Goin' "Home"

Why do even grown adults of all ages who've lived years away from the place they grew up call a trip there "going home"?

I honestly don't know.

But that's what I did today.

And I meandered with a stop just down the mountain in Sherwood to poke around Epiphany Mission Episcopal Church, crumbling in some ways, radiant in others.

 After wandering and wondering, I suddenly realized I'd be late if I didn't skedaddle. So I did.

Arrived noon.

Ate a sandwich.

Went with nephew to the Pig to buy can-shaped pint glasses. (They are, unfortunately, still in Birmingham.)

Picked up his mother-in-law.

Drove to Cahaba Brewing where we left the car.

Uber-ed to the Civic Center.

Got there early, so I took pictures while the others chatted and organized.

Met niece inside.

Grabbed our seats,

Saw Birmingham Ballet performance of Cinderella with two great-nieces and many others (including seven! professional men).

Nephew's father-in-law drove us to Cahaba Brewing, where I had a flight of four dark beers. (The best part was the wooden state of Alabama on which they were served the beer.

Went to The Garage for a better beer -- Samuel Smith Chocolate Stout. (I impressed the nephew when I said I knew all about The Garage. Then I reminded him that it's old.) [Also: I must find the Samuel Smith here.]

Ate dinner at Hot and Hot Fish Club, a delicious treat. My nephew knows how to treat his aunt well.

Went home.

Chatted and recovered. Watched an hour documentary about wild places and learned that lead bullets have practically killed off all the condors. Seventy-two living condors at the time of the film. (A sobering fact given the new Secretary of the Interior's re-introduction of lead bullets in national parks.)

Saw the Greats for about 15 minutes before we all went to bed.

One full. One exhausting. Day.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

When I walked into The Blue Chair, the server asked, "Cinnamon cone?"

"Of course!" I responded.

Then we chatted about ice cream flavors (pumpkin and bubblegum), laughed a bit, swapped pleasantries.

She's a local girl, born and bred, and although I've lived here only about eleven years, I'm beginning to get the lay of the land. This is a place where a walk means saying hi or waving to folks I know and chatting with those I don't.

I grew up in a similar place, where everybody knew my name, a suburban village with all the necessary amenities to sustain a family -- elementary school, dry cleaner, five and dime, deli, drug stores (both locally owned), and grocery.

That village still has a down-home feel. If a child falls off her bike or off his skateboard, everyone will come running to see if they can help. But that down-home feel sustained by essential services is taking a blow with the closing of the only grocery -- also locally owned. For thirty years, the store has been "like the bar in Cheers," as my niece said. It will close soon because the landlord and store owner couldn't agree on a new lease.

For months, folks have protested, sponsored a Facebook page, and done whatever they could to Save the Crestline Pig and the folks who work there, people who -- though they may live elsewhere -- know everyone's name and care about their customers. Employees and customers are all part of one big family.

Caring about customers: that's something I've missed in the big box stores and malls and in the big cities where I've lived. The last time I went to the Crestline Pig with my great-nieces, Miss Arelia (shown below crying over a painting) fawned over the girls the same way Miss Irene at Utopia Cleaners did me. There's something special about being raised where community adults love you and look after you, where even though they aren't your parents, they are your extended family.

Just look at this picture, and you can feel the love.