Small Town

This past weekend, I made an impromptu visit back to the small Central New York town I did most of my growing up in, from ages 5-16.  A couple childhood friends had some free time and arranged to meet the kids and I at the Firemen's Field Days. 

I don't often go back to visit, since my friends have largely moved away and we have no family there, so it is pretty much preserved in my memory as it was in 1991.  Of course, in 20 years things have changed, and a lot of that is my perception --  everything seems so much smaller than in my memory.  One good thing is that my childhood best friend's parents still live there, in the same house that I haunted in my youth, and they welcome me back any time cbfAmanda and I cook up a nostalgia trip.  Which is awful nice, since I brought my hooligans with me this time.  So, Amanda's hooligans + my hooligans = very gracious hosts. 

Amanda and I met another friend, Jean, at the fairgrounds and got to see her cute wee baby again, and sent the bigger kids on a handful fair rides... and then ran away remembering that once in a decade is often enough to visit the fair. 

We did venture back into town to watch the parade, though.  And it warmed the very cockles of my heart.  Being away for 20 years will do that to you.

Lots of shiny tractors, many of them with Dads and Kids

I used to play percussion in the marching band there...  *sigh*

My candy-hounds waiting for a lollipop to come hurling their way

"Aunt" Amanda and BabyM watching the parade. 

Baby M was all: "Mommy who?" this weekend.

I know that my rose-colored memory of my former hometown isn't reality, but it's wholesome things like the little fair and parade that help sustain my version of reality.  And is that so bad?