A Simpler Time

Remembering a simple time. A time that very few understand today. Just ask Google!

We had just celebrated the New Year. It was 1964, my favorite season, when hope seemed to sparkle brighter than frost. Christmas lights still stretched across the town square, and every evening the streetlamps glowed like the bonfire we had built on New Year’s Eve. I watched the smoke curl skyward, imagining it carried dreams to places I’d never see.
Today the whole town gathered for the opening of Big Spring Park. To honor the founders who settled our community seventy-five years earlier, the mayor planted a tree, calling it a promise of growth, courage, and prosperity.
That afternoon Dad came home smiling. He had earned a bonus for being the top salesman at Newmans Department Store. He announced we were celebrating at Bronco’s Steakhouse. I already knew my order: ribeye, baked potato, and a side salad. My meal cost $2.50, three times minimum wage, making me feel like royalty.
After dinner we finished assembling my train track. As the tiny engine circled the living room, I imagined adventures to faraway places like Wichita, Kansas, and Little Rock, Arkansas. My parents laughed, reminding me I was their “happy accident.” They always said I was special, and hearing others say it made me believe the world held a place just for me and all the kids in my special class at school.
Thirty years slipped by. My parents were gone. The pastor said they had gone somewhere special. I believed him because they had always spoken of my being special with such love.
Now each spring I read stories to children beneath that towering tree in the park. It has survived countless storms. So have I. Together we both remain rooted, reaching upward, always pressing forward, but never forgetting the past.
WC 290