Potato Memoirs

I hope everyone had a happy Thanksgiving. It's a holidy that has been stripped of it's original meaning (Genocide? The opressed becomming the opressors? Thanking a vindictive god for not flooding the world. Again.) It's a hollow holiday, and that's fine. It's hollow but fun.

I spent Thanksgiving this year in Pocatello, a city that I still consider my "hometown". I still know the city intimately, know the subtle way the lanes merge into each other, still know the quickest route.

Whenever I go there I get a vague sense of accomplishment. That I've gone "somewhere", done "something" with my life. I find it odd to still see the same people, working at the same place they had when I was growing up.

I drive by the house I grew up in. It was sold a few years ago, and It breaks my heart to see it now, yard overrun with weeds, elms growing where once they would be carefully pruned.

The thing is I find myself thinking that I could go back there when I'm old. To start my barber shop and probably die. I think it would be a nice bookend to my life. My youth and my old age in one place. That way if my memory ever fails me, it would still be familiar. Maybe.