Mt Juliet, Tennessee

What is it about hometowns that everyone reminisces about the old times? Defined by the place that I last possessed my innocence and ignorance, my hometown was a world in itself; completely independent and bustling with it own culture and charm. Complications did not exist, except those I created. In my mind, at least.

Road trips with my father were always a trip down memory lane, but that is the way it always has been. “That pond over there is where your uncle and I used to ski behind a row boat with a tiny motor,” I can still here my father saying as we would drive into world, Big Rapids, Michigan. That is where he spent eighteen years of his life; my childhood was not that way.

Meeting others, a question easily asked is, “Where are you from?” Sounds like a simple question, or one would think. I moved from town to town as a child, every few years, on to a new town. Each one was more exciting, each one different, and each one with its own charm. Where I call my hometown is a place a merit, every locale an icon planted firmly in my mind. Those memories are what keep me going back to Mount Juliet, Tennessee, the placed that embraced my innocence.

When I drive into town to visit my parents, I always ask whoever is with me, “Let me take you down a road of shear excitement.” Although like a roller coaster at times, I have a different experience driving that road, I can picture every inch as if it were a Polaroid. Approaching on Central Pike, the remnants of what used to be somebody’s barn or garage now lies rotted, with the green slats that were once the roof now lying on the ground, not touched in years. The road swerves radically left then immediately back to the right, a crazy s-turn that has claimed many cars unaware at night. That marks the entrance; a sharp left turn puts you onto the road, which will lead you on the ride of your life. Sloping upwards, it takes you steadily up a very long straight away leading to the blind crest of a hill. Accelerator to the floor, I must hit 60, as my stomach drops out into weightlessness. A quick drop, then straight back up for another, this time I better pay attention the road takes an extremely sharp right turn after the hill. There it goes again my stomach is gone. This must be what grand turismo racing is like, making the hard right, the tires screeching as the grip the road. Without a pause, I spin the wheel back to left, barely giving the tires time to settle from the last turn into the next. Better take it easy around this one though; dad smashed his truck on this turn before, never saw that little blue Ford Ranger coming. Another hundred yards, again back to left, better take it easy now people live in this area. It doesn’t look like they do, but there are houses with fences or what once were. Now the weeds just grow around them. Spinning the wheel back to the right, tires still screaming as if someone were blowing a whistle. A short stretch remains, only one turn left, and then the ride will be over. Now hard to the left, hit the gas as I round the turn with a sprint to the finish. Better not take it too fast though, the sheriff likes to sit behind that ole church, just waiting for speeders. He got me once, but not this time.
Was that really seven years ago, I used to make that mile stretch of windy road every night after work, making the next turn slowly back onto the road home, glancing out my left window to ensure Deputy Shelton does is not waiting.

Off to the left, a dilapidated shack of a house remains. It was famous at one time, the place the “Bubba Can Dance” video was filmed, still looks the same, a few more bushes and weeds, but nonetheless the same. They really should take that green plastic down off the front porch. It has always looked so tacky, yet it adds to its charm.

Shifting to the right, there is old man MacAdams’ ranch. Looks likes he’s been out here lately, he was always fixing that old slave wall of his. Stretching one hundred yards, stones hand placed over a century stands like an icon to all the history possessed in those short stretches of road. Next to the huge blossoming Maple a beautifully crafted arch lifts the wall over where a budding stream emerges to carry life to other regions of my world. Every time a hefty storm would come through the stream would take that wall right with it. It’s still intact this time though. Approaching the far side of the wall, I know I must turn left now into the neighborhood. I could make this trip with my eyes closed. Just before the turn though, I glance to the right, he’s still there, that poor dog must be twenty years old by now. Still thinks of himself as one of the goats; that dog always did keep a watchful eye on them.

Peering off to the left, I wonder if Alyssa and David continue to live there. Their parents always kept that giant brick house looking so nice. We used to have so much fun exploring those woods behind our houses. One summer we built a tree fort built with our bare hands, using it as a base point to spread off and lead our expeditions into the unknown. Many endeavors would lead us to the caves back in those woods. Now it seems like it was a movie, us three led by my golden retriever, Alex, trekking off into the woods always on a new mission. Sometimes we would be at war with whatever lies out there, we dominated those possums. Using that fort as base, we led some of the most successful battles of all time, we were unstoppable, and nothing could match us for miles, not in that world.

That is just one short stretch of road leading into the places in my world. Each and every one has its own memories. Each one has its special meaning. The place I had my first kiss, first beer, and the last goodbye as I left. It’s the people that certainly define a place, however it is the memories of those people that characterize Mount Juliet, Tennessee as home to me.

I return from time to time as my parents still live there, although I did for only five years. Those memories make it home to me. It’s still its own world in my mind, the world that was dominated by me. That world is where I left my innocence and moved on to the next world that lie ahead of me, earth. Although there is nowhere that will ever replace my hometown, that world is now incorporated into today. My hometown is what me who I am, if molded as it stripped me of my innocence to make me a man.

Scott D

Submitted: Wednesday 25th February 2004, 11:02 PM

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