Coming Home

When I graduated from high school at 17, I was absolutely certain of one thing: I would not live in that same small town as an adult. I had nothing against the town or the people. I suppose it was fear which followed this logic: 1) my parents were there, 2) my parents were old and ready to die (in retrospect I realize that my mother was younger than I am now), ergo 3) if I lived there, I would be old and almost dead. What would be left of life?

I remember clearly my young perception of age. People in their teens were the "right" age, and people in their 20's were getting old. During my first year of college, I met a young man who was living in the dorm at the ripe age of 23. His hairline was receding, and I let my gaze linger when I looked at him. He probably thought I had a crush. The truth was I was having trouble imagining ever being that old.

As a kid, one of my favorite movies was Logan's Run. If you don't remember, when a member of the society turned thirty, they were cast out and allowed to run away from the group, only to be hunted down and killed. This was how the society dealt with the burden of the elderly. I thought it was practical. What do people really do after 30 anyway?

There's nothing like the passage of time to set one straight--that and knowing that I would have been dead over a decade if those Logan's Run people got a hold of me. I can't help but wonder if we aren't doing our kids a disservice by allowing them to think this way. How can a child plan for her future when she can't see past 30? Still, maybe there is nothing we can do. Kids will be kids.

This kid is tasting humble pie. I've eaten my words and moved back to the small town where I grew up. And you know what? I'm not here to die; I'm here to live.