Nostalgia

On July fourth, I attended a concert in Arroyo Grande’s Heritage Park. As I sat on a lawn chair and listened to the patriotic songs of the Village Band, I felt transported to a bygone era. I remember as a youth, I loved the movies depicting the turn of the twentieth century and wished my birth took place during that magical time.

I wanted to live in small town America and spend leisurely pre air conditioned Sunday afternoons strolling the municipal park. I wanted to watch children roll wooden hoops with small sticks, the boys in knickers and knee socks, the girls in fluffy dresses and straw hats garnished with flowing ribbons. I wanted to carry a parasol against the summer sun and stop for ice cream at a shop with a mustachioed proprietor.

In my reverie, horse drawn carriages ambled by, and the driver tipped his stovepipe hat to fashionable ladies nearby. The handsome boy next door shyly offered his arm to me as we walked the fragrant paths between flower beds of sweet peas and phlox. We stopped to listen to the music of the orchestra playing Sousa marches in the band shell. A gentle breeze caressed our flushed faces. We smiled at each other and I quickly dropped my eyes. 

Back to 2017, I wear jeans and a red, white and blue shirt instead of an ankle length dress of summer linen. A peaked cap shields my skin from the sun instead of a parasol. I sit on a collapsible portable chair next to a group of "senior" friends instead of strolling on the arm of a handsome boy. But the band still plays Sousa marches in the Rotary gingerbread band stand. Children still scamper and wave small American flags. A gentle breeze cools our skin and mustachioed Doc Burnstein’s sells ice cream.

My dream has come true with some minor alterations.