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joegodaThere was, in my small town in Indiana, a store. And it was MY town, as much as a town can be owned by any one person. I knew the depth and breadth of it, the air of it, the grass of it. I knew it's dark underbelly and it high walls. I tasted of it's flesh and drank of it's blood.
This store, which is long gone by now, was not the Woolworths that was down the street. It was not the Sears which came along later. And it was not some fancy tiled floor shiny place where everything was neatly arranged on rows and shelves.
It was one of those old, old, old, two-storied buildings that had been there a little after the town was built, back during the Confederate uprising. Wood floors, tin ceilings, antiquated heating and cooling. It is the one place my mind goes to when I think of early childhood, and the good things that were in it.
Now, it wasn't where I spent my first quarter, but it was where I bought my first 45 record. It wasn't the place my father took me to, to taste my very first chili burger and fries, but it was the place where children could run rampant through the toy department, supervised only by their manners. And, it wasn't the place where I got my icecream, my shoes, my fancy suit that my brothers and I would wear when we went out to dinner.
What it was, you see, was a sense of smell. It was sight of color and subtle drama between the outside world and the inside world. Walking through the front door was heaven, regardless of summer or winter.
This place roasted their own cashews. That was the first smell that won my heart. The second was the smell of leather, because they not only cobbled, but they saddled as well. The third is the sound of steam thought the old pipes that lead to the radiators, or the coolers, depending. The hiss of steam is embedded in the smells of the place.
Now, there were the textures of fabrics, bolt upon bolt upon bolt. It's where my mother would buy her fabric, and she would stand and haggle with the women behind the counter over the price because it was something you could do then. Haggle.
Colors have texture, and vice versa. Red does not feel like blue. Blue does not feel like mint. They all smell and feel different. It was where I learned to smell colors, and hear textures, because textures all sound different, too.
If I was to point my finger on one place and hold it in the palm of memory, this would be the place. No other place, be it the Lincoln Memorial in DC, or the Ba Hai Temple in India, hold as close a spot in my heart or mind as this one. No other place has rippled through my memory time after time. No other place is more responsible for making me who I am.
It is gone now, at least physically. All things change and move on, and the world does not abide slackers and holders on. It will move regardless and carry you either into the stream or dump you with the flotsam.
Tonight, with my bestest chums, I raised a toast to love, to friends, to family, and to legends.
I think, in all honesty and seriousness, I should raise a glass to this building as well. This anonymous monument to childhood's dreaming, for what it gave me, without knowing. And so I do. Here. Now.
"To those not here, but never gone, for in our hearts, they linger on."
And I raise the glass to you, and you, and you as well. You have all created legends, and you have all become my friends, my family.
And especially to the cynics out there. I don't think there is anyone that could really out cynic me. Though I will say this; being a cynic is all right, just don't take yourself to seriously. Cuz if you close your heart, it's damn hard to open it again. And if you can and do out cynic me, I hope that you have as incredible and adventure as I have had, and am stil having. If your heart is frozen, and stopped, then by gom, I hope someone comes along an breaks it for you, just so they can pick it up and restart it.
This store, which is long gone by now, was not the Woolworths that was down the street. It was not the Sears which came along later. And it was not some fancy tiled floor shiny place where everything was neatly arranged on rows and shelves.
It was one of those old, old, old, two-storied buildings that had been there a little after the town was built, back during the Confederate uprising. Wood floors, tin ceilings, antiquated heating and cooling. It is the one place my mind goes to when I think of early childhood, and the good things that were in it.
Now, it wasn't where I spent my first quarter, but it was where I bought my first 45 record. It wasn't the place my father took me to, to taste my very first chili burger and fries, but it was the place where children could run rampant through the toy department, supervised only by their manners. And, it wasn't the place where I got my icecream, my shoes, my fancy suit that my brothers and I would wear when we went out to dinner.
What it was, you see, was a sense of smell. It was sight of color and subtle drama between the outside world and the inside world. Walking through the front door was heaven, regardless of summer or winter.
This place roasted their own cashews. That was the first smell that won my heart. The second was the smell of leather, because they not only cobbled, but they saddled as well. The third is the sound of steam thought the old pipes that lead to the radiators, or the coolers, depending. The hiss of steam is embedded in the smells of the place.
Now, there were the textures of fabrics, bolt upon bolt upon bolt. It's where my mother would buy her fabric, and she would stand and haggle with the women behind the counter over the price because it was something you could do then. Haggle.
Colors have texture, and vice versa. Red does not feel like blue. Blue does not feel like mint. They all smell and feel different. It was where I learned to smell colors, and hear textures, because textures all sound different, too.
If I was to point my finger on one place and hold it in the palm of memory, this would be the place. No other place, be it the Lincoln Memorial in DC, or the Ba Hai Temple in India, hold as close a spot in my heart or mind as this one. No other place has rippled through my memory time after time. No other place is more responsible for making me who I am.
It is gone now, at least physically. All things change and move on, and the world does not abide slackers and holders on. It will move regardless and carry you either into the stream or dump you with the flotsam.
Tonight, with my bestest chums, I raised a toast to love, to friends, to family, and to legends.
I think, in all honesty and seriousness, I should raise a glass to this building as well. This anonymous monument to childhood's dreaming, for what it gave me, without knowing. And so I do. Here. Now.
"To those not here, but never gone, for in our hearts, they linger on."
And I raise the glass to you, and you, and you as well. You have all created legends, and you have all become my friends, my family.
And especially to the cynics out there. I don't think there is anyone that could really out cynic me. Though I will say this; being a cynic is all right, just don't take yourself to seriously. Cuz if you close your heart, it's damn hard to open it again. And if you can and do out cynic me, I hope that you have as incredible and adventure as I have had, and am stil having. If your heart is frozen, and stopped, then by gom, I hope someone comes along an breaks it for you, just so they can pick it up and restart it.
