Last week I went back to West Hartford. Just as I pulled into town, I heard the chugging guitars and whoa-hoa-oohs of the Hold Steady come onto the radio:
I gotta a lot of old friends that are getting back in touch
And it’s a good, good feeling, yeah it feels pretty good.
That was why, in part, I was going home–to meet up with old friends that I hadn’t seen in a while. So I felt a sense of serendipity as I pulled off the highway, like everything was falling into place. The town, as awlays, had changed. There was a new pedestrian bridge just off the highway, new paint on the road pointing each line in the right direction, but I still this special sense of well-being that comes with arriving in place so etched in my memory: I knew every stoplight, every streetlight as I cruised home.
It won’t be home much longer, though. I was also back to clean out my old room. My parents are selling the house and moving into Hartford–not far, but far enough to draw a line in time. West Hartford is now just the town where I used to live. When I come back to Connecticut, I’ll be taking a different exit.
In the process of that cleaning, I unearthed boxes of memories–cards from my eighteenth birthday and graduation parties, boxes of medals from high school track meets, folders filled with schoolwork. These memories, too, contributed to the warm glow of my arrival. WH is for me a nostalgic place; only the most gilded memories have endured. Each track workout was a step towards glory; teenage heartbreak was the stuff of pop music. Each afternoon, once I finished my homework, life stretched before me with endless possibilities.
In the six years since things seem to have gotten more grown up. Now there are decisions to make, finances and careers to worry about. I went to two weddings this summer. The ease of high school seems distant.
*
If only I’d listened closer to that Hold Steady song. We gotta stay positive, Craig Finn sings over and over. ‘Cause when your old and pretending the past was perfect, that can take some work.
I haven’t changed too much in six years. More responsibilities, sure, but the goals are the same. In the stacks of stuff I unearthed, there were really just two stories: writing and running. Papers I’d written and medals I’d won. And really, that’s all there is to my life still–now more than ever.
Last summer I was talking about my aspirations in journalism, and Zach said something to effect of “If you want to be a writer, you just need to write.” Wise advice. I’d never followed it.
I’m a focused person. I can do one, at most two, things at a time. In college, I ran and I studied. For the past two years, I taught. That about filled the time.
Looking through the mementos, I realized that through all those years I was eulogizing, I had dreamed of one career. And since then I’d avoided it through other excuses and distractions and commitments. But now I’m putting myself on the line. Now I write.
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This is all a bit overblown. There’s nothing too heroic in writing about municipal budgets and school board elections, and that is certainly not what I dreamed of as a seventeen-year-old.
But it gives me reason to break ground on a new blog. Not every post will be so narcissistic, I hope, and most will be less carefully composed. I intend this site to be a sounding board for things I’ve been reading about and thinking about, things I might be writing about.
So, with a line drawn in time, here’s a beginning. I’m not there yet, but I’m on the way.
