The Times, They Are A'Changin. (March 30, 2013)
This morning we went down to the lobby of our hotel for
breakfast. This is a nice hotel, but the area seemed a little sketchy. I was a
tad concerned about leaving my van in the parking lot all night, but we had
emptied it out completely, and all was well. This may or may not have had
something to do with the fact that a police car was parked near it all night.
We got in line at the breakfast buffet, Andrew at the lead
with me 4 or 5 people behind. He had some trouble with the wafflemaker, and I
looked up to see a man helping him with it. Then I did a double take—this guy
looked familiar. Very familiar. I said, “Jimmy?” He looked up and said “Hey
Kristy!” Then he realized the guy he was helping was Andrew, who has changed
enough in the last 6 months to make him almost unrecognizable.
Jimmy is married to Ingrid, one of my college roommates and
still a caring friend. He and Ingrid and their four children were on their way
to Florida from GR in sort of a roundabout way, and they’d gotten to the hotel
much later than we did. Seriously, what are the chances that we would end up
staying at the same random hotel in a questionable neighborhood of West
Memphis??
As payback for the many times that Ingrid came into our dorm
room later than me and enjoyed freaking me out by hanging down from the upper
bunk and grinning at me maniacally in the dark, I went up to say hello. Jimmy
told me where in the packed room I could locate her—last person in the last
bed. Ingrid was just starting to come to in the dark, probably because we
opened the door, so I stood over her and tapped her on the shoulder. She stared
at me, so finally I said “it’s Kristy.” She stared again and said “That’s soooo
weird.” This story was repeated in the van, and “That’s so weird” became Ari’s
new phrase of choice for the day.
With that bizarre start to the day, we packed into the van
and headed back on the road. And back into spring. The red haze of buds gave
way to flowering trees and lush green grass. They’ve had some storms in the
last day or two, and everything was alive and in Technicolor.
We had a fairly straightforward drive to Dallas after that,
and eventually we were saying goodbye to Jodi and her kids until next weekend
when we pick them up again. It’s been so great to have some companionship along
the way!
And then I found myself, 44 and mother of three
almost-adults, facing down the city of my youth. I was eager to go see what
things looked like, but those almost-adults had had enough of the car for a
while and preferred to do nothing for a little while. I tried not to be visibly
irritated.
At some point they were ready to eat, so we went out to the
nearby Galleria Mall to take a look and get a bite. The Galleria was built
during my high school years—state of the art, high-end shopping. It was built
almost steps away from two other enormous malls. For better or worse, these
three malls figured heavily into my entertainment and social life, but only one
of them has survived. One’s been completely torn down and the other, as I
understand it, is basically empty. The Galleria, as we saw tonight, has
continued and remains well-occupied, and interestingly the crowd has become
much browner as a much more diverse population is making use of it. The skating
rink was packed, the stores still glittered, and we got to eat, so basically a
satisfying visit. Somehow we managed to avoid being dragged into the American
Girl store by Allison, who seemed to get that this would not be her older
brother’s idea of a good time.
Afterward, I asked permission for a quick drive past the
second house we lived in there, and the kids kindly agreed. We drove there,
passing a strip of Belt Line Road that held very little resemblance to the road
in my memory, though it is still a busy, bustling place. Most of the buildings
appear to have been torn down and rebuilt. I managed to make my way to the
street we lived on, and things looked much the same. I had to laugh, because I
tend to characterize Dallas in my mind as dry, brown, with lots of concrete. It
was green and beautiful, and my kids commented on how things seemed so spread
out. Some areas were a little worse for wear, but the trees are bigger now and
the plantings more mature. And April is a lovely month to live in Dallas.
I tested their patience by heading north to pass by my
school, which it took me a few wrong turns to locate. Then, though it was dark,
I wowed them by driving them through a very affluent area that I used to drive
through daily on my way to school. I was wowed myself as some of those houses
have been torn down and bigger ones built, and they are truly a sight to
behold. We’ll have to go back when it’s light enough to really see them!
Tomorrow is Easter, and we are planning to visit Prestonwood
Baptist Church, which is the church my graduation was held in. Except that
since then they’ve built 3 new, different, enormous locations. Should be a bit
of a change from the Easter service at Neland Ave. CRC. To be followed by more
of my reminiscing and more tolerance and patience from my children. It seems
almost like child abuse to bring them here to face down the quivering mass of
insecurity that was me as a teenager without another, more stable adult to help
buffer them from my state of mind.
Here’s the deal. Moving to Dallas in 1980, the summer before
7th grade at age 11, I graduated from high school there in 1986. My
parents moved back to Michigan while I was finishing up at Calvin College in
1990. So my teen years and my time in Dallas were very clearly defined by the
decade of the 1980s, a unique time to be in this town, to be sure.
One of the weirdnesses of this trip is that most everything of
me here seems to be gone. Like I never really existed all those years. The
church I went to disbanded, the dry-cleaning stores I worked at are gone, my
parents and siblings moved back to Michigan, and all but 2 of the friends I was
close to have moved elsewhere. So even though all these super-intense things
happened to me in this place, there’s barely a trace of anything recognizable
when I return.
While it feels very personal and unusual to me, I think it’s
probably just a sign that years have passed, something that happens in one way
or another to anyone as they age. I remember a friend telling me that when her
brother died, all the stories of her childhood died with him, because there was
no one left living who remembered her stories.
How nice to have started the day with a surprise encounter
with a friend who does remember lots of my stories! And though I’m sad not to
have Brian here to share this (read that, I don’t have Brian here to listen to
me go on and on), I have you to tell my rambling thoughts to, and there’s
consolation in the knowledge that Brian is back home prepping the dining room
walls for a new coat of paint while I’m gone.
Have a blessed Easter, secure in the knowledge that the real
Story goes on and on, never forgets you, and never gets old.
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