Villanelle

War Memorial. A strange name for such a beautiful, colorful, verdant place. A park, filled with blooming flowers, trees, and shrubs, dedicated to war. Oh, well… I’m not a city planner. Obviously somebody thought it was a good idea to set aside a peaceful spot like this to the memories of intolerance, destruction, and ultimately death. 

Funny. As a child, I never thought about the significance of the Park’s name. It just was. Like the park itself just was.

Is the gazebo still here? Ah…. There it is. Was it always so near the front gate? And it’s small. Much smaller than I remember. It seemed so big when I came here as a child. Guess that’s what growing up will do to things—you get bigger and they get smaller.

Like Gatewood. Hadn’t realized its classrooms were so small. Or the cafetorium. Had it always been that tiny? Heck, the whole school seems smaller now. Need to send the janitor a thank-you note for letting me into the building.

Cafetorium. A mashup of cafeteria and auditorium, it’s a word you don’t hear much these days. That’s too bad ‘cause cafetorium’s a good word. In one place you can feed your mind and your body. I guess school builders back then wanted to save on space and names. They failed. The tables weren’t moved for assemblies. My attention always wandered because I wanted to eat during the programs.

Chairs. I don’t remember chairs in here. This gazebo must be somebody’s favorite spot, too. Well… thank you, then. I’ll just sit here a while and see what memories of growing up in this city bubble up.

There’s an ant hill at the base of the steps. I wonder how long it’ll last…. Are the groundskeepers as diligent as they were when I came here as a child? If the Park hasn’t cut back on staff, then those poor ants’ home will be gone tomorrow. Never mind. Today they have a home. And for today, their hard work hasn’t been in vain.

Wonder if the old merry-go-round is still here? Or the War Memorial Statue?

What’s that over there? Oh, that’s the merry-go-round. Does it still not work? I always wanted to ride it. But couldn’t. It didn’t work. It never worked. Each time I came, I checked it out. It still didn’t work. I thought it was stupid to put a merry-go-round that didn’t work in a park. Grown-ups did stupid things sometimes. Like put merry-go-rounds that didn’t work in a park. Where children came. And played.

Should I go check out the merry-go-round? Nah. If it works, then I’ll be surprised and will be forced to wonder when it was fixed. Wonder what child pestered her mother enough so that she contacted city and park authorities and got the merry-go-round fixed so her daughter and her friends could ride it. I’d have to wonder about that child’s assertiveness; nerve my friends and I didn’t have ‘cause we were Black growing up in the sixties’ and we didn’t want to worry our parents who had bigger problems to fix than broken merry-go-rounds.

Okay, gazebo. Time to say goodbye. I’ve been here long enough.

Was this path always concrete? Don’t remember. Maybe it’s not important that I don’t remember. Maybe what’s important is that I don’t remember where most of these paths lead. Was I so confined in my thinking as a child that I didn’t explore whenever I came here? Was my world—or more specifically, my courage to explore and risk that limited?

The answer doesn’t matter. I’m grown now. What will I do in my adulthood?

Where’s the Statue? Has it changed, or moved, too?

No, there it is. Right smack dab in the middle of the Park. Where it obviously always was, judging by the look of its bronze base. I didn’t care about war and fighting then. I knew the Statue was here, but it was never important to me when I visited the Park. How do I feel about it now?

Somehow the artist has managed to show all the wars America has fought going back to the Civil War. That’s important—have to start with the Civil War. To this city, even the Revolutionary War isn’t as important as the Civil War. This is a southern state. Not Deep South, mind you, but South enough. Ingenious. Skillful. Props to that artist. They earned their commission.

How do I feel about the Statute? Hmmph. Don’t know and don’t really care. It’s a record of humanity’s aggression against humanity. I know that aggression well. I’ve experienced it up close and personal. Wonder if there’ll be another War Memorial Statue?  If so, will it be placed beside this one? Or will it claim another piece of this quiet ground somewhere else?

Where’s the Stadium—the site of our annual pilgrimage to the Rodeo? Isn’t it near here, somewhere?

Ah, there it is, across from the Park. I guess I can’t blame the city fathers, and mothers if they were allowed to speak back then, for placing the Stadium so close to the Park. Space conservation and all that.  

The Rodeo: A carnival week complete with over-the-top rides, less-than-scrupulous game-hawkers, and completely unhealthy food. But, man! Was that unhealthy food good! Or is it my memory of that food and the fun I had eating it, that makes it good?

The Rodeo. The school year wasn’t complete without going to the Rodeo.  

The lunch hours we spent organizing groups and times to go! If we had spent that intensity and concentration on our school work, who knows what else we would have accomplished?

It didn’t matter that none of us cared about the true rodeo activities happening next door in the cattle yard. Activities like bronc riding and steer roping. Who needed to be a cowboy or cowgirl? There was the carnival with its sights and smells and people to go to. You didn’t have to be a true ranch hand to go to it. The Rodeo welcomed us city kids… and our money.

Months spent saving allowances paid off when we went to the Rodeo. Just to be sure we had enough money, we’d beg our parents for spending money too. Flush with more money than we’d had all year, we’d descend upon the Rodeo like a swarm of locusts, walking its length and breadth, riding everything in sight, eating until we threatened to vomit, and tiring ourselves out completely—so completely it would take until next year’s Rodeo time to recover. Then we’d do it again.

The smell! How could I have forgotten that? The pungent smell of dung weighed the air down and permeated everything. That’s how we knew we were at the Rodeo and not at any ol’ amusement park. I always wondered if I would smell like dung when I returned home. No one ever complained, so I guess I didn’t.

The Stadium’s gate is closed. Just as well. Don’t need to walk over there to see it. I can stand here and remember—remember the Rodeo with its smell and sights and holding hands with my first boyfriend. Who am I kidding? He was my only boyfriend because he was the only boy brave enough to date me. I guess that’s why I liked him. ‘Cause he wasn’t scared of my father.   

Hmmph. Being a pastor’s kid sucked big time. I could be sure that any indiscretion, like holding hands in public, would be reported to my father by some overly vigilant adult whose path I had the misfortune to cross. But, ah! The Rodeo! That was our domain. Not as many adults there. And the ones we saw didn’t go to my father’s church.

He’s here now. He married, raised a family, and divorced—all in a town a few miles down the road. Etta told me that he’s here now. I’m divorced now, too.  What if…?

Don’t want to go down that rabbit hole.

But still…

Nope. Not doing it. Not going down that rabbit hole.

Is there anything else here in the Park I need to visit?

Nah, I don’t think so. I’ve seen, and remembered, enough. Besides, my antihistamine's wearing off and I won't be able to stand this pollen much longer.

On the whole, it hasn’t been a bad visit back home. Not what I expected, but… not bad.

Come to think of it, what did I expect of my hometown after all this time?

Growth, definitely growth.

Change. Yes. But how much?

Improvement, certainly. Especially in race relations. Though from what I read, that’s been a seesaw. Gains in some areas, losses in others.  

I definitely didn’t expect to see things as they really are. As they must have been all along.

Thanks, War Memorial, for the memories. And for clearing my vision.

But I still don’t like your name.