It was Sunday afternoon, and we were looking for nothing more than a meal and a place to lay our heads. The weekend seemed to have passed us by in a colorful blur. I cannot say I regretted it, but at the same time I felt guilty that I did not write more. I got so busy living, that I was not documenting it. On our way home we decide to stop in Francestown. I needed pictures. More importantly I needed a moment to slow down and take it all in.
We came to a stop in the center, where the roads meet before moving off to other destinations. I got out of the car, and the cold wind hit me full force. I bowed my head, but couldn’t suppress the smile that came to my lips. I grew up one town over. In a house tucked down one of these sleepy dirt roads. When I come home I breath a sigh of relief. I have begun to grown up, moving further in my life. My adventures have not brought me far, but time home is limited. Yet I find, the further I move away, the greater my yearning for the country becomes. I miss the sleepy comfortable feeling that I get when I come home.
People come here and see the church and the graveyard, but they miss the tiny details. The way the trees cast shadows across the dirt lot, their thin spindly arms reached out forever. The white paint that has begun to peel in the corner of the clapboards. The small whorls and flaws in the glass in the panes on the old windows. Its these intimate things that make these towns what they are. Only those who have sharp eyes and a wandering heart can catch them.
Its funny, how your perception changes as you grow older. I remember passing this place in high school not even giving it a second glance. To my younger self these places were old fashions, stuck in the past. Only recently have a I realized how valuable these beacons of past years are. I may be destined to roam far. I may find a home somewhere else, but no matter what, this is where I started. These landscapes shaped who I am and will help me find who I am meant to become.