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Nostalgia? Sometimes, well, it feels a bit like an addiction for me. There are days when the desire to crawl into those old photographs nearly mimics physical pain. Were Elon to announce tomorrow that he had perfected the time machine and was taking orders? I’d be among the first in line. I know, of course, that I am enchanted only with the Norman Rockwell version of yesterday: pastel Americana, free of the troubles of today. Free, also, of the troubles of the past.
On a recent Saturday I ventured down to the Federalsburg Historical Society’s fine museum. To those who haven’t yet visited, you owe it to yourself to stop by. And I’d suggest stopping by on a regular basis as the exhibits change. Most recently I wanted to take a close look at the photos showing the great floods the town once suffered. My grandfather related as to how he had ridden in a rowboat with several other fellows, right down Main Street, and their photo appeared in a Baltimore paper. Alas, there are several such pictures on display but none had the familiar face of my Pop-Pop. That far from means that my stop was in vain. One image in that collection stuck with me in particular; it wasn’t taken during a flood. Just an everyday scene showing two gentleman on a bench in front of a service station downtown. I focused in on the older of them: somewhat lanky, holding a tired posture and a cigarette between his lips. What of him?
He lived in a drafty old house; never dreaming of central air conditioning, winters might have involved gathering around nothing more modern than a Siegler stove. Hardship? The temperature under his roof was only the beginning. He may, himself, have fought in the Great War. Had he lost a son at Normandy? Certainly, he had close family who died from “consumption”. This man had endured the depression, feared polio, experienced heartbreak. Surely, I wouldn’t desire to trod down that street in those shoes?
As I studied the photo, I thought of what he would think of today. The building still stands, where he was sitting, but rather than being a Sunoco station it is now a pizza place. What would he say to that? Once there were a half-dozen gas stations down there; now there is only one, where you have to pump for yourself. Over his shoulder is a sign pointing the way to Rehoboth and Ocean City. Long obsolete, now that the bypass is built. City folks don’t stop down there anymore for a fill-up, a bottle of pop, and directions to Salisbury. Oh, today they still come close: on a Sunday afternoon I see those Virginia and DC plates, their mapping programs steering them around Federalsburg to avoid backups on 404. Many will stop at the Royal Farms out at the edge of town. What would that old fellow think of that? “They’ve got more pumps than we had in the whole town! And fried chicken!”
No, I don’t want to be that man. I don’t want his addiction to Lucky Strikes. I don’t want the challenges he walked through. No, I want other things in that photo. The old signs, the curvy cars, the department store and movie theater in this small town. Ah, yes, that’s it: I want to walk through that place that supported all those locally-owned businesses. That place was clean, with tidy homes on every street. There was pride and there was assurance that tomorrow would be better than today, because we were going to make it all so.
That. Boiled so far down, well, could we not live like that again? Care enough, put in the hard work. Put down the phone, crawl out of that La-Z-Boy, dare to leave the AC long enough to build, to support, our community. If enough folks join in...I just might cure my nostalgia addiction!
