baskets, then sat with Josh on the bench by the curb, enjoying another unseasonably warm day.
Taking a deep breath of the clean Ozark air, I gazed at the town, sleepy at midafternoon on a Saturday. It looked like a picture postcard, an ancient native-stone town nestled amid oak trees on the banks of the Gasconade River. Hindsville probably hadn’t changed much since its founding over a hundred years before. The storefronts, brownstone with neatly painted porches and trim, were built around a picturesque central square with stone walkways and a gazebo where folks still came on Saturday nights to pick guitars, fiddle, and sing.
I had vague memories of going there a few times as a child—twirling in a floral-print dress on the grass in front of the bandstand. The memory made me feel warm and grounded. There is something special about a place that smells and sounds and feels like your childhood. Hindsville was the place where I bought ice cream cones at the drugstore and sat on the curb to eat them. The place where Mom and I bought new school shoes from the dry goods store at the end of every summer visit. It was the center of nearly every tradition I remembered about my family—the only place where the four of us were together with no one in a hurry to go somewhere.
I’d never realized I missed it. Throughout my adult years, I’d never felt a need to return. Too slow. Too boring. No skyscrapers. No shopping mall.
My last memory of Hindsville was of coming for my mother’s funeral at the family cemetery next to the farm. Ben and I had stayed only three days. Three quiet, solemn days in which all of us looked for someone to blame for Mom’s car accident. Three days in which we fell apart instead of coming together . . .
So why did I now feel an overwhelming sadness that I would probably never return to Hindsville? This Christmas would be the end of it. The end of the farm. The end of that nagging guilt that Grandma was here alone and no one ever visited her. After Christmas, Grandma would be settled in a nursing home near Aunt Jeane . . .
My mind couldn’t frame the picture.
The chimes rang three o’clock on the Baptist church next door, and I stopped to listen, looking at the glittering stained-glass image of a dove landing in God’s hands. Brother Baker stood on the front steps and waved at me, then walked across the alley to Shorty’s. I stood up, hoping Grandma would come out before Brother Baker got around to loading on the Christian guilt about Ben and me not being churchgoers.
“Well, your husband is all settled in with his computer,” he announced as he stepped onto the walk.
“That’s wonderful,” I said, thinking how much Brother Baker seemed to have aged. My mind conjured a fleeting image of him in a much younger state, red hair instead of gray, dunking me in the baptismal pool behind the pulpit. “We sure appreciate this. Grandma’s farm doesn’t seem to be Internet-friendly.”
Brother Baker chuckled, then gave me a round-cheeked smile that made the essence of my childhood stronger. “Well, you know, we haven’t quite joined the modern era around here.”
I laughed with him. “That’s not all bad.” Strangely, I meant it. “We’re enjoying the quiet.”
Brother Baker nodded as if he understood. “It has its benefits.” He reached down and rubbed Josh’s fuzzy head, then sidestepped to open the door to the grocery store as Grandma hobbled out carrying a half-dozen loaves of bread and two boxes of doughnuts.
She tipped her chin up, looking triumphant. “The bread man was going to throw these away.” She peered over the stack and realized it was Brother Baker holding the door open, not me. “Well, hello, Brother Baker. How is young Benjamin getting along?”
“Just fine, Mrs. Vongortler.” Brother Baker stood at attention like a foot soldier addressing a cavalry captain. “He’s all settled in one of those offices off the fellowship hall.”
Grandma nodded approval.
Taking a deep breath of the clean Ozark air, I gazed at the town, sleepy at midafternoon on a Saturday. It looked like a picture postcard, an ancient native-stone town nestled amid oak trees on the banks of the Gasconade River. Hindsville probably hadn’t changed much since its founding over a hundred years before. The storefronts, brownstone with neatly painted porches and trim, were built around a picturesque central square with stone walkways and a gazebo where folks still came on Saturday nights to pick guitars, fiddle, and sing.
I had vague memories of going there a few times as a child—twirling in a floral-print dress on the grass in front of the bandstand. The memory made me feel warm and grounded. There is something special about a place that smells and sounds and feels like your childhood. Hindsville was the place where I bought ice cream cones at the drugstore and sat on the curb to eat them. The place where Mom and I bought new school shoes from the dry goods store at the end of every summer visit. It was the center of nearly every tradition I remembered about my family—the only place where the four of us were together with no one in a hurry to go somewhere.
I’d never realized I missed it. Throughout my adult years, I’d never felt a need to return. Too slow. Too boring. No skyscrapers. No shopping mall.
My last memory of Hindsville was of coming for my mother’s funeral at the family cemetery next to the farm. Ben and I had stayed only three days. Three quiet, solemn days in which all of us looked for someone to blame for Mom’s car accident. Three days in which we fell apart instead of coming together . . .
So why did I now feel an overwhelming sadness that I would probably never return to Hindsville? This Christmas would be the end of it. The end of the farm. The end of that nagging guilt that Grandma was here alone and no one ever visited her. After Christmas, Grandma would be settled in a nursing home near Aunt Jeane . . .
My mind couldn’t frame the picture.
The chimes rang three o’clock on the Baptist church next door, and I stopped to listen, looking at the glittering stained-glass image of a dove landing in God’s hands. Brother Baker stood on the front steps and waved at me, then walked across the alley to Shorty’s. I stood up, hoping Grandma would come out before Brother Baker got around to loading on the Christian guilt about Ben and me not being churchgoers.
“Well, your husband is all settled in with his computer,” he announced as he stepped onto the walk.
“That’s wonderful,” I said, thinking how much Brother Baker seemed to have aged. My mind conjured a fleeting image of him in a much younger state, red hair instead of gray, dunking me in the baptismal pool behind the pulpit. “We sure appreciate this. Grandma’s farm doesn’t seem to be Internet-friendly.”
Brother Baker chuckled, then gave me a round-cheeked smile that made the essence of my childhood stronger. “Well, you know, we haven’t quite joined the modern era around here.”
I laughed with him. “That’s not all bad.” Strangely, I meant it. “We’re enjoying the quiet.”
Brother Baker nodded as if he understood. “It has its benefits.” He reached down and rubbed Josh’s fuzzy head, then sidestepped to open the door to the grocery store as Grandma hobbled out carrying a half-dozen loaves of bread and two boxes of doughnuts.
She tipped her chin up, looking triumphant. “The bread man was going to throw these away.” She peered over the stack and realized it was Brother Baker holding the door open, not me. “Well, hello, Brother Baker. How is young Benjamin getting along?”
“Just fine, Mrs. Vongortler.” Brother Baker stood at attention like a foot soldier addressing a cavalry captain. “He’s all settled in one of those offices off the fellowship hall.”
Grandma nodded approval.
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