You can TOO go back to your roots because I have. When we moved from the farm to my birthplace town, it brought back lots of nostalgic memories, like when I:
Played marbles in the springtime.
Went swimming in the "orange ade" pool.
Got banged up playing shiny on the frozen creek.
Learned the Latin prayers so I could be an altar boy.
Was a soda jerk at one of the local drug stores.
Delivered stuff on my bike to the ladies of ill repute.
Received a concussion playing sandlot football.
Visited the library to get another Bobbsey Twins book.
Caught my pants in the bicycle chain.
Washed whiskey bottles which were then sold to bootleggers.
Dished lots of double-dip 5� ice cream cones.
Picked violets by the railroad track for Mother's Day.
Squawked and squeaked on my metal clarinet.
Had an appendectomy in the hospital where I was born.
Tried to teach my dog, "Doc," to stay home.
Went to the depot to see the passenger train come in.
Shared a Three Musketeers bar with my two sisters on Saturday nights.
Built a crystal set.
Got homesick herding cattle eight miles from town.
Sold marbles in Bull Durham sacks.
Carried my lunch to school in a paper bag.
Tried hard (and futilely) to duplicate the Tarzan yell.
Saw 10� movies with a serial, too.
Interviewed Dizzy Dean for the high school paper.
Filched watermelons from a neighborhood patch.
Dug sand burs in the school yard.
Read Wild West Weekly.
Sang soprano in a duet. (The gal sang alto.)
Wrapped butter at the local creamery.
Melted lead in my mother's cook stove.
Fell on my face in a school play.
Trapped pocket gophers for the bounty.
Did lots of other foolish things too numerous to mention.
Yes, you can go home again, but � like a bad dream � memories of bygone years will flash before your eyes as they did for me.
Needless to say, they weren't all bad, though. Somehow I got by on the few cents I earned, and the ladies of ill repute didn't ask me in. I also didn't get caught in the watermelon patch.
� 2005 Robert F. Karolevitz