At least, that's one way to look at it.
A lot of the times, when I'm doing other things or just sitting around thinking about my friends and family, I'll be struck with a sort of nostalgia that I never thought I would experience. Always seeking to recall days gone by and feeling a sweeping sadness that I didn't appreciate everything a bit more back then.
One such time struck me a while back when I was thinking about home. Thinking about all the things I never said and never did, and what kind of man I am today because of where I'm from. I felt terrible, and I didn't really know why. Then I tried to imagine what it would be like if I had to go home for something terrible, and that nostalgia was met with true sadness and loss. What would a person do in a situation like that.
That's when I started writing about a fictionalized version of home.
Short Fiction
TITLE: A North Country Winter
Winters are unique in the north country. You can see it in the faded, chipped paint on
the buildings - battered and broken, yet only a rare few ever left to rot. You can see it in the trees and the way the
skies roil and churn overhead, sounding a familiar warning of the days and nights
to come.
But mostly, if you look closely - If you stop for just a
moment and suck in a deep breath of that fresh, bitter cold air - you can see
it in the people.
I've lived in a few places, spoken to people from a few
more, and one thing that I've always noticed is how much
a place stands out in the effects that it has on the people who call it home.
Those on the east coast are bred with the ocean on their
backs, the bitter cold of the changing seasons, and the refreshing aftermath of
another predictable year. The west coast harbingers ride the shockwaves of life
with no more than a shrug at the disruption - content with their lot. Those in between pleasantly at odds with the
heat - beaten by the cold, and warmed by the return of the sun.
No matter where you go, if you just talk to someone, listen, and watch, you'll see something of the place they call home.
When others look at me - the fine few who catch my eye and
hold the gaze - I think they see the steel of the north country; forged by years
of harsh conditions, and tempered by still harsher days. A steel as cold as a fresh northern winter, as sharp as the wit of a poor man's daughter, and as true
as the heart of a grieving son.
~~~
I've watched these trees fly past countless times
before. When I close my eyes, I can
count the branches, place the different leaves where they belong before the
cold sets in-and remember every time I've passed them by.
Today, I don't see the trees.
Today, I don't count the branches or place the leaves where
they belong - I don't even notice their passing.
Today, I see the buildings, the people, and the skies. I see a north country storm brewing and I
blink away the tears that make this vision shimmer before my eyes.
The buildings have changed.
They look like shells now - all the color drained from them
during the colder months. Pale skeletal guardians on my path towards the end of
the line.
There was a time when these buildings resembled the people
of this town - they were vibrant, busy, and capable of weathering even the wildest
of storms. They sprung leaks and drafts
and all manner of ills, but they stood tall and bright and filled with the
determination of their fleshy counterparts.
This town is a small one - they always are. It's tucked away between farmland and the Canadian border, whistling away under a bright, shiny name: the star of the north.
~~~
I wasn't alive then, but this part of the north country knew wealth,
once. There were factories, I'm told -
places of work and businesses to drive money and security and safety into the
surrounding area. There was a theatre
for locals and visitors alike - alive with the popular favorites of the time
and bringing people together, no matter their class or station. Then time moved
on and so did some of the people.
Visitors didn't come as frequently and those who did lingered even less.
And the star of the north was forgotten by many, left to
fend for itself.
When I was a boy, the factories were all just shadows and
hollow reflections of what they once claimed to be. To the children, they were monoliths and
dungeons and adventures that called out to us - sometimes, we even answered. For the most part, we listened to the call,
scratching at the wanderlust in our bones, yearning for more - and then we
kept walking by.
We didn't realize it, but we felt the importance of these
monuments, and, as only the young and innocent truly can, we left those legends at peace - content with the passing memory.
We were told, time and time again, to read our books and
play with our friends. To try in school
and maybe, if we are lucky, to leave this fading star to see the world that had
once decided to pass it by.
We took that advice for granted, as young ones always
do. We misbehaved and caused trouble,
and reminded our parents of what they fought so hard to keep alive - the spirit
of the north.
It wasn't always obvious, the sacrifices our parents
made. Sleepless nights after days of
cleaning houses and businesses, early mornings to prepare us for school, only
to leave moments later to make enough for dinner that night. Instead, we got lost in the heroes of the past -
Washington and his cherry tree, Alexander and the Gordian Knot, or Robin Hood
and his Merry Men. I remember it all,
because she always wanted me to.
If we close our eyes and look at what has passed, look at what
couldn't be seen at the time - we see that those men and women in our books set
many an example, but the mothers and fathers and grandparents and brothers and
sister and friends that made us who we are today: they were the real heroes.
After all, even if you didn't know them at the time, you never really forget
your childhood heroes.
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