In the middle of an old town in the middle of a grand nation there is a changing light that hangs in the middle of a cross section of two highways that carry old cars off into the horizon to meet the sunset.
An old Model-T has been known to hover over that old blacktop carrying a family to a service early on a Sunday morn as the sun rises in the east and cuts through the low hanging purple clouds.
That same car, summers ago, may have been placed on that same road carrying a corral of hearty young boys raisin Cain on Saturday night fresh off from farm duty. The same damp air that shrouded their bodies in a stuffy hay mow that adorned those bodies with the sweat of a good day’s work now envelops them in an expectant feeling as stars pepper the sky and aftershave stains their loose white collars.
That same crossroads was the place that the town would gather for a parade; lining the sidewalks with lawn chairs and gleaming young faces set wide with teeming young eyes awaiting the moment that sailors in all-whites would cross and firecrackers could be seen atop the two story business buildings that reached toward the heavens with hopes this year of more booms than busts.
Its said that those stars not only shone down to touch light upon the broad shoulders of boys, but they would dance across the sky one time ago as a hopeful courting couple would lay in the dead night’s streets as they claimed those stars with open and hopeful hearts.
Any old one stop light town is jus’ as good as any other, so don’t hold that again’ my story none.