Thanks, Will. You really can write. But more than that, you write with heart and dare I say soul. I am a lot older than you, but I can certainly relate to those old memories that are yours and yours alone. Thanks for helping us all look back today and see what shaped us, for good and ill, but shaped us nevertheless. Mattoon is a little larger than my 5,000 population hometown in West Texas but I can see myself so often in your reminiscences. Thank you for today.
Good story, Will. Even in a big city, with sprawling suburbs and the like, you see changes. The small town I (briefly) lived in nearly 30 years ago, isn't the same, either. The houses I grew up in, in and around Detroit aren't the same, either. (one isn't even there anymore) A few years back, I went to the cemetery where my maternal grandparents lay. I wanted to talk to my grandmother. The one, perhaps the only woman, who loved me unconditionally, in my life. It was a Sunday, though, and the office was 'for appointment only.' So, I never did visit her on the 50th anniversary of her death. Strange, how time is forever screwing with you. I was talking with my mother the other day, who's almost 88 and she said "you know, I'm just happy to be able to talk to my kids." She's outlived nearly everyone. Two husbands, her parents and most of her first cousins. I'm amazed myself because she smoked until her 60s. We're here for a few fleeting years and then we're gone and soon forgotten. But you remembering your first grade teacher and her husband is proof they live in memory.
Well said! You’re so right—we have these little memories that only matter to us, and yet they’re deeply felt and somehow important. They’re part of the idea we formed of ourselves. Like a collage. And it is so interesting how we are different versions of ourselves depending on who we’re interacting with. I guess we are showing an awareness that this person or that person can’t handle this or that aspect of ourselves or won’t like this or that aspect and so we either downplay it or exaggerate the trait(s). I can imagine autistic children or adults being more consistently themselves no matter who they engage with, but I don’t know if that’s true or not.
The choice to write that in the second-person leads me to challenge the assumption that only you care. I could swear I cared while I read it; to steal the podcast phrase, you made your specific homecoming experience feel universal. I got goosebumps—the same way I always did as a kid and teen while my mom toured me around her tiny Minnesota town.
Those details might not conjure the same images and historical heft they do for you, but I’m definitely straining to remember the books and crannies of my childhood homes and my once small city now exploded to almost 200K. Is it indulgent? Maybe. But how can you not feel connection when a person tours you through the museum built into their memory, their history, their legacy?
It was good to see you briefly at the Illinois game. I'm sure you are still hot wearing that jacket. I apologize for not re-introducing myself and I appreciate your graciousness.
I often think about my own trips back home to Effingham. The way it goes now I only return to see my parents who still live there, but I rarely drive around town. Everything is different and, yet, the same. It's smaller in that same way you remember people were bigger in your youth even though it was just you who were small.
I still have my memories of riding my bike across town to the mall when it still had an arcade and a music store, watching fireworks in that same mall parking lot on the Fourth of July, catching movies at the Heart Theater, and mowing my grandma's lawn. The mall is still there, but sadly the Heart Theater and my grandma are gone. They live on in my memories. My personal experiences. My life.
You're right to think about the present and not dwell too long on the past. I'm needed here too.
Thanks for the essay. One day you should compile them all into a book. I know I'd buy it.
Catching up on my newsletters and I am not disappointed. I grew up in Nebraska, and don't get home very much but your hometown and mine are probably exactly the same. The feeling that you belong to this place, but actually don't have any REAL connection to it after you've been so far away for so long is always pretty melancholy.
That is doubtful, as I am a world-class procrastinator, and priorities (of subject matter) have changed since then. But I think we may have some mutual acquaintances, so hopefully we will meet some day sooner than later. I certainly hope so.
I'm thrilled to have finally scrolled down far enough to see that you accept comments. I have written you two letters, never finished or sent. We are in different generations, but on the same page. This newsletter really resonated, as I have done a similar re-visit to the town of my childhood... Athens. (Even though I live here.) Keep doing what you're doing.
Thanks, Will. You really can write. But more than that, you write with heart and dare I say soul. I am a lot older than you, but I can certainly relate to those old memories that are yours and yours alone. Thanks for helping us all look back today and see what shaped us, for good and ill, but shaped us nevertheless. Mattoon is a little larger than my 5,000 population hometown in West Texas but I can see myself so often in your reminiscences. Thank you for today.
Thank you for reading this. This was one I just sort of let fly.
Good story, Will. Even in a big city, with sprawling suburbs and the like, you see changes. The small town I (briefly) lived in nearly 30 years ago, isn't the same, either. The houses I grew up in, in and around Detroit aren't the same, either. (one isn't even there anymore) A few years back, I went to the cemetery where my maternal grandparents lay. I wanted to talk to my grandmother. The one, perhaps the only woman, who loved me unconditionally, in my life. It was a Sunday, though, and the office was 'for appointment only.' So, I never did visit her on the 50th anniversary of her death. Strange, how time is forever screwing with you. I was talking with my mother the other day, who's almost 88 and she said "you know, I'm just happy to be able to talk to my kids." She's outlived nearly everyone. Two husbands, her parents and most of her first cousins. I'm amazed myself because she smoked until her 60s. We're here for a few fleeting years and then we're gone and soon forgotten. But you remembering your first grade teacher and her husband is proof they live in memory.
Well said! You’re so right—we have these little memories that only matter to us, and yet they’re deeply felt and somehow important. They’re part of the idea we formed of ourselves. Like a collage. And it is so interesting how we are different versions of ourselves depending on who we’re interacting with. I guess we are showing an awareness that this person or that person can’t handle this or that aspect of ourselves or won’t like this or that aspect and so we either downplay it or exaggerate the trait(s). I can imagine autistic children or adults being more consistently themselves no matter who they engage with, but I don’t know if that’s true or not.
The choice to write that in the second-person leads me to challenge the assumption that only you care. I could swear I cared while I read it; to steal the podcast phrase, you made your specific homecoming experience feel universal. I got goosebumps—the same way I always did as a kid and teen while my mom toured me around her tiny Minnesota town.
Those details might not conjure the same images and historical heft they do for you, but I’m definitely straining to remember the books and crannies of my childhood homes and my once small city now exploded to almost 200K. Is it indulgent? Maybe. But how can you not feel connection when a person tours you through the museum built into their memory, their history, their legacy?
Tldr; Thatwasincrediblethankyou
Aw, thanks. I was worried this one would be too self-indulgent.
It was good to see you briefly at the Illinois game. I'm sure you are still hot wearing that jacket. I apologize for not re-introducing myself and I appreciate your graciousness.
I often think about my own trips back home to Effingham. The way it goes now I only return to see my parents who still live there, but I rarely drive around town. Everything is different and, yet, the same. It's smaller in that same way you remember people were bigger in your youth even though it was just you who were small.
I still have my memories of riding my bike across town to the mall when it still had an arcade and a music store, watching fireworks in that same mall parking lot on the Fourth of July, catching movies at the Heart Theater, and mowing my grandma's lawn. The mall is still there, but sadly the Heart Theater and my grandma are gone. They live on in my memories. My personal experiences. My life.
You're right to think about the present and not dwell too long on the past. I'm needed here too.
Thanks for the essay. One day you should compile them all into a book. I know I'd buy it.
I would buy it, too.
From your guys' lips to Big Publishing's ears!
Catching up on my newsletters and I am not disappointed. I grew up in Nebraska, and don't get home very much but your hometown and mine are probably exactly the same. The feeling that you belong to this place, but actually don't have any REAL connection to it after you've been so far away for so long is always pretty melancholy.
If this issue were a song it would be The Weakerthans- This Is A Firedoor Never Leave Open
Nicely done.
Thanks!
That is doubtful, as I am a world-class procrastinator, and priorities (of subject matter) have changed since then. But I think we may have some mutual acquaintances, so hopefully we will meet some day sooner than later. I certainly hope so.
I'm thrilled to have finally scrolled down far enough to see that you accept comments. I have written you two letters, never finished or sent. We are in different generations, but on the same page. This newsletter really resonated, as I have done a similar re-visit to the town of my childhood... Athens. (Even though I live here.) Keep doing what you're doing.
Thank you! But finish those letters!