Memories vs. Reality

I'm starting this post without naming it, because, quite frankly, I don't know what direction it will take. I see that it's been a month since my last post. I know that I promised last time that I wouldn't wait so long in between. I have however been somewhat busy. Also, they blocked blogs at work so unless it has a dot com at the end I can't get it. Which is good, because I'm supposed to be ummm working. It's is at work that I get ideas for blogs. Since they haven't taken away my pen and paper, I'll have to start jotting notes the old fashioned way.

I drove through the country the other day where I grew up. While it is only probably 45 minutes away, I haven't been back there in several years. It was a cold, rainy day and the fall colors were at their peak. As I drove past houses and farms I was struck by how much things had changed. Some homes were only slight different but some were...for lack of a better word, just sad. For example, growing up I rode the school bus for 1 hour on the way to school. Along the bus route was a large cattle farm. This family had several different farms, including one big operation where the "main house" was. The grandparents rambler was there as were two small rentals. One was the home of my best friend. I loved to go there. It reminded me of the farms you saw on TV. All the buildings on all of their farms were painted the same color, a goldish yellow. You knew whose property you were on just by the color. Everything was well groomed and prestigious. I was sort of envious. Fast forward 25 years. I was shocked to see the condition of the buildings. All were in desperate need of paint. There were no cattle present. It made me sad and I wished that I hadn't driven past. I liked my memories better then reality.

As I continued down this country road, I drove by the cemetery where my mom is buried. Our family headstone is one of the closest to the road and you can read our name quite clearly. I didn't stop as I was on some one else's time schedule. I haven't been to visit her grave for many years and I felt guilty.

I continued up the road about 1 mile and saw the house that I grew up in. It was sold to a member of our family and I was very pleased to see that they had taken great care of it. I didn't stop there either.

I wondered if this little visit would have been lost on me if I went back more often? Would I have been hit with such guilt and nostalgia?