Thursday, July 03, 2008

Open Memories: Albion MI










I am going to vote for Barack Obama.

I am William "Papa" Meloney and I endorse this message.

Posted by William Meloney at 5:53 AM

1 comment:

  1. Anonymous7:27 PM

    The old house waits. It has contained the places where people have lived out their lives, from birth to death, not always the same people from one year to the next, such is the way of the boarding house, the rented rooms. It does not remember names. But one, Herod. An ancient and Biblical name. A name now passed on to new inhabitants.

    People have been born in the old house, they have lived as friends and strangers, they have lived next to others, sharing the events of life: the romances, the torments, the melancholy, the claustrophobia, the emptiness. One more day, and then another, and another after that. The daily rituals of hygiene, breakfast, the urgency of meeting the day’s work, the clockwork of the noon meal, the long afternoon waiting, the triumphant return and the evening meal, then the real day begins. Things add up. Things eventually go into boxes and are carried up and down stairs. More boxes take their places. More boxes get carried off and brought in.

    The old house has waited through all this. The town is still there. The old park, with its cement river walls, the falls, the little ornamental pond, the fish who wait there. The crayfish that walk beneath the surface of the water. The crayfish were there before the cement river walls, they will be there long after, according to the ancient plan.

    The children play in the park even though the ground is wet, every 4th of July the fireworks, every winter the snow and ice, the hockey shelter waits, the river continues to flow. Its the Forks. Its the Purple Gang, its the Spiritualists, its the College, its the time of the transformation from children to adults, its a strange time of life. Rooms are rented. Old boxes are stored. Treasure is uncovered. Directions are clarified, abandoned or discovered.

    The Kalamazoo River, once the home of the sturgeon, now the home of the stonerollers, the bottom feeders. The old bridges, the old towers, the hill coming down past the post office and into the city. Turn left to the high school and college, turn right to the ancient railroad station, straight ahead leads past the Bohm theater eventually to the library and further yet to the Riverside graveyard, and behind now is the highway from Chicago to Detroit.

    Who remains? Who visits? Who remembers? Who discovers? Herod. Herrod?

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