Growing up in this small town was a privilege. Walking on the old railroad bed, flying down the lake hill on my bike, participating in the parade with old Station 10 — those were the days. I miss watching the stars, the wonder of hiking at Gold Head and bomb pops in the kiddie pool. I could always count on my older brothers to have some fun or at least exciting activity planned outside, ranging from baseball to bonfires.
There were birds aplenty, waking me up in the morning with their cheery chirps, dashing back and forth on their all-important business of providing for their young. Mama’s homecooked meals and church in the evening — ah! Could life get any better?
Eight years later, I’m still here. Yet, this isn’t the same town I knew when I was young. The railroad bed is paved over; lone spikes and a rare heavy rail buried in the undergrowth are all that remain to pay tribute to a vital part of old Florida. The lake hill isn’t half as thrilling as it used to be, and the lakebed is longer than the hill itself now. Station 10 is no longer there, a distant memory of good times past, good men told their services were not needed any more.
The stars, well, I know they are still there, but I can’t see them. New construction, massive expansions, blot out the night sky in a milky white haze. Gold Head remains a natural wonder, but it is dry and dead, the spring fed creek barely flowing through the shady ravine. I can buy bomb pops now, but they lost their excitement and delight. My older brothers have moved out and moved on, leaving myself as the youngest wondering what path I should take. I used to know what I wanted, but the baseball bats lay dusty in the shed and the firepit sits abandoned.
There are less birds now, significantly less, in fact. So many trees, so much acreage, quickly cleared and houses built. The birds still sing, but it is a bittersweet melody to my ears. And yes, Mama makes her homecooked meals, but the bustle and fun confusion of having all the siblings there, isn’t. Church is still important, but I no longer wait impatiently to rush out the door and climb in the van. I drive myself there now, in my own vehicle, and sometimes it’s hard to go.
Could life really be as good as I remembered it? Eight years later, I’m still here. I’m no longer a young boy, innocent and full of hope and wonder. I’ve made many mistakes, done things I wish I could take back. I’m an adult now. A young man. And this town has changed, yes. But I’ve changed, too. And it’s hard to watch. I’ve come to realize though, at the end of the day, this small town will always be home.
Small Town Teen
Keystone Heights
