I wrote a little yesterday but never completed the assignment. Daughter wanted our weekly breakfast yesterday and then a series of side quests caused me to go about my day. I’ve got about 100 drafts in my journaling that may never see the printing press. What’s on my mind one morning may not be writable the next. Often times my mood resets into something completely different and I’m unable to continue whatever I was thinking about the day before.

My thoughts be fleeting

Fleeting on tiny little feet

I had to report to Easley yesterday to have an accessory added to my truck along with a spare tire. A lot of my late childhood revolved around this area and as I was navigating to the traffic on 123 I decided to detour toward Powdersville and then my old stomping ground Piedmont.

I took the backroads off of 81 and puttered around the frontages of roads until I crossed over onto River Rd. My bus route took me along these back roads in middle and half my high school years until my friends were old enough to drive.

Detoured around the old Bentwood neighborhood where I had a handful of friends who lived sporadically along the curvy streets and cul de sacs. Slowed briefly around an old house a group of us used to party in our late teens owned by an older lady that sort of took us in. Sort of. As an adult I often look back at that house and wonder what exactly the fuck we were all doing there. 15-20 recent high school grads getting blasted on Long Island Ice teas and Michelobs.

It was weird man. Fun! But weird..

Drove by a few old houses of friends who are no longer friends and others who whose childhood homes were sold after their parents passed. At this age it’s quite a few. Some neighborhoods looked frozen in time while others looked almost post apocalypse.

Pulled over by the river and reminisced about fishing for carp and catfish with my cousins. Drove to my old step grandparent’s home by the old mill on Archie St. The streets seemed to have gotten narrower, I barely squeezed by a termite truck that was hugging the opposite curb. Flood of memories as I stopped at the steep porch of Ines and Frank, my stepfathers parent’s house for as far back as I can remember. The neighboring home housed many of the siblings of that family. I spent every summer and Christmas on that porch. Spent several weeks sleeping in the mudroom next to washer and dryer. The dining room was filled with a long rectangular table that always had food sitting on it and what seemed to be a passel of company sitting around the kitchen at all hours. The home always had full, warm energy up until Frank, the patriarch of the family became ill with lung cancer. It became a hospital room for a while then until he passed.

I liked Frank. Frank liked me too he was the only grandfather figure I ever had. He was always gentle to me, he was a large man. Would take me to the local hardware store with him and give me a dollar to buy candy . One day we drove to Columbia in his C-J 5 in the sleet and snow. Jeep had very little heat so he placed a wool blanket over my lap to stay warm. I was cold as hell but like I said I liked Frank.

And he liked me.

Frank’s funeral was the first I’d ever cried at.

Drove around the “downtown” area where I’d take my mom for lunch at the local meat and three and it was beyond closed. Awning ripped away from the frame, dull chipped brick and broken windows. My mom always got turkey and dressing, dinner roll and cobbler. It was the only time she could enjoy that type of meal she was always the one hosting the turkey day dinners. Anytime she would cook a big meal for all the family she’d stand by the kitchen table fanning herself off. We went a decade without HVAC in our old home. The table would be set, everyone said Grace and the family ate while my mom stood by the window cooling off. “Im not hungry right after I cook” she always said. She’d get upset if we tried to wait on her to sit down. I always waited. I ate many a cold meals with my mom.

Drove all along the main rd of highway 86 where I lived for 11 years. The old used car lot where I bought my first car, old Pete Beasley’s house where he always sat on the porch and waved. Mrs. Ayer’s the old maid who worked for the high school. Her tiny car would putter by our home at 25mph after school everyday. Slow enough to see her expression as she drove by.

That car never saw the speed limit.

I had a thought of walking along 86 for a bit with a cold Pepsi and junior mints like my momma and I used to do during the summers to Hazzards gas station. I’d play pinball and Galaga there when they had a game room. Piedmont didn’t have much for entertainment in those days. Still doesn’t.

Hazzards is a Starbucks now. Piedmont has a Starbucks? What in the fuck?

My childhood home is gone. I almost drove by the plot without seeing it. My memories of that home are just that now. I had a mix of jolly and folly. I felt a lot of love in that home just not so much the town surrounding it.

It’s nothing personal but it sort of is.

The focus of structure of that old town stops about a half mile down off of exit 35. Downtown has the Saluda Grill as an oasis of rebuilding of a semi historic area but it seems to have stopped in its tracks. I can recall several people reaching out to me to help awaken the downtown area with a business and I just couldn’t see it unfolding. I could be wrong but it seems to be growing on the wrong side of town.

I pulled into the QT by the exit and sat in the lot for a minute.

“I think that’s it Chad.”

There’s nothing here to come back to anymore.

Not sure why I felt the need to drive around the “town” yesterday. I literally veered off of 153 before 85 and thought “let’s go sight seeing”

Maybe I needed to close some old emotional loops and connections and I think I did. This isn’t implying I’ll never drive to Piedmont again.

It just won’t be deliberately if that makes sense. Each street I drove down I closed a gate and locked it. Each memory that phased through my mind grew some wings and fluttered away.

A release of sorts. A mental and physical trail marker steering.

It felt good. Something in my mind collapsed in a good way.

A pinging

Writing this down sealed it. This is why I write.

To release

Job well done sir.

Carry on.