"Small Town Best"

c. 2018 Cheryl Kelly

All rights reserved

(4-18)

My youngest son recently got his temporary license this past week and I took him driving through the old development that I grew up in. It was a safe place to take a new driver; short streets, not a lot of traffic and low speed limits. As we cruised the streets over and over and I gave direction, I found myself flooded with memories from my childhood. We passed houses where my best friends used to live, my own house I grew up in, the corners where the green electrical boxes used to stand that were a hang out for all the kids...it was almost eerie. Things have changed so much and I was amazed at how “small” everything now looked.

The houses are small, the streets so close, almost claustrophobic; strangers walking their dogs and driving past. It almost felt like a dream. I could clearly remember like it was yesterday, who lived where, and whose house we always gravitated towards. I was reminiscing in my head the many happy years spent there and the memories were just swirling. From playing freeze tag and TV tag in bare feet in the front yard to riding my bike up and down the streets stopping at each friend’s house hoping they could come out and play, and of course making sure I got off my bike and walked it across the street as required by my father. (That did work for some time until I got smart enough to figure out that he was not out patrolling the streets watching me…) And lets not forget meeting everyone at the local pool when the summer sun and heat was brutal.

Summer nights in a small town like Chardon were golden. It was a standard rule in my house that if the weather was nice, you weren’t to be seen inside, and that was fine by me. Days were filled with running around all day long playing, never once wanting to stop and come home to eat. Hating to hear the whistle from my father calling me home at night, and never wanting to see those dreaded streetlights come on that meant I better be in my own yard or there was trouble. And when that next morning came, it seemed like an eternity waiting for my friends to wake up so we could do it all over again. How I wish I had that unlimited time and energy now...

Winter was no different. I couldn’t wait to get stuffed into that one piece snowsuit and bundled up hoping that my mother did not zip my chin when she pulled that zipper up. Looking like Ralphie’s brother in A Christmas Story, barely able to walk in my moon boots, oh, but I could play! Sledding down from the railroad tracks, making igloos, snowmen...just running around. And that feeling of getting warm after finally coming in because you couldn’t feel your toes or nose – there was nothing like it.

Springtime in Chardon means one thing...Maple Festival time. We waited all year for this. Our little town square gets turned into a carnival for a brief period of time and when you are young, it means everything. We lived within walking distance and we always had friends and family coming over to walk up and enjoy the food and day at the festival. Making the trek up the hill to the square was filled with anticipation as to which ride you were going to get in line for first, what food you would eat and what new treasures were to be found under the big white tents. As I got older, being trusted to walk from school up to the festival with friends was the big thing. That wonderful feeling of independence and excitement of who you would see and what cute boys you would run into. Innocent fun…

The jerk of the car from brakes being hit too hard brought me back around to reality. Looking at my son next to me I smiled and said, “easy there pal”. I raised my sons right here in Chardon wanting that same close, quiet, family atmosphere for them that I so enjoyed growing up. Even though the times have really changed from when I was young, it survives here. It’s a feeling you get when you drive down the streets or look out your front window and see people living simply, see small businesses flourishing and sense that community vibe, that small town best.

Editor’s Note: A great story here of growing up in small-town America. Passing the torch onward to the next generation. In personal terms, I have long wished for this kind of memory. But moving frequently during childhood, from state to state, exploded that concept. More recently, I used to refer to Chardon, Ohio as my ‘adopted home town’ until divorce and career chaos also overwhelmed such notions of family and self. I now feel more at home in Geneva or Saybrook. Though it is likely that tomorrow will spin the Roulette Wheel once again. Still, the tale here is sweet to savor. Cheers to you, my friend.