For many, the term nostalgia conjures images of a Norman Rockwell painting; for others, the longing for Christmases past, or that magical snowy day sledding on Rosebud. So why is it more crucial than ever to share those stories?
Our sense of nostalgia naturally rises during the holidays. The seasonal remembrance of family gatherings, holiday food, the cartoon specials, and tearing up with each watch of It’s a Wonderful Life are just a few on my list of favorites, and I’m sure you have your own as well.
A publisher friend named Robbie, recently referred to me as a preservationist while discussing my bent for writing somewhat nostalgic tales. I smiled at his notion, because the historic southern small town in which we both live already has plenty of them. We’re thankful for their zeal, especially in light of the runaway development currently overwriting our formerly quaint downtown way of life. With the influx of folks drawn here from opposite ends of the country we’re witnessing the changes in real-time. Not only in exploding housing costs, building, traffic, and culture, but a concerted city effort to distance itself from the mantra that many longtime locals have used over the past several years: “I miss old Franklin.”
In the pursuit to hasten that transition, Franklin leaders hired an agency to rebrand the town as “One Franklin.” Their slogan: “We’re not old Franklin, we’re not new Franklin, we’re just Franklin.” However, old Franklin, and the tales of those who experienced what she once was, are just as worthy of preservation as the buildings, perhaps even more. The stories of life lived in a quiet small town, with low crime, generational businesses, and cordial people, must be part of the daily conversation, or, better yet, conservation. If not, how will the younger generations know that Bedford Falls existed on this very spot before Pottersville, and that there are always alternatives to bigger.
Now, with regard to Robbie’s comment and writing. I considered myself more of a reflectionist; defined as one who constructs their literary devices based upon lived observations. Through the years friends have commended my detailed memory of our shared history as if it were unusual. Now in my sixties, I finally understand how this was conditioned by an early independence that had me riding Seattle city busses solo at age seven. Although perilous by today’s standards, a fondness remains for that snapshot of navigating my world from four feet above the pavement, something that travels with me even today.
In the middle 90’s and early 2000’s I visited Seattle a few times a year and stayed in my former Capitol Hill neighborhood just to walk those same chestnut-lined streets that I did in childhood. The pilgrimages were made in all seasons and conditions, and from that first stroll, I noticed how my senses reunified with the past, creating a time machine of sorts.
I didn’t know what I was looking for during those jaunts, maybe just proving to myself that all was as I remembered it to be. I still refer to the excursions as ghost-walks, because they were purposefully timed when people were at work, and the streets were quiet. Auditing your life on location from a third person perspective is an interesting practice, and one that I highly recommend.
Those ghost-walks while healing, were also cathartic and taught me the critical distinction between living in the past and reflecting upon it. The treasures retrieved appear in my writing today. They are the levers I pull that draw the past forward; not only to remind those who’ve strolled similar sidewalks; but to preserve an unsanitized example for the younger generations of how our civilization actually lived together. This is why nostalgia matters.
So, thank you Robbie Grayson! I guess I’m a bit of a preservationist at heart, after all!
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Also, on deck for December, I’ll show you the time machine I currently use, and how to build one for yourself! No click bait! It works!
Until then—
Happy words!
Bruno