A Simpler Time
Walking backwards to find my country road
When I was nine, I spent the summer two hundred miles north of Detroit, my hometown. I stayed on the country farm where my father grew up in Curtisville.
That summer always felt like stepping into another world—far from the noise and chaos of the city, where things moved slower and conversations were light and uncomplicated. I look back on those days and realize how different they were from the overthinking that seems to fill my mind now. Back then, everything felt so simple, so immediate.
I can still see it clearly: walking the country block with my sister, Margaret, and our cousins, Mark and Amy. That block was about three miles around, with nothing but wide-open fields and a few scattered houses.
We’d start off with easy conversation—how far we could throw a stone or whether we’d get to go swimming later. There was no hesitation in our words, no overanalyzing or worrying about what someone might think. It was just the four of us, chatting about whatever crossed our minds.
Halfway around the block was the Curtisville Market, the only store in town. It was a small, unassuming place—a gas station with a little storefront attached. But to us, it was like stepping into a treasure vault. My parents would give us pennies and nickels to spend, and as we got closer to the market, the conversation would shift.
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Suddenly, we were strategizing. My goal was always the same: get the largest number of candies possible. I wanted pure quantity to stretch those few coins. My cousins were more interested in the biggest individual candies they could afford, while my sister landed somewhere in between.
Once we made our purchases, the walk back was filled with bargaining and bartering. We’d try to convince each other to share a piece or trade something. And even then, it was simple. No hidden motives, no weighing consequences. Just the joy of being together, sharing candy, and living in the moment.
My dad used to tell us stories during those summers, his voice filled with nostalgia as he talked about growing up in that little town. He’d talk about the fish he caught in the river, or working in the fields with his father before his dad took ill. Those stories were another simple joy of those summers. I was more of a listener than a talker back then, and I loved hearing him share those pieces of his past.
I think about those days often now, especially when I catch myself overanalyzing everything. It’s hard not to.
We’ve all lived so much, gathered so many experiences with friends, relatives, and neighbors. All that information sits there, influencing the way we speak, how we listen, and the pauses between our words. It’s not necessarily a bad thing—those layers add depth—but I miss the lighter days.
As adults, every word feels like it carries weight, like it has to pass through a hundred filters before it comes out. We consider consequences, read between lines, and sometimes, it just feels like too much work.
I guess John Mellencamp said it best: “That’s when a smoke was a smoke, and groovin’ was groovin’.” It’s that feeling of something being exactly what it is. Nothing more, nothing less.
Just living in the moment, without the burden of thinking too much. That’s what I want again—the simplicity of a walk around the block with a few pennies in my pocket and nothing on my mind but which candy to buy.
