The past is another country

On this last trip to Seattle, the car broke down in the town where I grew up. Well, one of the towns where I grew up. I was young enough when we moved away that I don't have a very accurate map of where everything was. I had thought that since we had an hour or two to wait until the car got better, maybe we could poke around and see how everything was getting along since we moved.

Not only was there snow on the grown, IN APRIL - what a joke, though I wish I was joking - they had also closed my old elementary school and, I can barely believe this to be true, the quiet old retirement town that we left now is home to, according to the locals, the largest walmart in Canada. So much has changed and so much stayed the same. There are little pockets of the past nestled in among huge developments. Things I thought would never change, have and other things remain.

What I remember and what the place is like now are completely incompatible. I wanted to see the place with adult eyes to learn just how everything was, but no. I can't match my mind's map of the place with how it is now. The landmarks are, well not gone, but overshadowed by development. It's the weirdest thing to go back, because you can't go back. Even though the place is the same, it's not the same place. The past really is another country.