipping through pages of these magazines, and enlightening us as to their unique experiences in the Maine woods as they waited their turn.



I paid for my root beer, locally made, and a chocolate ice cream bar, not locally made, and went outside to sit in one of the several well used rocking chairs that lined the front store's porch and blended into the loading dock for the 100 lbs of livestock feed that was sold here. Being at a cross road, the front porch of the store was the place to sit and watch as cars and trucks had to stop before entering onto or across the road at this intersection. Being small town, many of the occupants of these vehicles waved to me as I sat here, savoring my viands and attempting to decide what delicacies I would purchase with the remaining money I had earmarked for candy.



This assignment proved to be difficult, as the selection was immense, and the outcome would be final. The candy display was an elaborate affair, constructed of a bookcase like structure with small forward tilting bins filled with every candy available. Items such as tootsie rolls, root beer barrels, Mary Janes, squirrel nuts, wax bottles, bubblegum, candy cigars and dozens of other tasty treats.



This mental imagery intermingled with other childhood thoughts, and the realization that there was really no way of going home to a time that permitted me a feeling of warmth and closeness that seemed to constantly change as the years added up.



I donned my winter jacket, scraped the icy frost from the windshield, and began a long trip home.