Yesterday, we drove through Leeds, past houses where I lived as a child and a teenager. The house on Bryant Avenue NE (1973-1974), the house on 1st Avenue SE (1974-1975), and the house by the cement plant, on 3rd Avenue (1975-1979, and my favorite). Then we drove out of Leeds on Asheville Road to Markeeta Spur Road in Moody (past a house where my Grandmother and Grandfather Wright lived, and a house where my Aunt Maybelle Aderholt lived) to South Chalkville Road to Roper Road. The latter took us to a little subdivision between White's Chapel and Trussville, where we lived from 1980 until I left home in October 1982, the last home of my childhood, on Pinebluff Trail (Cahaba Cove). Then we drove into Trussville proper, past the old high school, the one I dropped out of in April 1982, a month before I should have graduated. Then we drove back towards Birmingham, to Roebuck, to the parking lot at Roebuck Plaza where, in 1965, before my sister was born, when I was hardly older than a year, my mother and father took me to see the Sinclair dinosaurs from the World's Fair (sculpted by Louis Paul Jonas) when they were touring the country. This is one of my oldest memories, and it's likely what pushed me towards paleontology, beginning that far back. Mom says I can remember the womb. Even I would doubt actually remembering the Sinclair dinosaurs, were the memories not so vivid and detailed.
If one can be sick with their own memories, I certainly am.
Back home, back at my mom's, I did a Charles Wysocki jigsaw puzzle as the rain arrived. We watched episodes of Justified and then had a late supper around 9:30 p.m., barbecue from Rusty's (some damn decent barbecue). Before sleep, I watched Jules Dassin's The Naked City (1948), and then I fell asleep to John Ford's The Quiet Man (1952), which has become a comfort film of late.
And that was yesterday.
This is the thirteenth day since we left home, and the time has come to decide when we're heading back to Providence. I'm thinking it may be Thursday. I have a lot to try and do before then, including finishing "In the Flat Field" and getting Sirenia Digest No. 135 out to subscribers.
A very belated birthday to Byron White, a dear friend whom I have not seen in far, far too long.