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| Elizabethtown, Illinois water tower |
It is tempting to wax nostalgic, paint the past with a broad rosy brush, fool yourself into believing that's how it was, the good old days, the days where good guys wore white hats. Choose your cliche, they're all misleading.
I know that. Still, I miss home. My idea of it, I mean.
When I was growing up, the mines were mostly functioning. People who wanted to work had jobs, although we always had an unemployment rate that staggered my college friends, privileged suburban kids who thought Illinois ended at Kankakee or Springfield.
It was a lovely place--still is. Nestled between the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers, most of this rural and hilly country is conserved in the Shawnee National Forest. Because it was fluorspar mined there, not coal, the land has not been terribly ravaged. We have cypress swamps, the ancient trees and their knees steeped in algae, with occasional plops from slimy swamp dwellers. In March and April, daffodils from long-ago homesteads bloom willy-nilly, then dogwood and redbud dot the hills. A few hardy souls actually farm, although only as supplemental income, not as a full-time profession. The primary employers now, as in so many rural areas, are the school system and the local hospital.
But the years have changed the place, and the years have changed me. I will always "look to the hills, from whence cometh my help" without apologizing for my slight punctuation change. I find God in the hills, first and foremost those of southern Illinois.
Since I can't really find a focus for this blog entry, I thought I'd just blather a little about the beauty from which I grew, then share a few photos that don't come close to the real thing.
May God keep the people and the place.
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| Hardin County Courthouse, with jail next door |
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| Good ol' Raines school bus |
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| I think this one is from Cave-in-Rock, but not sure--that's my river, though, that I do know. |
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| Happy Hour at the Iron Furnace |
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| Hogthief Creek |
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| The majestic Ohio |
1 comment:
Frequently, I find myself torn between loving where I came from and loathing it. I love my particular family home, but the small town and its mentality are not anything I miss in any way, and yet I return there again and again to visit with friends, visit my family, and even to participate in projects aimed to rejuvenate the place. I feel closest to God, still, at the back of parents' woods and I miss the childlike innocence with which I used to hope and dream of meeting the Native Americans I was sure lived back there. Thanks for making me think about home today, since I'm headed there for Catholic Mass and green beers with friends.
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