Going to the Post Office

About once a week I go to the Post Office in Nolensville, an historic little berg south of me. Nolensville is a town (unlike Brentwood) where women don't step out of their Jags wearing Gucci and carrying Coach. It is a town where people look like me in Land's End shirts and pants and theraputic shoes.There old farm tractors still hold up traffic on the surrounding rural roads. Children can be seen at recess in the schoolyard. The city hall is in a strip mall. The local Sonic is the town meeting place.

But things are changing--is that a Jag at the Post Office?

Just around the corner

Just around the corner from my house, an ancient farmhouse sits forlorn like a lumpy old woman with her slip showing sitting at a bus stop. It is being razed to make way for a new development of condos.

It was a house that saw oilcloth on the table and cornbread browning in the oven. There the addition of running water and an indoor bathroom was cause for great celebration. Model T cars once lined the yard for turkey and dressing on holidays. The wire fence around the yard is lined with daffodils every spring, planted decades ago by a young farmwife wanting to escape the hot kitchen.

The shiny condos that replace it will never see cornbread or oilcloth. They will more than likely have a seldom used "extra" bathroom. The Hondas and Hummers that will sit out front will leave at 6:30 in the morning and return home at 6:30 in the afternoon--too late to plant daffodils.

Some call it progress--I call it travesty--especially if they cut down the forest behind my house.