Not long ago I asked a friend why he doesn’t want to return to the town he and I grew up in. His reply, “Too many ghosts.” He was letting the painful costs prevail. Charles Swain Thomas let the pleasant benefits prevail. They show in his March 1939 column, “The Saunterer” for the Harvard Educational Review, of which I will quote a bit:
Recently I spent a day in my old home town - far away from the noisy grinding of the cars that are dodging each other on the various streets that converge menacingly in Harvard Square. The experience of going back to one’s early haunts allows us to thrum freely the keyboard of our memory. Our undirected hands finger repeatedly the long ranges from the deepest bass on, on up to the highest sounding treble. There are grace notes here and there that unconsciously trill their wayward echoes and seem to attract more attention than the ruling theme would ordinarily allow. Even now as I write they keep ringing out their little silent insinuations to the accompaniment of my cursive pen as it Saunters over these late March pages.
I somehow keep dwelling on the many, many persons who have passed completely out of that boyhood circle that was once so crowded with intimate jostling personalities. . . . Doubtless they have all met the alternating comedies and tragedies of daily life and forgotten, it may be, many of those former childhood happenings, those youthful school experiences, those pleasant interchanges of friendly talks and intimate visits that helped to personalize those early developing years.
Even our former enemies - not really our enemies, of course - have all gone into some bewildering no-man’s land, where all lines of communication were long ago unceremoniously severed. We should like to meet those youngsters - now grown old - chat with them about the early years, and discover if there be any logical reason why we so violently hated them in the past. . . .
If we are successful - or even partially successful, the old, old winds will blow gently over the land, the old, old thoughts will generously re-warm our hearts. And there together, like William Morris in his Earthly Paradise, we shall freely indulge our memories of the past -
Memories vague of half-forgotten things,
Not true nor false, but sweet to think upon.
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