When you’re at home nearly 24/7 and not even allowed to work due to an injury that falls under workman’s comp, you’re not allowed to drive anywhere for the same reason, and you’re even unable to do many things one-handed while at home, you find yourself with a lot of free time to think and a lot more time spent sleeping and dreaming. I’ve been feeling nostalgic lately, which is no big surprise, really, as nostalgia is sort of a fall-back state-of-being for me. But still, I find myself thinking back fondly and longingly of times past, and dreaming of ways to recapture some of those lost memories.

Every few days, I’ve been visiting the branch library down the street from me. Libraries are so much more convenient these days, because you can log in online, request the books you want, and then wait for the notification that they’ve been delivered to your local branch. Whenever I enter the small branch library, though, I’m reminded of all the time I used to spend at the small library I grew up going to. At the time, the Saline Public Library was located just a block away from my house (which isn’t really all that surprising, since Saline was a tiny town, and you could bike the length of it at a leisurely pace in about 45 minutes). I’d spend hours there, wandering the stacks, finding new stories to read. What brought back this memory were the posters I saw in the branch library of favorite fictional characters reading books with cheezy sayings encouraging people to read. (The one I glanced today had Elijah Wood as Frodo Baggins curled up in a tree, with the words "Reading - Make it a hobbit" at the bottom.)

There were lots of places I hung out regularly when I was a child - one of the benefits of living in a small town. The library was just one of the many regular haunts, though it was a favorite on dark, rainy days. At the other end of the street was the cemetery, and I always went there when I was angry or upset in order to cool down (I was a hot-headed child, which may not surprise you if you know me at all). It may sound strange that a child would willingly choose to hang out in a graveyard, but it was peaceful, and I always felt better after walking around there or curling up next to a gravestone with a book. It was quiet, and it really was a peaceful place in which you could gather your thoughts and remember that whatever you were upset about was not at all important in the grand scheme of things.

One of the really lovely parts of growing up in a small town in Michigan was the plethora of parks and wooded areas that were mingled about throughout the town. There was a wooded park, complete with a small creek and a dilapidated old tree house that someone built years ago, that we’d get to by sneaking through a few neighbors’ back yards. We’d pack picnics and play make-believe there for hours. And on the other side of town, behind the elementary school, was Millpond park, with big weeping willows that always simultaneously broke my heart and made it leap with joy. We’d catch frogs and crayfish in the small part of the brook that eventually widened and became the Raisin River. And further downstream, where the river was wider, was the old mill (restored by Henry Ford himself), which was turned into a beautiful inn and restaurant, Weller’s. We used to go to the restaurant, the Raisin River Cafe, every mothers day. It was a popular location for weddings and receptions, and I always imagined that one day, I’d get married there.

It wasn’t just outdoors that I played as a child, though. It rains a lot in Michigan, and you had to have places indoors to go, as well. There was the Calico Cat, an odd store with everything from Christmas ornaments to a chocolate counter to children’s books and toys. It lived in an old church across the street from the library, and was, of course, home to several calico cats. I loved that place, and it was, in fact, the last place in town I visited before we moved to Alabama. I was trying to keep out of the way of the movers, so I took CJ down there for a while. The owner asked us why we weren’t in school, and when we told her, she looked so sad for us (we were certainly sad to be leaving our home), and she gave us a huge bag of sugar-free gummy bears. Funny how you remember little things like that, even many, many years later, huh?

There were lots of other little shops we went to all the time, too. Sometimes we’d go for homemade doughnuts at Benny’s Bakery, and Sunday mornings were always set aside for trips to the pretzel place down the street, where we’d bring home tons of pretzels for breakfast. My favorites were always the pretzel rolls, which were crisp and salty on the outside, but ooey-gooey, soft, and yummy on the inside. Then there was the Little Ceasers pizza a block and a half away, and sometimes my brother and I would take our Radio Flyer down there to pick up pizzas and bring them home for dinner. A few blocks away was a little convenience store of a restaurant that I always visited with my dad. It seemed to change owners every year, and it was never the same place, but it was always there, and we always went. Though I know it probably wasn’t this for long, I always remember it as a fish and chips joint. I can still smell the tartar sauce when I think of the place. There was a Dairy Queen across the street from that place, and I have a distinct memory of one of my friends’ older sisters taking my brother and I there once when she was babysitting us. I was just a small building, where you ordered outside at the counter and then went to sit on one of the red metal benches. Sometimes we’d go out for dinner to Kelly’s, the neighborhood pub. There was a jackalope on the wall and games on the tables to keep the kids occupied. My brother and I always ordered Shirley Temples, always with extra maraschino cherries. One time, Kelly brought us a whole bowl of them, and of course we ate them all before our dinner even arrived. To this day, I still get a little queasy whenever I see a maraschino cherry or a jackalope.

It really was a small town. It was big news when we got a Wendy’s (it even made it into my school yearbook that year). There was a Hardee’s before that, though, and I remember getting roast beef sandwiches there after soccer practice. Still, if you wanted nightlife or dining or shopping more than Saline could offer, you had to go into Ann Arbor. My parents were (and still are) coffee drinkers, and we’d frequently go to the Espresso Royale Caffe (which, for some reason, we always called “Cafe Depresso” - no idea why). It was there that I learned to drink coffee. One night (I was maybe 8?), I got tired of ordering hot chocolate, and wanted coffee or some espresso drink. My mom tried to convince me that I wouldn’t like it, but she made the mistake of telling me it was a grown-up drink. I, thinking myself far more of an adult than a child, would have none of that, and ordered coffee. (It was likely a mocha, though I don’t really remember.) I remember hating it, but I also remember drinking it without complaint. I would prove to everyone that I was an adult, and if adults drank coffee, then so did I.

There were lots of other places in Ann Arbor I remember fondly. The original Borders (I picked up the habit of inhaling books at a very young age); the UofM campus with all its bike racks and odd sculptures; Blimpy Burger - the home of the world’s greasiest (and most delicious) burgers and onion rings; Kerry Town, with its quaint shops and cobblestone streets; the Blue Nile, where I learned to love Ethiopian food; and Olga’s, with their orange smoothies and wrapped sandwiches.

I went back to Saline and Ann Arbor in 2002 when I was looking at grad schools. It was quite possibly one of the strangest things I’ve ever experienced, because while nothing ever stays exactly the same way you remember it, and indeed many things had changed, there were many things that hadn’t changed at all. Blimpy Burger was still there, and still as greasy and delicious as I had remembered it. The Calico Cat hadn’t changed at all, except that the cats were different, and there were newer selections in the childrens book section in the basement. Cafe Depresso was still there, and as popular as ever, and while my old house had been painted a disgusting Pepto Bismol pink, the wooded park behind the house was still there, untouched and perfect, complete with a dilapidated old tree house that I’m sure has played host to any number of children’s afternoons of make-believe.