Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts

By Alyce Wilson

On a beautiful evening, Mary Belle Lontz is planting flowers in the small garden next to the Bethany United Methodist Church. She pulls the flowers out of an empty Eggo box.

It's so warm it's easy to forget about the frustrations of waiting for my truck to be complete.

I have returned home for what turned out to be a languid extra-long weekend.

I am walking my dog, Una, around the small town streets I know so well, dictating my thoughts into a mini-tape recorder.

Spring is kind to this town. Everything is in bloom, including American flags. There are five planted in a planter on one porch, and they adorn nearly every home on the street.

There are flags for specific military units: the Marines or the Rangers. And you know they don't just give those out to anybody. Yellow ribbons on almost every street post. This town has a lot invested in Bush's war, for sure.

Regardless of having grown up around here, I still feel like a stranger. People stare at me on the streets for God knows what reason. Is it my blue tie-dye with the whales? The Philly cast of my clothing, from my blue-striped exercise pants to my slightly futuristic exercise shoes? Not wearing jeans is enough to appear suspicious, I suppose.

Saturday, my dad, my sister and I went to a local mall to find work clothes for her. She's starting an internship this summer. After classes end, it will be her last college credit, the end of her degree. And my dad thought I should go along to help. She didn't need me, so I spent my time trying to find something to wear for a formal event my dad and I will attend as part of a big convention he attends each year in Philly.

I should have known better than to look for something formal in a mall in rural Pennsylvania. J.C. Penny had the largest selection: dresses with huge swathes of flowers accentuating your butt, or old lady dresses, peacock blue and covered in sequins, with a matching boxy jacket. And that was the best store in the mall.

My sister decided to check out B. Moss because she'd heard they had stylish clothes. They were probably the most stylish in the mall but carried nothing in my size. An employee tried to be helpful by announcing loudly, "The sizes in here run a size or two larger." While it's true I could zip up the dresses she was handing me, they weren't designed with a figure like mine in mind.

She tried so hard to help me that she didn't seem to understand when I told her that for me it was a triumph just to be able to try something on in a store like hers. There wasn't a huge sign out front reading "PLUS."

I'm taking Una to Brown Avenue Park to see what we find. She keeps dallying on the way, thinking each step is our destination. How right she is, although I in my foolish human wisdom think otherwise.

I used to ride over here on my bike almost every day in the summertime, spend the day in the swimming pool. How I stayed chubby is anybody's guess. I'd come home, breathless, having inhaled half the chlorine pool into my lungs, it would seem. And I didn't snack much, either, not having enough money to do more than get in the pool, most days.

From the amount of cars here there must be a baseball game going on. I remember my brother's baseball games, bringing out fold-up chairs and sitting on the sidelines, watching. He was so happy out on the field with his friends; and my friend Billie was the only girl on the team. She used to crack her gum and dance around in the outfield. My dad called her "Lucy." She didn't care.

My brother's baseball got a lot better once we got him glasses. He never knew what the right way to see was. He never knew there was something wrong until the glasses made it right. And he hit that ball straight and made the all-star team.

The outfield still looks the same. The infield, brown dust with chalk lines. A low fence to keep the grounders on the playing field. A lone ambulance, sitting by the bleachers. There's one field with a real scoreboard and bleachers. That's only for the best teams.

<sound of cheering, clapping> Somebody just made a base hit.

There's a creek back here we used to come and look at. Look, Una, look! It's a few degrees cooler here. <more cheering>

When my brother's team would win, we'd go get ice cream at the Tastee Freez. Sometimes we'd go even if they lost...

It's funny how long I've been avoiding places like this in this town, where all these people gather. I still feel frozen out; they don't notice me except for the occasional glare. "Intruder, intruder! Her tie dye! Her wild hair!"

The people around here do everything they can do to keep from meeting your eyes. I really don't know if they do it with each other, as well, or just with me. To find people more taciturn, you'd have to move to Minnesota. I should know. I've been there.

Una's happy anyway. Smell of vinegar on French fries. People cheering for their young athletes, maybe the one time they'll have in their lives to shine. I don't remember my brother being this young when he played. They're all so small.

Una and I head back from the park, across the street. As we are leaving the park, there is one woman, about 26, long dark hair, sunglasses, smiling so cheerily I just have to say hi to her. She says"hi" with a big smile and then promptly turns her head away to watch her son, as if she's transgressed.

I guess I don't dislike this town. Resent it. Feel estranged. Not exactly dislike. I wonder how many people feel that way about the towns they grew up in, all over America.

The one exception to the "no eye contact" rule is elderly people sitting on porches. They're used to the days when people took walks in the evening, greeted each other. To them it's perfectly natural, so they do it. Was it TV that killed that neighborliness? Once there was nothing better to do every evening than sit in front of the idiot box, was that when people stopped communicating with each other?

Una and I visit one of my favorite haunts: Harmony Cemetery. Just inside, a headstone of obvious age, faded slate, makes me curious, so I kneel and read the name: "William Stewart. 26 yrs, 6 mos, 14 dys."

Why is it I feel more connection to these people than to most who live here today, except my family, of course?

We're here to find my tree. My mom taught me to walk next to the headstones so you don't trample on anyone. Two broken headstones lean against a tree. Wrong tree.

And a little further on, I think that's it. I think that's my tree. No, mine was further in. You couldn't see it from the road.

"Sheep." There's a stone reading "Sheep."

"Bertha Krauss, born 1871, died Aug. 15, 1892." No, that's Margaret C. Miller. Bertha's buried there, too: 1877-1939.

All of these family names are still here today: Ritter, Miller, Kurtz, Noaker, Showers, Coup. Not Sheep, though. Clewell, Eisley, Wolfe, Karchner, Cromley.

Balliet, that's a name you don't see much any more. I saw someone named Malady earlier today.

No, I don't think that was my tree. But maybe it was. I always came up to it in the dark. I don't know.

Strine, Bubb, Noraconk.

There's my tree! It's great because at night you can't see it from any of the roads, and you can just sit there and relax, enjoy the quiet. But I never took note of who was around me. John S. Martz; Elmira Martz; Daniel S. Ginter; Sarah Jane, wife of Daniel S., March 8, 1839-March 10, 1909.

Elizabeth H. Gehrig, wife of John Dieffenderfer, died March 16, 1917, aged 65 yrs. And John H. Dieffenderfer, died January 8, 1897, aged 44 yrs, 6 mos and 10 dys. And George H. Dieffenderfer, died March 10, 1877, aged 2 months.

So calm right here. The breeze is always just perfect. "I watched the sun come up here before, Una."

Blessed be.

We make our way quietly out. Godcharles, that's a benevolent name. A bunny! And a cardinal! Wow.

Harmony Cemetery, great name.

What is this stone gate all about, the symbolism? Nobody leaves but those who can walk? Used to have an iron gate. You can see where the metal hinges are.

"When you were a puppy, I used to bring you here, Una, remember? Remember?"

She thinks she knows where she's going. She's leading me past the fabric company, the dye house, over the industrial railroad tracks, smell of tar, broken down houses. I didn't exactly live in the best part of town when I was a reporter here.

Then there's the steel company, bought by some Russians who promise to start it back up. I wonder what Una will do when we walk past the old house, which I'd nicknamed "The Crackhouse."

Una's going to run up to the porch and think we can go inside, and everything will be right back where it was three years ago. Not if I can help it.

I think my old house has turned into something of a drug haven. It was well on its way to that even when I lived there. I remember once checking the week's activity in the district justice office and discovering there'd been a knife fight in the street in front of The Crackhouse on a weekend I was away. Lovely.

There's the corner where my cat was killed. For months afterwards, you could still see the bloodstains. I think they've repaved it.

Una didn't even hesitate in front of The Crackhouse. Guess it's only me that has these hang-ups. The landlords still haven't reattached the mailbox to the wall on the porch. Probably haven't repaired one thing. <tape switches off>

Just talked a little bit to my former downstairs neighbor, David. He's a nice computer geek. He was telling me he just got an IBM 266, an upgrade from his IBM 200. He's real excited because he's on a local ISP, finally. He's what you might call a throwback; still dresses like he's from the '70s, too. Seventies computer geek with a penchant for yard sales and antique shows. Much better than the crackheads and crazies who lived in the other rented apartments.

And here we are, back downtown, having made a sort of lopsided circle. Una bounces on her toes, smiling at each new scent. I imagine what it must be like, seeing this town through her eyes. A wealth of flowers, and bees and other dogs. Maybe her memories are like that, too. A wealth of scents, most of them good.

Copyright 2003 by Alyce Wilson

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