My mind drifts back as I sit in a line of traffic on Main Street. I look to my left and the businesses, for the most part, are not recognizable. And as I wait for the light to turn green, I play a game of memory with myself.
I think back to my childhood and attempt to name all the businesses that once graced that side of the block in my hometown. The bar, the hardware store, the jewelry store. I try to remember the name of the women’s clothing store that occupied what is now a craft shop, but the name doesn’t come to me right away. There was the dime store and a second hardware business.
On that block, only the bar and jewelry store remain.
Later that morning, my best friend Lynne and I head to the flower store that now takes up space on the next block. It’s tucked between what was a popular coffee shop that served the best cinnamon rolls and an old movie theater. I can still picture the woman who owned the theater, sitting behind the ticket window with her big red hair and glasses.
Yet there are some familiars. The family-owned pharmacy still sits on the corner. The popular pizza place is still always busy with locals. The park along the riverfront is well-kept, but still has those old metal swings I played on as a child.
Beyond unfamiliar businesses, the trees are what seem to grab my attention every time I visit my hometown of Plainwell, Michigan. I drive through my old neighborhood and the trees my neighbors planted when I was still in elementary school now tower over the houses. The two apple trees that were in our front yard, outside my bedroom window, are now gone. Some of the houses are different colors thanks to exterior updates over the last couple decades.
I left my hometown when I was 18, and despite coming home for holidays and short breaks during college, it’s been nearly 30 years since I’ve lived there. My parents sold my childhood home and moved out of state in 2001. When I visit, it’s a mix of a few familiar mainstays with plenty of changes that look out of place.
A couple weeks ago, I traveled back to spend the weekend with my friend Lynne. She and her family bought the house she grew up in. I lost my first tooth in her basement. I learned how to dive in her backyard pool. I skinned up my knees riding skateboards in her driveway. For me, her home is a time capsule, full of some of my favorite childhood memories I never want to forget.
As we run errands together, I can’t help but marvel at how much things have changed since we were growing up here. It’s not necessarily better or worse when it comes to change in your hometown, it’s just … different. The town in which I grew up, a place that holds some of my favorite memories, is now a town of mostly unfamiliars.
Mostly.
In the local grocery store, I run into a childhood friend’s dad. He recognizes me right away, gives me a big hug and asks how long I’m in town. And as I walk into the local ice cream shop, the owner’s eyes light up. She greets me by my maiden name.
“I remember you from when you were really little. You look the same,” she says. We make small talk before she asks me what I’d like. I don’t even have to look at the menu of flavors since I’ve been ordering the same thing since I was young.
As much as things change, some things remain the same. And for a moment, I feel like I’m home.
Rachel Brougham is the former assistant editor of the Petoskey News-Review. You can email her at racheldbrougham@gmail.com.
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