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What to make of a diminished thing
Mar. 27th, 2019 02:31 pmI grew up in a town whose thriving economy was based on farming and auto parts. We had a couple of forges, innumerable parts makers, an Alcoa plant, a Belden plant, a Hostess plant/bakery, a Purina plant. And a college, which is where my father taught. Mom was mad at some of the high-school kids who didn't pay attention in school, because they planned to drop out at sixteen to go work in the plants with their dad. When I went away to college, the lady who was giving me a haircut said, in astonishment, "Why would you ever want to go so far away from home?"
Well, I did, and I stayed. Today I'm driving through the clear unforgiving winter light, as beautiful in its way as the golden hour in California. All the auto plants are long gone, killed by the shift to Japanese cars. Two decades ago there were bumper stickers saying "I'm proud to drive American"; now nobody does. The hand-dipped chocolate place has closed; the bakery where I got cupcakes is now open only three days a week, and the rumor is it will soon be closed for good. The houses are peeling paint, wood showing bare underneath, some of the windows boarded up. Both the department stores of my youth have closed; the town briefly had a Target, but didn't have enough business to make it profitable.
I had to do some banking business and was chatting pleasantly with the bank representative. The casual small talk that froze me as a teenager comes easily to my lips now. The bank representative said to me, "Nobody's kids stay here. I'm lucky because one of mine is in Indianapolis. The other's in Chicago." The town is dying; there's no reason to move here, and less to stay. I keep spotting beautiful neglected Federalist and Steamboat Gothic houses, then remembering that to rehab them I'd have to stay in Indiana. Mom says the town's becoming a medical mecca of sorts for the surrounding small towns.
When I was driving to the bank, the car ahead of me had a couple of crosses on the trunk, and a white-on-black bumper sticker too small to read. When we were both at a stop sign, I leaned forward and read it.
It was a quotation about strong police. It was signed "Adolf Hitler".
Well, I did, and I stayed. Today I'm driving through the clear unforgiving winter light, as beautiful in its way as the golden hour in California. All the auto plants are long gone, killed by the shift to Japanese cars. Two decades ago there were bumper stickers saying "I'm proud to drive American"; now nobody does. The hand-dipped chocolate place has closed; the bakery where I got cupcakes is now open only three days a week, and the rumor is it will soon be closed for good. The houses are peeling paint, wood showing bare underneath, some of the windows boarded up. Both the department stores of my youth have closed; the town briefly had a Target, but didn't have enough business to make it profitable.
I had to do some banking business and was chatting pleasantly with the bank representative. The casual small talk that froze me as a teenager comes easily to my lips now. The bank representative said to me, "Nobody's kids stay here. I'm lucky because one of mine is in Indianapolis. The other's in Chicago." The town is dying; there's no reason to move here, and less to stay. I keep spotting beautiful neglected Federalist and Steamboat Gothic houses, then remembering that to rehab them I'd have to stay in Indiana. Mom says the town's becoming a medical mecca of sorts for the surrounding small towns.
When I was driving to the bank, the car ahead of me had a couple of crosses on the trunk, and a white-on-black bumper sticker too small to read. When we were both at a stop sign, I leaned forward and read it.
It was a quotation about strong police. It was signed "Adolf Hitler".
