Major minors

Dayton welcomed a minor league baseball team after I no longer lived in the area. My parents may have moved away by then too. So, until last night I'd never been to a game at Fifth Third Field to see the Class A Dayton Dragons. Adding to my reasons for never having attended a game there: the first season sold out before any games were played, and I'd heard they were perpetually sold out. I hadn't heard incorrectly. Apparently they've sold out every game since the team began playing in 2000.

Having read an article about the franchise being on the verge of breaking the North American professional sports record for consecutive sellouts, I decided that the time had come for me to drive over to Dayton to see a game. My great aunt fell and broke her hip recently, so I felt like I needed to go back there to visit her. Going to a ballgame would just be a way of maximizing the trip.

As it turns out, last night's game was the record breaker: #815. I swear I didn't know this. I thought they broke it last weekend. While the team easily exceeded capacity in ticket sales, those like me who just needed one seat could still find scattered spots. I ended up in the first row of the upper deck, which provided the added benefit of as much leg room as I could ask for.

I'd been to the ballpark once before. My dad stopped there and we walked around on the way back to my parents' home from a Reds game. The stadium was under construction at the time, so it was easy enough to walk into what would become the outfield seating area and see what progress had been made. Until last night that was the only time I'd seen the place.

I arrived closer to first pitch than I preferred, and I didn't have a chance to look around the bordering area to see how it's thrived since the team's arrival. Based on some other parts of downtown Dayton that I've seen, this portion has definitely fared a lot better.

When it comes to minor league games, I can't say that I have a vested interest in who wins. The Dragons are a Cincinnati Reds affiliate, but old hometown loyalty was the main factor in my cheering on the team. (Plus, to do otherwise would have been rude.) I was there simply to enjoy a fine night outside watching baseball.

In this respect the Dragons management mount a worthwhile production. Maybe it's being overly familiar with (and mostly bored by) the between innings shenanigans at Reds games and unfamiliar with the Dragons way of doing things, but this minor league team seemed more inspired with how they passed the downtime. Granted, they're not dealing with breaks as long as those in the big leagues. They're also not facing as many restrictions that would prevent an MLB team from having kids race Big Wheels from first to third or putting three toddlers onto a padded racetrack in the third base foul territory. The toddler race might have been the best of the activities because it didn't work. The kids knocked their helmets off and basically refused to perform.

After the end of the fifth, when the game was now official, the announcement came that the Dragons had broken the consecutive sellout record of 814 previously owned by the NBA's Portland Trail Blazers. Balloons were released, and streamers were shot into the stands. The Dragons came onto the field and applauded the fans. At this level the players turn over on the team far more than in the majors. I doubt anyone out there was in Dayton five years ago, let alone when the streak started. That doesn't matter. The message was clear that the organization is grateful for how the community has embraced the team.

I would have loved it if this team had been in place when I was growing up. The Reds are about an hour's drive from my hometown, and they would have still been my primary team. Still, to have a local team that you could seen more frequently and for less money would have been a dream. I imagine as a teenager I would have made a point to go to games as much as possible.

I haven't lived in the Dayton area since 1993, but I want to see it do well. I know it's been hit hard by losses in manufacturing, and parts of town definitely look the worse for wear than what I remember. Going to the ballpark, though, let me take some pride in what used to be home and know that the dedication I feel for my chosen teams seems to be consistent with how people there accept their teams.

I don't need to drive to Dayton to see professional baseball. The Reds, much as they're aggravating me these days, will always be where most of my fanatical baseball energies will be focused. Columbus has a minor league team and a nice new stadium of its own. Who knows when I'll be back to a game in Dayton again. Every now and then, though, it'd be nice to return and see how a sport I love has blossomed where I used to live.

The Neon

When I decided to return to my old stomping grounds in the Miami Valley for the day, my plans included going to the University of Dayton basketball game and visiting my great aunt on the farm. Out of curiosity I checked to see what downtown Dayton's arthouse theater was showing and discovered that it was playing a film that hasn't yet opened in Columbus. Catching a noontime matinee fit into my schedule, so I added it to the itinerary.

I didn't see a huge number of films at The Neon, but it was an influential place in terms of exposing me to another world of films beyond the mall and multiplex screens...or tipping off my friends to stuff that would filter its way into family room VCRs when we hung out. Whatever art movies they were showing--and I imagine some of them were nonthreatening costume dramas--to my teenage mind there was a bit of danger or subversion in what they showed. The Cook, the Thief, His Wife and Her Lover and Orlando, to name two, were not the sorts of things that would be available to you under the same roof as Waldenbooks and Camelot Records. (Come to think of it, I've still not seen either of those.) Being in the middle of the city's downtown also added to the perception of it being a place outside the safety of the suburbs.

I specifically recall seeing two drastically different films there--the gorefest Dead Alive and the urbane comedy Barcelona. Seeing that latter film was what I did on the night of my 21st birthday. Considering how much it and that director's movies would come to mean to me, I couldn't have made a better choice to spend that milestone birthday watching it.

After I'd settled in Columbus, I did go back to sample one of The Neon's Cinerama screenings in the late '90s. During one of the last Christmastimes that my parents were living in my hometown, I took my mom there to see Life is Beautiful. Late December 1998 must be the last time I'd been in this theater. Wow, it's been that long?

Revisiting the theater after all this time was a nice reminder of pleasant memories. And how's this for confirming my teenage perception of it as a place that took risks? The first two trailers--I Love You Phillip Morris and Blue Valentine-- were for films that had been candidates for the NC-17 rating.

The movie I saw, Made in Dagenham, was just okay. Regardless, I still enjoyed being in a theater that helped shape my idea of what movies could be beyond what was more readily available. Considering the difficulty in operating an independent cinema with just two houses and showing specialty films, I'm glad to see that it's still there and appears to be successful.

Stalled

I wanted a second opinion from my dad about what I believed to be a leaky front rear tire on my car, but other than that I was ready to hit the road and return home this morning. Then a funny thing happened. Click click click. The car wouldn't turn over. The battery was dead. Sure, it had been chilly the previous few days, but it wasn't that cold.

The mechanic in my parents' small town is only a few blocks away, so we jumpstarted my car and took it over to be checked out. Answers: the battery was bad, and the tire I had refilled on Thanksgiving was low. So the morning hours I intended to spend on the road found the car getting an oil change, a new battery, and a patched tire. All three were needed, but before this morning I was only certain of the first.

Walking to my parents' house and back to the mechanic's, I felt a twinge of longing for the small town experience. I also felt it when briefly strolling the streets of Blackduck, Minnesota this summer or walking the main drag in Cooperstown, New York.

I grew up in a small town with its short Main Street and sense of self-containment. As a kid that was an appealing quality. I had a small, set aside place that I could wander without restriction. There was a feeling of belonging somewhere that sort of existed as an island among the fields of corn and soybeans. What was great for me as a kid probably would feel stifling as an adult.

There's a reason why movies and TV (and politicians) tend to romanticize such places. At a time when people in general feel like they have less control over what happens in their lives, wouldn't it be great to live where everyone knows one another and pulls together with a cheerful, harmonious community pride? Wouldn't it be great to be able to walk out your front door and get a bite to eat at a small, local restaurant where you are known by name and lineage and where you can pop into the single screen movie theater that's a mere stone's throw away?

Yeah, that would be great, but that's not necessarily what small towns are but what they're idealized as being. I've seen the movies and know how these places are portrayed is mostly bunk, yet there I was still wanting to believe the beautiful lie.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that small towns are terrible places. I'll likely always have some affection for these little burgs and dream of their imaginary perfection. Visiting, not residing, allows such charms to remain rooted.

Under the radar

Last Monday I went to the Southern Theatre to see Joanna Newsom in concert. I'm not a hardcore fan--the album covers and vocal technique have put me off in the past--but I've been won over by her new triple album. That wouldn't necessarily be enough to get me to pony up for a ticket, but I'm sufficiently plugged in to know that this is a pretty big show by indie rock (or whatever you want to call it) standards. Her current tour either hits big cities or prominent college towns--I think Columbus qualifies as both--and this appearance means it's unlikely she'll pass through again anytime soon. So I took a chance, bought a ticket, and ended up really enjoying the concert.

Tonight I'm going to see The xx. (Chances are you've heard them in the AT&T commercial with Apolo Anton Ohno that ran during the Winter Olympics.) The buzzed about band's show has been sold out for some time and is another feather in the cap of local bookers. There are cities bigger than this one that aren't getting it.

Aside from the obvious reason of enjoying the music, I'm also attending because it means taking advantage of what this city has to offer. Staying in Columbus wasn't an automatic choice when I finished college, although I liked the area and preferred to stick around if all things were equal. As things turned out, I remained here and have been happy to do so. It has, for me, the ideal qualities of where I'd like to live: the feel of a smaller city and its ease of navigation with the cultural benefits of a large city.

Not every group or artist I'd like to see comes to town, and seeing any of the three major professional sports means driving a couple hours. Nevertheless, without driving more than fifteen or twenty miles I've been able to see plenty of bands and films and even world-renowned filmmakers that don't always visit places bigger than here. It is pretty remarkable the more I think about it.

Columbus doesn't have the cachet of Austin, Texas or Portland, Oregon. It's more like a well-kept secret, but I'd like to believe that those in the know appreciate this city beyond its reputation of a college football-crazy cowtown.

A grand day out

With a ticket for tonight's Dayton Flyers college basketball game providing the reason for returning near to my hometown area, I decided to make a full day of revisiting some old favorites and dropping in on a place unfamiliar to me. (Despite that statement, I didn't actually go to my hometown but cities close to the little burg.)

My first stop was for lunch. My love of barbecue and the ridiculous name of the newly opened restaurant motivated me to go here. OinkADoodleMoo in Englewood is sharing space with JD's Old Fashioned Frozen Custard. What a combination this place will be when warmer weather returns.

The barbecue was good. It's better than the national chain joints but not yet on the same level as City Barbecue, which I consider the local standard. That said, the smoky sweet sauce was a nice twist on what I'm accustomed to. They do beat the City in one area, though. Oink's kaiser roll easily tops City's regular white bun.

While the custard shop is closed for the season, their workers were present to fulfill holiday orders. Lucky me. I ordered a scoop of the peppermint. It was amazing. I don't recall this place being there when I lived nearby. Then again, I haven't been around much since midway through my time at college and very little since my parents moved out of state.

When I was looking for things to do during my brief visit, I kept returning to pizza. Having just polished off a good sandwich and great frozen custard, I wasn't hungry, but I figured I'd next get a pizza that I could bring home with me to eat this weekend. Such is the nostalgic pull of local food and eateries.

I've been partial to the Dayton chain Cassano's, although I'll admit to it lacking much substance. This time I thought I'd pop into Marion's Pizza, which was just around the corner from where I had lunch. Yes, I realize how silly it was to buy a pizza that was going directly into my car's trunk, but I can't remember the last time ate something from there. I got an individual size, not the least of which is because they only took cash, and will hopefully enjoy it on Saturday.

Their restuarants are known for having old photos of celebrities eating at their shops. The actors were in town for Kenley Players' summer stock productions. You might be able to pick out a few celebrities you recognize in the above photo I snapped at the Englewood Marion's.

Then it was off to the University of Dayton area for a little bit of browsing. Second Time Around was a place I'd go regularly with my friends to shop for used CDs. I was pleased to see that the store looks to be booming and that the neighborhood it's in has been built up since I was last there. A used CD store with decent selection can be a dangerous place, but I held myself in check and left with just two CDs, which I bought for the price that one of them alone would have been new.

A short walk up the street let me catch a glimpse of the UD campus, seen above, and pop into the fan store for all things Flyers. Then it was a a couple blocks' walk to Cassano's for some pizza that I would actually eat rather than squirreling away for another day.

Finally it was time for the main reason I'd come back here: the basketball game. My dad was a season ticket owner when I was growing up, so my affection for the team runs deep. I try to attend one game a season as a reminder of all the fun I had as a kid going to the games.

I did not have as good of a vantage point as you see in these pictures. (Best I could do was seven rows from the top. Keep in mind I even bought the ticket a couple weeks in advance.) The first was taken upon my entrance during pre-game warm-ups. The last was snapped near the end of the game after I had made my way down to stand at the back of the lower bowl. The idea was to be poised to see the final seconds tick off and then quickly hop outside to be in a prime position to catch one of the first shuttle buses to where I was parked. (The empty seats you see are the result of others doing the same.)

I had a delicious Mar-Chele soft pretzel. The Flyers won. What better way to cap a really good day that gave me tastes of home.

School days

Around here school starts in the next day or so for primary and secondary students. For the first time since its 1919 construction, the place where I attended elementary school, which at one time held K-12 classes, will not be opening its doors this fall or ever again for that matter.

Due to dwindling enrollment and the presence of a septic system rather than sewer service, the school district decided it was for the best economically to close the building and move the students to another school. Going by the newspaper articles and online comments appended to them, this has not been a popular choice with those who live where I grew up. Actually, it's kind of painful to read what they are saying.

The school is likely to auctioned off and torn down. The district offered it to the village for $1, but the proposal was rejected. Rightly so, I'm guessing. The cost of maintaining the property, even unused, probably made taking ownership an unwise move.

Although I no longer live there, haven't set foot inside that school since who knows when, and accept that the closure is probably a wise fiscal choice for the district, part of me is sad that its history has come to an end. To have a significant place in my life story shuttered makes me feel older than I am.

I can still see the inside of the school in my mind's eye and feel like I know it well. The ground floor, which was slightly recessed below the ground, housed both sixth grade classes and kindergarten. The gymnasium, kitchen facilities, library, and (I think) the only restrooms were there as well. I remember the cozy little coat room, a small white wooden space with a bright incandescent bulb, for the kindergarteners.

The next floor up had both first grade classrooms straddling the principal's office, two second grade classes, a third grade classroom, and the teacher's lounge. Was there only a single third grade class? I can't recall where it would have been in the building, but it must have been on the upper floor. (I'm really confused because I can't even think of the other third grade teacher's name, assuming there was one.) The second floor also had the pencil machine. I always loved putting in a coin and getting a pencil displaying an NFL team's name and colors.

The top floor had both fourth and fifth grade classes. The auditorium was also on the top floor, although it was above the gymnasium and required going up a few steps to get to it. That's where we had music class and school assemblies. It was the place for the talent show and school-wide events, such as showing animated films, projected on film, before going into breaks. The hard wooden chairs in the auditorium were never comfortable, but I have fond remembrances of that space.

I don't know that the memories I have of my time as a student there are all that specific. It's more of a vibe, one that's been surprisingly easy to tune into as I've been writing this entry. TB tests in the teacher's lounge, learning to play the recorder in music class on the auditorium stage, class lists posted on the sixth grade classroom's window that announced your teacher and classmates for the year... Beyond the facts and figures I learned in the building, those little flashes are things I am strangely fond of remembering.

I hate to see part of the village's history (and mine) disappear with the inevitable demolition of the building. My dad went there, and his parents may have too. (I really need to check on that.) The truth is, though, that even if not a brick remains, it's a place that can be as vivid to me as when I first entered the school.

City folks just don't get it

I grew up in a village surrounded by farm land, but I've been living in the suburbs of a big city since about halfway through my college years. In my hometown I roamed neighborhood streets without lane markings and ventured into a few locally-owned Main Street shops. My landscape now is four-lane roads and shopping centers with stores piled upon stores.

A student who received her degree at Sunday's commencement invited me to her graduation party tonight in her hometown. The celebration required driving about forty miles into the countryside, which isn't really that far although I hedged a little when contemplating whether to go. (I felt I should be there and am glad I attended, but that's irrelevant for the post's purpose.)

Seeing the flat fields and small towns along the way reminded me of where I'm from and how different life must be in the agricultural regions than it is in the city, even with not that much space separating the two. There was something thrilling about cutting through the country parallel to train tracks and disappointing in observing the crumbling burgs' downtowns.

I got to thinking about what these places have in common and composed a brief list:

-A Dairy Queen-like local business that sells ice cream, hamburgers, fries, and the like. The most important feature is a sign in the form of a soft serve ice cream cone with a curlicue.

-Local restaurants and/or bars whose signs feature the carbonated or alcoholic beverage served in type that is larger and more stylized (ie., a logo) than the establishment's name, which is usually in a small, basic font.

-A front yard packed with folk art for sale.

During the trip I spotted a Mail Pouch Barn, needed to readjust to driving on uncomfortably narrow and unlined county and township roads, and reflected on how different the college where I work and nearby city must seem to students who come from these areas. I may have grown up in a village, but the suburbs and Dayton were closer than comparable places are to where I was tonight.

Having been in the Columbus area for so long, where I'm from is now kind of foreign to me. For freshmen who live in small towns and come here for college, I can only imagine how much the reverse must be true.

School's out forever

Yesterday one of my brothers sent me a link about the closing of the elementary school we attended. It sounds like the school board made a fairly quick decision to shutter the 90-year-old building at the end of this academic year and send the students to another building in the district. The public was made aware of the proposal on January 12. The school board vote came on January 26.

It also sounds like many people from the village aren't too happy about this, including someone who circulated a forged letter to district parents with claims that the school would be closed even earlier. A commentary piece about the incident suggests that anger about the closure was born fifty-odd years ago when the district began to take shape and my hometown's school was brought under the umbrella.

My mom remarked that resentments and suspicions have lingered among the locals for a long time because of the feeling that those in the suburbs look down upon the rural farming community where I'm from. (I wrote about the place and the school while passing through it last March.) Growing up I heard such disparaging sentiments, although I don't remember it ever bothering me that much. We did live in what seemed like the middle of nowhere, but I can understand the sensitivity of those who felt like they were perceived as hicks by those in the booming suburbs.

Obviously this school closure has no direct impact on me. I no longer live there, and neither does my family. I'm certain I know some people who still are in the village, but I can't say if any of them are affected. So my reactions to it are based purely in nostalgia and a sense of loyalty to where I'm from.

When I wrote about seeing my hometown a year ago, I mentioned that I feared it was being left behind. It seemed that many buildings had been torn down and that the community's appearance gave the impression of a place having a rough go of it. News of the only school in town closing confirms that sense.

I understand that times are tough for school districts and that it may be more reasonable financially to close this building than do what's necessary to keep it open. I also understand why people distrust those making the decision. I am saddened to think that the school, the center of the community for almost a century, will be no longer. There's probably a very real fear that the village may be swallowed up by the township or a nearby suburb. Would that be better for the community? I don't know.

My grandmother and other relatives went to this school for every grade level. My father attended there up through his freshman year of high school (I think) until ninth through twelfth grade were no longer held in the building but moved to the district's one high school. My three brothers and I went there through sixth grade.

The kids who get moved and can no longer walk to school will be fine learning elsewhere. They will adjust even if the parents and older folks do not. Still, as someone with no vested interest in the matter, it's strange to see a part of my past, a place whose halls and rooms I can see like I was there yesterday, slipping away so early in life. My hometown is losing a school, but in my mind what's being lost is a building with personality (even if it's left standing) and the history of a village and family generations who were formed in these halls and classrooms.

Hometown remnants

The Brookville library

Tuesday's trip back to my hometown and other parts of southwestern Ohio yielded more than one post could contain, meaning I have a few other photos and reflections to add.

A note on the pictures: most of those taken in my hometown were shot pseudo-surreptitiously. Usually I sat in my car and snapped them quickly so as not to draw attention to myself. It didn't feel right to stand in front of other people's homes and near the school while aiming the camera. How strange to feel so exposed in such a familiar place.

The top picture is of one of my places of teenage employment. I had a few jobs prior to this--mowing the church lawn, working at the family business, umpiring Little League games-- but the library job in Brookville, about five miles away, was probably the first one for which I had to interview. I started it prior to my senior year of high school and quit sometime in the late fall/early winter. I already had a lot on my academic plate plus the stresses of the college search. If I'm being completely honest about my reasons for quiting, I should mention I was also angry that the head librarian was blaming me for misshelved books when I was certain it was a co-worker and the patrons themselves.

Except for the internet stations, the small library looks pretty much the same as it did years ago. I stopped in to use those computers to try and secure the basketball game ticket that my mom had yet to get. The friendly staff set me up since I no longer have a Dayton Metro Library card. (One must reserve a station, so I had to be assigned a visitor's random user number and PIN.) Who knows what they must have thought I was doing as I navigated the internet while using my cell phone to walk my mom through the ticket ordering process. It helps if you envision this scene with Dunkard women and children browsing the stacks.

Beyond my second home's backyard

Certainly I wasn't so bold as to go into the backyard to take this picture, so you need to imagine an empty field in front of that house rather than a dead patch of grass. The Dunkard family that used to live there (or still lives there for all I know) was a little more liberal in that they drove a light blue pick-up truck instead of a horse and buggy. I don't think the truck had a radio in it, but I don't remember. Their children, who dressed traditionally, went to school with me until they were permitted to be pulled out, which I want to say was after eighth grade.

Ball diamond in the neighboring park

This map should clarify the area we're talking about. The farmhouse was at the south end of the alley that extended the road that ended at our corner and was parallel to the community park. This diamond is a stone's throw from the yard on our home's west side. My dad, brothers, and I would sometimes take batting practice and shag flies on it. At one time it was used for Babe Ruth League baseball, but I think it was mostly for organized adult softball games when we lived there.

On the right in the distance you can see the building where the village offices were moved to. It used to be the community center. I can remember spending many Tuesday evenings there when my grandmother and great aunt served food to Rotary members while we played in the big back room. Tennis courts are next to it. In my later high school years I spent a good deal of time playing my dad and a brother on the concrete surface.

Not pictured but to the left of the diamond is the Hunters Club. Honestly, I don't really know much about it, but I recall that they would shoot clay pigeons on some Saturday mornings. It seems amazing to me that they would shoot so close to a park and homes, but unless I have a faulty memory, they indeed did this. Contrary as it might seem to where I grew up, I've never fired a gun and may never have held one.

I don't have any more Phillipsburg pictures left, but I have some others from the day trip that I'll post in a future entry. Library photo aside, it feels appropriate to let everything about the village stand on its own.

I didn't think I had this much to say about the place, but why wouldn't I have lots to write about the formative location in my life? Although my family no longer lives there, I have a feeling that I'll visit again at some point to cover the parts of town that I didn't photograph.

This process can be bittersweet, but it's useful as a way of understanding myself and for you to get to know me. From time to time I struggle with feeling like a fraud--as a professional, as a film critic--and I imagine that a large part of it stems from my roots. I'm not ashamed of them, but I feel it is necessary to respect them somehow. They are the hands that have shaped me, even if they are invisible.

My hometown

No home delivery here

Today's travels provided more content than one blog post can handle, so I'm going to limit this entry to photos of and reflections on my hometown.

Phillipsburg is a single stop light village in the western part of Ohio and the southern half of the state. This rural community is bordered by farms, but the suburbs probably aren't more than five to ten miles away.

Other than his time in college and the military, my father lived here his entire life until he and my mom moved in December 2000. His mother lived here or on a nearby farm her entire life, and I reckon the same is true for his father, although I faintly recall that he might have been born in Germany. My grandfather built the grain elevator in the middle of town, and he and my grandmother lived across the street in a house he also built. The family business had been in operation for fifty years when it closed in the mid-1990s.

Looking south on State Route 49 at Main St.

It was a sleepy little place to grow up, but I have no complaints. I was able to roam around on foot or bike without any worries. I could drop in at my grandmother's at any time, visit my dad at work and probably get a bottle of pop (or a can, eventually) from the old Pepsi machine, go to the ball fields at the community park or the elementary school playground practically out our front door, and wander to friends' homes. Chances are that I knew most people I might encounter in the village.

We lived at two different homes. Until I was in second grade we lived on Walnut Street on the east side of town. To the house's east was a large yard that was also directly behind the Lutheran church. It was big enough to practice baseball with my dad, although obviously a lot of room wasn't necessary because I wasn't very old while we lived there.

My first home

I'm beginning to wonder if I have my time line correct because there would have been three of us kids when I think we moved from this house, but I'm not sure where there would have been room for the youngest. Anyway, I shared the bedroom at the front left in the above photo. The house was becoming too small as brothers arrived, which was what led to a move to the west side of Phillipsburg.

My second home

Again I shared the front left bedroom, but the big excitement about moving here, aside from more space, was the above ground pool in the backyard. And we were a hop, skip, and a jump from the elementary school and park, but it was all about the pool for us kids. I remember when my parents looked at houses that they checked some older ones that weren't in the village limits. My big concern was that moving into an old house meant changing one's lifestyle to the olden ways, which was also the impression I had of how people lived in Virginia. (Apparently I assumed that things hadn't changed there since the days of Jamestown's founding.)

It was at this location that I wore out a patch on the east lawn (and later on the west side) throwing a tennis ball against the side of the house to practice pitching and fielding skills. Of course, it was also a time of dreaming of future athletic greatness and, I suppose, trying out sportscasting in my head as I imagined entire games and scenarios. Thinking about it now, I wonder how I didn't drive my parents crazy, even though it was my bedroom wall that I was throwing against. It was thump, thump, thump as I tried to pitch the ball just above the gas meter, although errant throws would go in the bushes or hit the tube coming down from the gutter. To my credit, I never broke a window, and I do have pretty good accuracy when it comes to throwing things.

Sign commemorating Phillipsburg's hometown hero

Baseball was my favorite sport as a kid, and I imagine if forced to commit, it's tops on my list now. Although I'm from a small place, a Hall of Famer called it home. Jesse Haines, who was from here and lived next to the Methodist church, is in Cooperstown. Undoubtedly, this was a big deal to a certain kid who dreamed of playing for the Reds.

The elementary school

I attended kindergarten through sixth grade at the old school pictured above. At one time it held classes through high school levels. (I'm fairly sure my dad went to high school for one year here.) Come August it was always a big deal to run to the front of the school to see if the teacher and class lists were taped to the inside of one of the sixth grade classroom windows.

Rear view of the school

This photo is similar to a view I would have had of the school from home, although I was next door in the park's parking lot. It should show how close we lived to it, though. I just now realized that the storage building that was next to where we played kickball is no longer there. (Throws fired at you en route to first base would ricochet off of it.) It's possible that it was torn down while I was still around and merely forgot, although passing through today I noticed that many lots had been cleared of what used to stand there.

Former site of the grain elevator

The family business was knocked down years ago, although it's still weird to go past the space where it once was and not see it. (It's stranger still to be there and realize that I would now be violating the posted no trespassing signs.) The old firehouse that had been across the street hasn't been there for ages, but I'm still not used to seeing a decorative bandstand in its spot.

The building where the small independent grocery store stood has been reduced to concrete rubble. If anyone in the family said they were going uptown, that's where they meant. In some ways the village looks the same and looks like the intervening years haven't been particularly kind.

I stopped by the bank--the only bank--to get some cash and had to go inside because it doesn't have an ATM. I was shocked that it still looked about how I remembered it. The tellers are behind old-timey bars that may well have been there since the bank opened in nineteen aught whenever. (I have no idea how long it's been there, but it looks like something out of an old movie.) The Toledo scale is still in there, for what purpose I don't recall. The classic looking vault is easily visible from the customer's side. I wish I'd asked if I could take a picture because it is really cool.

I mentioned to the teller that it didn't seem as though it had changed. She agreed that it hadn't. (The outside appearance is different, but that's not what is so striking about the bank.) We talked briefly about this place and that it seemed like a lot of buildings had been knocked down.

The Phillipsburg airport

I visited with a lot of mixed emotions. I have no ill feelings toward my tiny hometown, which I know is not true for a lot of people who grew up in spots like it. I didn't have any burning desire to stay there, but I wasn't looking to run from it as soon as possible either. It's a quiet, unassuming place where a kid could go day to day without feeling the outside worries of the world. This is the sort of place people laugh at, an attitude likely stemming from classism, but it served me well.

The water tower

This is not a fancy exurb by any means; it's probably even more working class and lower than I realized at the time. I have fond memories of the place, but it makes me sad to see the state that it is in. I know that growing up here had a lot to do with making me who I am. I suspect that I probably don't fit in here any longer, which is to say that what I want and what it offers are not the same. That doesn't mean I've betrayed the community but that it is, I fear, being left behind.

From time to time I think it helps to remember where we've come from. It reminds me where I get the slight twang in my voice. Growing up I didn't hear that mild southern (or midwestern, rather) accent, but it was unmistakable when listening to the people around me today. It reminds me of my foundation in hard work and humility. And yes, even though it no longer is, it reminds me of home.