Holding on to a place that’s letting go
This is Linda’s story.
I wake before the sun. Habit from when the dairy was still running. Now it’s just me and the silence. And the heat. Always the heat. It’s here to stay.
Coffee’s weak. Like everything these days. Like me. I remember Mom’s percolator. The smell filling our kitchen. Sunday breakfasts with Dad reading the paper. Now the paper’s gone. So are they.
Just memories and dust.
I put on my uniform. Same one I’ve worn for 15 years. Before that, diner clothes. Before that, school clothes. Time moves. This town doesn’t. Faded blue, like the sky used to be before the haze set in.
Walk to work. Past the old high school. Boarded up now. We used to have dances in the gym. My first kiss was there. Jeff. He’s gone too. River took him. Middle Fork was wild then. Now it’s a trickle. Barely wets your ankles.
Main Street’s a ghost. Pete’s Hardware. Sarah’s Salon. Mike’s Auto. All closed. I cried when the bakery shut down. Windows dark. Dreams dead. Remember when you couldn’t find a parking spot on Saturdays? Now you could lie down in the middle of the road. No one would notice.
Pass the diner. My first real job. Tips were good then. Loggers. Miners. Farmers. All gone now. Building’s still there. Like a gravestone for better times.
Hank’s Grocery. Cool air hits me. Blessing and curse. Soothes my lungs. Angers my joints. Hank’s older than dirt. Stubborn as a mule. Keeps this place running when everything else has shut down.
Stock shelves. Like always. Less to stock now. Produce section is a joke. Remember when local farms filled it? Bernhardt’s corn. Miller’s tomatoes. Now it’s wilted greens from who knows where. Probably California. If it hasn’t burned down yet.
Lady comes in. Fancy clothes. Asks for organic kale. City folk. Buying up houses for Air BnBs. I point to the sad lettuce. She wrinkles her nose. Mutters about food deserts. As if we chose this. As if we wanted our farms to dry up. Our people to leave.
Lunch rush. Two people. Used to be lines out the door. Miners with black-rimmed eyes. Loggers with sawdust in their beards. Farmers with dirt under their nails. Real people. Working people. Now it’s just ghosts.
My cough’s getting worse. Smoke maybe. Or the mold on my walls. Can’t afford to fix it. Can’t afford a doctor neither. Nearest hospital’s over the mountain. Might as well be on the moon.
Think about the old days. Town picnics in the park. Fourth of July parades. Christmas lights on every house. People used to care. Used to try. Now it’s just darkness and For Sale signs. And the ones who can’t afford to leave.
End of shift. Drag myself home. Past Mrs. Henderson’s place. Her roses used to win prizes. Now it’s all weeds. She died last winter. During that cold snap when the power was out. Found her wrapped in every blanket she owned. Wasn’t enough.
Home. Dad built this place. His hands in every beam. Now it’s falling apart. Like everything else. Roof leaks. Foundation’s cracking. But it’s mine. All I’ve got left. I had a garden back when I still had enough water in the well. I loved growing my own vegetables. Fresh. Affordable.
Sit on the porch. Used to be able to see the mountains. Now it’s all haze. Wildfire smoke. Gets worse every year. Remember when summer meant fishing trips? Camping under the stars? Now it’s just praying the power grid holds.
Strum Jeff’s old guitar. Fingers too stiff to play right. Arthritis.
Or maybe just time. Used to play at the bar on weekends. People dancing. Laughing. Living. Bar’s a dollar store now. No one dances anymore.
TV talks about elections. Climate change. Economic recovery. Big words. No meaning here. Politicians promise change. Only change we see is the steady rise in prices. Food. Gas. Utilities. Nothing left at the end of the month.
Night falls. Heat doesn’t. Open the windows. Pray for a breeze. Get smoke instead. Air so thick you could chew it. Makes my chest tight. My eyes water. But it’s home. For better or worse. I had a swamp cooler that would rattle and bang through the night. But it kept me cool. Now it’s broke and no one to fix it. Even if I could afford it.
Remember when this town was alive? When we looked out for each other. When losing a job didn’t mean losing everything. When a bad harvest was just a setback, not a death sentence. When we believed in a future.
Now it’s just us left behind. Too poor to leave. Too stubborn maybe. Like Hank. Watching our world shrink. Year by year. Day by day. Until there’s nothing left but memories and dust.
Think about the new folks sometimes. The ones who buy up the old houses. Turn them into vacation rentals. They don’t see us. Don’t understand. To them, we’re just part of the scenery. Quaint. Rustic. Real authentic small-town charm. They don’t see the struggle. The desperation. The slow, choking death of a place that used to mean something.
Tomorrow I’ll do it all again. Wake up. Go to work. Stock shelves. Smile at strangers. Come home. Because what else is there? This is all I know. All I have left.
I think about leaving sometimes. Following the others to the city. Chasing those big dreams. Big promises. But this is home. These streets. These buildings. This dying land. It’s all wrapped up in who I am. To leave would be to lose the last piece of myself.
So I stay. Watch the sun set behind the haze. Listen to the silence where children used to play. Feel the heat press down like a weight. A reminder of all we’ve lost. All we’re losing.
I hum as I fall asleep. “Easy’s gettin’ harder every day.” It is. But we keep going. Because this is home. Even if home isn’t what it used to be. Even if home is breaking our hearts.
I’m still here. I’ll be the last one standing. Someone has to remember. Someone has to stay. To bear witness to what this place was. What it meant. What we’ve lost.
Maybe that’s enough. Maybe it has to be. In a world that’s forgotten us, remembering might be the most important thing we can do.
So I’ll wake up tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that. I’ll keep going. Keep remembering. Keep holding on to this place that’s holding on to me.
But it feels like easy, just keeps on gettin’ harder every day.
Iris Dement — Easy’s Gettin’ Harder Every Day
Thanks to Linda, Iris Dement, and my hometown in Idaho for the inspiration.
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