I fell in love with the then-Random Boy’s hometown long before I permitted him to kiss me.
Swinging is good for the imagination – it takes you into the sky.
I can’t pinpoint exactly what made it so desirable, but it was something about the hills of corn and apple orchards, the potholed country roads, the pumpkins and chrysanthemums at the local grocery store, the lamp-lined parks and slow-moving creek, the little paths through the woods behind his parents’ house, and the stars that appeared in a truly dark sky. All of these things reminded me so overwhelmingly of my old Place, that I was immediately delighted – brimming with good cheer towards this farm-town and all who called it home. There were other things to recommend the then-Random Boy to me as a potential mate, but his plans to remain settled in Sparta certainly didn’t harm his chances.
Three years later, we are married and living in a drafty old house on one of Sparta’s main streets – a fact that delights me, that continually makes the good cheer brim over. Although that old-place-missing is still present (painfully so, some days), it doesn’t make Sparta any less delightful, any less full of possibility as a Place to call home, to settle in.
The Farm I grew up on is still the place I return to when writing. It’s the place I want to remember, the place that wants to be remembered when I speak of bare fields and red maple leaves, or the smell of ripening grapes in summer air and the sound of spring peepers at night. However, the Farm was not always home – my parents tell me I didn’t take too kindly to the move – and I’ve known for a long time that someday I would need a new home, another place, to write of and write from.
Sparta would seem to be that place. I put on my coat and my boots and I roam the sidewalks under different skies – I listen to the roar of passing trucks and I find the white steeples among the bare branches and I try to read the messages spray-painted onto the masonic temple next to the library.
I find a bridge, and I look for trolls. Can’t be too careful . . .
I follow the little river through the city, I hear the wind-chimes singing from strangers’ porches, I watch the way light plays with the trees, I see the way snow makes the downtown look like something out of a postcard.
There’s something so endlessly beautiful about light – I can’t describe it.
And after these roams, after wandering and dreaming and thinking about life, about stories, about the world and other worlds, I come home to my writing-desk and my creaking hardwood floor and I have things to say. But I was never much good at speaking, so I write instead, and that is the very best of feelings.
So, thank you, Sparta. You are a fine place, and will make a good home. I hope to tell many stories of you.
Rhymes with Crazy 