Saturday, November 01, 2014
Poring over old images of a vanished town
After poring over old pictures of my home town in the windows of some boarded-over Main Street stores, I walk -all the way along the old drag, up the hill across Davis drive, to arrive at the old cemetery there. Boot Hill appears a city all to itself, a Newmarket old (and younger with recent arrivals), but they are dead nevertheless, their gravestones and mauseleums sometimes still flashing famous name, like Banting. I get a slight shiver, thinking of old novels, old plays, like Thornton Wilders "Our Town." The moving finger that affects us all, the wise old townies, the fools and knaves, the old Irish navvies who's worked in the now vanished pencil factory and tannery, the fourth-generation of UEL Tories from America who would lookdown on them.No lunks, drunks or punks! I think of my author friend, E.A. Monroe, from Norman, Oklahoma who writes about flashbacks to a vanished childhood... Perhaps like Emily, allowed to levitate from her grave talking to mother, sister and father out of her youth, but they can hear her not. The moving finger, the Egypian tombs, pictographs. Ibises. What will we need for the afterlife? Perhaps it's the Halloween just passed, or the Mexican Day of The Dead whose parades I'd often frequented in the San Miguel sun. Enough to spook you.