`
I received an invitation to read from my western novels at the public library in Kingsville, Texas, the home town of my childhood. Couldn’t pass it up, but my expectations were low. I have no friends there, not any more. We’ve all scattered to bigger and better places. The MoPac railroad shops offices and shops are now gone, along with the jobs they offered. Kingsville is no longer the little of my youth. I do know – I’ve heard it said – “You can’t go home again.”
We drove into Kingsville at dusk and located the Hampton Inn – reservations seem safer at motel chains. And I asked about the old seafood place on the bay, the Kings Inn.
“Better call for reservations,” the lady said. We did, and drove the 20 miles in the dark. A 30-minute wait with your name on the list.
An elderly lady made room for me on a bench. The room washed over me. And suddenly I was home. Quiet friendly faces, soft voices, the laughter of children, the gentle lilt of Spanish. The Grandmother beside me explained about a birthday. Two ranchers slipped in, belts and big buckles, the ubiquitous resistol hats. Smiles all around; a Friday night’s outing. Yes, sometimes you can make it home again, for a little while.
And my reading, the next day? Kingsville was having its annual street fair. We authors sat under a tent, in a light rain, with rock music blasting from the adjacent booth. None of us could read over the heavy bass notes blasting from a refrigerator-sized speaker. Nevertheless, we hawked our books, made friends, laughed at each other. I sold all the books I’d dragged along with me.
“A sense of place.” It’s overused and trite, I know, but I did get that feeling of belonging, of re-visiting a place and a time I thought I’d lost forever. A hypnotist once told me – you should have a quiet memory to serve as a retreat when you feel stressed. Now, I have that memory of a night in Kingsville.
Dac Crossley
November 28, 2014
“A society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in.” – Greek Proverb.