Under the Wire

There are places in the world where time stands still. These are little-known spots where nothing changes and progress seems to have skipped over it. Thank heaven for those places.

This weighty observation came as a result of opening up a newspaper the other morning. There in black and white was a story and pictures about my old stomping grounds, LaPorte. LaPorte is a wide spot in the road on Highway 287 between Fort Collins and Laramie, Wyo. I hope no one takes offense at the description. It is intended as a compliment, by one who admires places able to remain “wide spots in the road.” The story was about the sleepy little town, and the pictures were taken in a little coffee shop there. What grabbed me were two of the people in the interviews and pictures. Sitting at the counter discussing LaPorte politics (I was sad they have them now) were my old high school shop teacher and a former classmate. They hadn’t changed one bit! I couldn’t believe it! Many, many years after graduating and moving away from home, college, jobs, marriage, ups and downs, there these two sat like nothing had happened.

I was thrilled to find them. We had no close personal attachment, yet, it was comforting, reassuring that they were still there. I think the classmate who was a year older might have beaten me up once and the shop teacher taught me to play cribbage, then cheated to win. But I was still glad to see them.

I felt no urge to say, “Boy, that’s dumb. They never left town.” In fact, they both may have ventured much farther than me at some time or other, but they were back. Rather, I felt relief. Days that are barely a memory came alive again. There had been a LaPorte and a teenage history. There had been life before VCRs, cell phones and computers. I would like to think there had never been an interruption in life as it was back then. These two had been having coffee every morning since I left.

Over the past years had they ever thought about that kid who one stomped and who caught the other changing the pegs in the cribbage board. That would be proof to me that I had existed as a teenager so long ago I can hardly recall it.

If you two guys read this by any chance, I want you to know I bear no grudges. You still having coffee in a cafe in LaPorte did enough good for me that I’ll overlook those incidents. Heck, it’s really no big deal to beat me up, my four foot, 11 wife can do that. I never did learn to play cribbage, but I did learn something about when it’s better to just not say anything at the moment. Now, years later, I can tell you, I know you moved those pegs on me.

I don’t care. I’m glad time decided not to grind you and LaPorte up and press you into a compact disc, thumb drive or a shopping mall. Thanks for still being there.