Jess Galloway:
CLASS OF 1978
Morrow High SchoolClass of 1978
Morrow, GA
Morrow Elementary SchoolClass of 1972
Morrow, GA
Jess's Story
I think that the truth of Wolfe's observation "you can't go home again" struck me about 1993 or 1994.
I had been visiting our family home in southern Georgia (where we all gather at Christmas); on the day we left, I decided that I needed to spend more time with my parents. I veered onto the interstate and headed toward Atlanta. I knew something was amiss when I saw lights glowing on the horizon about where I estimated old Mt. Zion Road should be. I was gobsmacked to see the development there--on what, during my life as a kid growing up in sleepy Clayton County had always been a two-lane trail running between Stockbridge and Jonesboro.
The next time I drove along that stretch of road was in 2001, when I was headed back down to southern Georgia for my father's funeral. I had flown in to Hartsfield from Germany. When I hit 75 south, I literally sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic until (as memory serves) nearly McDonough. It was surreal, seeing the scope of Atlanta's growth.
I came back to the area in 2004 to attend a wedding. On the way, I detoured through Rex--or what was left of it. Evans Road, Old Rex Morrow Road, Fielder Road--they're all different. Just driving by old houses where I grew up left me with a profound sense of both loss and aching nostalgia for the world I knew as a kid. I've not been back since; a quick perusal of the area on Google's Streetview tells me everything I need to know.
To be sure, my experiences living abroad have colored my perception of the States. Something about meandering down cobbled streets where the great figures of history walked, touching buildings that stood when Luther nailed his Theses on the door at Wittenberg or when Henry IV was ruling over the Holy Roman Empire made me keenly aware of the transience of American culture. When I moved back to the States, I remember walking into a Home Depot and just staring blankly at the sheer superabundance of everything there. Sometimes too much of a good thing is just that: Too Much!
Still, I've truly enjoyed life since high school, foolishness and bad decisions (not a few) notwithstanding. God has given me more opportunities than I even drea...Expand for more
mt when I was growing up. To be sure, I've not written the Great American Novel. (I've not even written one passing-good essay yet, in my estimation!) But I've been able to research, write, study, teach, travel, create, and learn for most of my adult life. An infelicitous five-year stint in sales and marketing was, I assure you, an aberration--and one from which I learned a great lesson. I'm NOT cut out for sales and marketing. My hat's off to any of you who have spent your years plowing those fields.
My first exposure to Classmates.com came in 1999; and I actually used it as a means of keeping in touch with the States while I was living in Germany. There used to be great discussions on the bulletin board ("Does anyone know whatever happened to . . . ?" or "Has anyone seen . . .?" kept me entertained with memories of pep rallies and homecoming and all the other inanities that accompany being in high school.) These all appear to be gone now. I suppose the powers-that-be decided to purge them after a while. So I'll pose some questions: Where is Roscoe Dean (a.k.a. Charles Scott--and don't be angry, Charles!)? Whatever happened to Ken Waddell? Does anyone know whether Mr. Roberts kept teaching at Morrow Senior High?
For a temporary parting note, I'll take us back 43+ years (when we all should have been in 3rd
grade at Lake Harbin or Morrow or some other elementary school), to a song I used to hear in my mom's car while we were waiting to pick up my sister in the afternoon. The skies turned grey earlier then, and the evening air was sooner crisp. The leaves bustled down the sidewalks and crunched beneath our little feet. I think that Skinny Bobbie Harper was still working at WQXI. And I'm certain that the refrain from this song is as fresh in some of your memories as it is mine--and that you can probably envision where you were when first you heard it:
"Those were the days, my friend;
We thought they'd never end.
We'd sing and dance forever and a day.
We'd live the life we choose;
We'd fight and never lose.
For we were young and sure to have our way." (Mary Hopkins, autumn, 1968).
Sed fugit interea fugit irreparabile tempus!
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