The fog was oppressively thick as I left my dad’s house and headed toward Southern Kansas. I’d start the day a bit grumpy as I rolled in to get gas at Costco before they opened. So, I wasn’t in the greatest state of mind to begin with as I headed toward my childhood home in Rose Hill, Kansas.
My parents built this home in the 1970s. Across the street was 40 acres of wheat, and next door was 80 acres of cows. In some ways, it was an idealistic childhood in the country. I spent hours upon hours in the middle of the wheatfield where a dry creek bed cut through hedgerow trees with several abandoned cars from the 1940s.
It was sad to see that the house wasn’t in the greatest of shape, and I was heartbroken to see that my basketball goal was long gone. While the house and the feelings of sadness were intense, it was nothing compared to what I would experience when I drove through the neighborhood that now stands where my wheatfield and old cars once stood.
The dry creek bed remains to help move rainwater away from the neighborhood, but the hedgerow trees and the old cars are long gone.
It took me a few moments to process the reality that what I was looking at was the place where I spent so many hours as a child.
Then, it hit me like a ton of bricks.
That tree.
Was not there when I was a child.
A full-grown fucking tree.
I had to sit down. I felt so old.
After a while, the feeling began to pass, and I headed to discover that the gym where I played and fell in love with basketball is now a rec center.
Oh well. All things change, eventually.