A STORY WORTH TELLING
G
“Home is not a place … it’s a feeling.” — A bit of wisdom I picked up years ago.
“So, where’s home?” asked the man whose hand I was still shaking.
A mutual friend had just introduced us as we met for lunch at a local restaurant.
“East Texas. I live in Center,” I said. “But I call Mount Pleasant my hometown.”
Even as I said it for the umpteenth time, that statement still sounds somewhat unusual.
Two hometowns, really? It does seem odd. Especially when I consider that while I’ve had a Center mailing address through a dozen presidential terms, I was a resident of Mount Pleasant for maybe a quarter of that time. And we lived in various Texas communities before settling in Mount Pleasant to stay when I was 11.
So, what qualifies one place over another as a hometown? Someday, I’ll examine the paper trail in a cardboard box full of evidence of my parents’ pilgrimage from the time before my own memories began. The collection includes letters, receipts, car registrations, repair bills, church bulletins, report cards and black-and-white school pictures.
It wasn’t until after my mother’s death that I realized she amassed this veritable family history in her cedar chest. I guess I owe her thanks, or maybe the blame, for my own tendency to hang on to similar seemingly worthless pieces of paper.
My family’s last move was to Mount Pleasant just in time for me to finish fifth grade at South Ward Elementary School. But evidence in those documents hints at previous addresses in Ballinger, Muleshoe, Midland and Pampa up in the Panhandle.
My first clear memories from around the age of 3 or 4 are of Pampa. I also remember Crockett where we lived next and where I entered first grade. A move to Seymour followed. I completed third and fourth grade there, and all of fifth grade except those last few weeks of the year were spent in Mr. Mattingly’s home room at South Ward.
Looking back, I’ve come to think that hometown is more closely related to where our heart was first grounded, including places we associate with the “firsts” in life, such as our first friends. Friends remembered from fifth grade in Seymour are tall, skinny Joe, with whom I played basketball at recess; Mike, a neighbor I rode bicycles with to the park; and Carolyn, the first girl I exchanged valentines with in fifth grade.
Many more firsts became memories in Mount Pleasant, among them some of those endof- the-year fifth graders from South Ward with whom I would graduate from high school together seven years later. And I can’t forget those graduates who would become college roommates and friends beyond high school.
First dates, first jobs, first car and first house — those memories all began in Mount Pleasant.
Another old saying goes, “Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave and grow old wanting to return to.”
I’ve said that about Mount Pleasant. After college, I tried to plant roots there twice. But that path just wasn’t in the cards.
I took the path leading me to Center many years ago. Enough years to see my children begin school and make memories. Enough years to amass many friends and loved ones, and to lose some of both. Enough years to have tasted happiness and endured heartache.
And even enough years to see good eating establishments come and go, which is where this missive started — over lunch.
So, while I still reside in Center, I also consider Mount Pleasant my hometown. I return occasionally. Navigating new highways and bypasses makes driving more stressful than it was when I learned to drive there. And, though the old streets are familiar, the places and the faces have constantly changed over time.
Most importantly, the memories are good. And many friends remain along with those memories of “firsts” lingering like it was yesterday.
“I never thought about having two hometowns,” my new acquaintance offered as we worked on chips, salsa and sweet tea.
“Yeah,” I said with a drawl. “I’ve learned that home is anywhere we leave a piece of our heart. Because hometown is not really a place … it’s a feeling in the heart.”
Contact Aldridge at leonaldridge@ gmail. com. Other Aldridge columns are archived at leonaldridge. com.
