Last weekend, we visited my wife’s
parents. They still live in the same
house the she grew up in. Janet lived in
that little town until we got married just over 4 years ago.
As we drove the small-town streets
to her parent’s house, Janet recognized someone crossing the street ahead of us
as an old acquaintance. That sort of
thing doesn’t happen much here in the suburbs of Denver. I found myself feeling a little jealous of
the roots that she had.
When I was growing up, my parents
moved a lot. Between parents’ job
changes and their divorce, I had lived in eight homes in six towns by the time I was
18. Most of that time was in the suburban
areas of Fresno and San Francisco.
From age 16 to 18, I lived in
Grayson County, VA near the small town of Fries (pronounced freeze). I took the above photo from my room. Despite having lived there for only two
years, the little town of Fries is what I look back to as my home town. I could point to the fact that I graduated
from Fries High School (Go Wildcats!). It
goes way beyond that, though.
A few years ago, I was returning to
the area to support my sister when her husband passed away. Coming up highway 89 from North Carolina, I
passed a sign at a community center that read, “Benefit Gospel Sing.” I thought, Yep, I’m home.
At 16, this long-haired wierdo from
California was welcomed to the area with a graciousness that I have only ever
found in the South. When I returned for
that funeral, I saw an outpouring of love and help to my sister that defied
description.
I doubt if I will ever be able to
return to Fries to live. It and the rest
of the New River Valley will always hold a special place in my heart. I may not be able to go “home,” but I can try
to bring that sense of home to my suburban neighborhood. I suggest we all bring a little but of that
southern hospitality where-ever we may be.
Perhaps it will feel like coming home.
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