My wife, Judy, is amused sometimes when we pass someone’s house and I mention that it is So & So’s old place.

Judy inquires who So & So is. Often my reply is “Grade School”, meaning that I was talking about someone whose path I crossed as much as 60 years ago in the classroom.

It then occurs to me just how dated that seems. It’s one thing to live in the old neighborhood, but I live in the only neighborhood I’ve ever had, excepting brief stints of vagrancy. My farm is my old neighborhood . I guess that credential separates me a little from most others. They flew the coop long ago.

It is very grounding to still have the names of folks from that long ago still at the tip of my tongue, even though many are not around anymore. A sense of belonging and permanence remains, if only in my fermenting mind.

The Pilot Truck Stop on I78 will always be Johnny’s to me. It always will be. Memory is a remarkable human property.

Yes, as a matter of fact, that is still So and So’s old place and I can still see him getting on the school bus every morning. Life is good.


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