Every time I revisit the little towns that nurtured me as I grew up, I am a bit overwhelmed by all the change. There are familiar sights but reframed. Once fading town squares have been renewed. In Waxahachie, the town of my High School alma mater, the old courthouse is now surrounded by new shops and restaurants. The old train station has been transformed into a cafe overlooking a new park and amphitheater. There is a trendy downtown feel to this new venue that exists alongside a timeless avenue garnished with an unchanged feed store, tractors and tourists. There is a sense of rootedness and progress colliding in the same corner.
Waxhachie’s courthouse as seen from the the historic Rodgers Street Bridge.
In High School, I spent a lot of time in this square parked in an old run down coffee shop full of second hand couches. Here, I listened to a shifting local cast of aspiring songwriters, musicians and poets. I debated interpretations of scripture and current events confident in my own unripe opinions. The owner of the coffee shop had made that place a refuge for the youth of the town. The town was smaller then. Each building had more of an unpreserved historic look.
Now, there are new trails that wind into areas that I had never explored. I feel a bit of heartache when I look at the old farm fields that have been replaced by an overwhelming cluster of homes or new roads in places that were once untamed. Then I think of the beauty of this place, a beauty now accessible to a larger group of people. I revisit my tiny home parish in its new large church. I think of summers dotted with festivals that celebrate the mundane in extraordinary fashion. I marvel over the town's ability to cling to tradition while embracing progress. I see the same scattering of churches spread throughout the town, fighting for the same souls with a single-sourced remedy dispersed through various degrees of dissolution and preservatives. I see the hope this place continues to offer.
My trips home tend to restore context to my current work. I digest the old and the new as I wander through Waxahachie with my family. I visit my Dad’s resting place in West and root myself in the memories of that place.
I am embraced by my family and remember all the stories that have fed me through the years. We spend a day on my aunt's ranch and the pressures of an unseen future fade away. For a moment, I am a kid again, along for the ride soaking in the joy of each rock, bump and creature. Each year it seems I come to this place in the midst of a new juncture. From this vantage point the journey I have taken feels distant and far-lung, yet I find comfort knowing the tracks look the same. I trip home eases the transition. These visits give me the space to gratefully look back and revel in the beauty of old paths revitalized and restored.
