Updated and Rewrite of My Little Town, First written May 2018
Link below for your listening pleasure:
Mom surprised us all by going before Dad. 1,778 days later, he followed her.
In the intervening years Dad was capable and willing of doing for himself. But the 64-year relationship was built upon Mom doing all things indoors and Dad conquered outdoor chores on the small ranch. It fell upon a couple of family members to fill the gaps of cooking meals, a bit of banking, and other oddball tasks. For me, the oldest daughter, it was more about being with him as well as stocking the fridge with casseroles and desserts.
It meant Sunday afternoon visits after church. It was a short drive of about 20 miles to the childhood property I grew up on. It was still home to me despite Mom not being around.
One week necessitated a midweek trip to dear ole’ Dad’s. He needed my help with some banking back in my little town. Coincidentally, the tune “My Little Town” (Simon & Garfunkel) repeated in splendid reverie as I turned onto his little lane. I crooned the lyrics of the chorus, “nothing but the dead of night back in my little town,” and for reasons unknown curiosity compelled me to pull over and Google the lyrics to the full song.
I was stupefied to learn that for the past umpteen years I’ve been belting out incorrect words. According to lyrics.com, the correct lyrics are “nothing but the dead and dying back in my little town.” My bad.
At the time, dead and dying seemed to be more appropriate at that time; from 2016 to 2018 my little town had lost my mother and three aunties, two of whom I was especially close to. Dead and dying spoke
The lyric of the song seems to imply nothing productive comes from their little town whereas my little town has lost four bastions of strength, grace, faith and character.
I prefer to keep my version. Maybe it is born from habit of many years. Maybe it’s plain stubbornness––I’ll keep on keening “nothing but the dead of night.”
The Sunday afternoon and mid-week visits have ceased. Although the property now belongs to me another family lives there. When my outings take me to the little ranch at the end of the lane, it doesn’t feel like home, making the ancient adage true: you can’t go home again.
Gosh darn it––I must take my leave before this earworm leaves me in a puddle. (Insert humming sounds.)
theRagingSpoon 