The other day I drove by my high school. It has been totally rebuilt and is completely different. If I hadn’t known where it was I would have driven right by it. I am sure it is all bright and shiny inside and the students who are there are probably numb to the change since they may not have seen the old one. The school was probably too small and too outdated to do anything with as it was built in the sixties and was modern by those standards and not by the current ones.
On the same day, I drove by the house where I spent the first 14 years of my life. My first impression was that it was a lot smaller than I remembered it to be. I will always have fond memories of that house despite its size, and it will always be in my dreams. In many ways I wish I could be in that house now as an adult, but since we moved many years ago, my mother no longer owns it so unless I make a lot more money and it goes up for sale that won’t happen.
I get kind of melancholy when I think of my childhood. As I have said before, I don’t remember much, but what I do remember means a lot. There are snatches of memories, good and bad, that come about from time to time, and the houses I grew up in and the school I attended are where most of them occurred. Those memories are probably colored by a perception of what age I was at the time the original event occurred, and it comes as somewhat of a shock to go to that place again and have my memory shattered by a realistic view of current time.