On the occasion of the Bicentennial of the founding of Madison Township, May 7, 1810.
It has been thirty eight years since we met, and I am writing this on the occasion of your momentous birthday to tell you something I should have said a long time ago: I am still in love with you.
I was a shy teenager when we first encountered one another, back in March of 1972; on a cold, windy St. Patrick’s Day afternoon we walked through fields still golden with the dry grass of winter, and wandered into woods barely misted with new green. You welcomed me then, and to this day whenever I come home to you I still feel the same sense of welcome. There’s a peace in your presence that I’ve encountered nowhere else in the world.
You are dependable but never boring. You are always there for me, whether I have been away for a long time , a long distance, or both. You still have the ability to take my breath away, and in some cases, give it back. I remember flying into Dayton after a wonderful five- day stay in New York City, and driving all the way home down Diamond Mill Road at midnight with the truck window open despite December’s freezing temperature. I drank the cold clear air into lungs that had been assaulted by that amazing mix of diesel fumes and garbage and humanity that perfumes all big cities, but New York in particular. Every mile and every breath brought me closer to the place I wanted to be – with you.
You are wonderful in summer, magical in spring, breathtaking in autumn , challenging but full of fun even in the depths of winter. We’ve been together quite a while now, year in and year out, and mosey along with the comfortable familiarity of many lucky old couples , but you will always hold some mystery for me, and I think that is part of your charm. I know where you hide your venison and wild turkey, but your spring mushroom crop eludes me still!
A large part of what I have become exists because of you. You showed me first hand the workings of nature as the wheel of the year turns. You taught me gardening – sometimes by trial and error, but those were the lessons learned best. You showed me the ways of native plants and birds. Occasionally, if I am paying attention on my morning walks, I catch little glimpses of your past – broken china and abandoned whiskey bottles, native American artifacts, parts of moonshine stills and abandoned cars – sometimes a shady past, I guess, but as I walk the trails with the sunlight streaming down like a blessing through fresh rainwashed leaves, I realize someday I too will be a part of your past – and strangely, even that is comforting . You will go on to be loved by others, but there will be a little part of you that will always be mine.
Regardless of my mood, I only have to step out the door and you are waiting to cheer me up. You have been there to share my victories and happy moments, and to comfort me in times of loss, tragedy and death. Some of my dearest family members are folded into your embrace. Perhaps, if the fates are kind, my ashes will join them there in due course of time.
We’ve changed over the years, grown, grown older, a little more worn, and I hope - in my case, anyway - a bit wiser. You at least have managed to improve without losing that down-home country charm that attracted me to you all those years ago.
And so, dear Madison Township, I write you this love letter on the occasion of your two hundredth birthday . This relationship we have, you and I, is the equal of any one immortalized by Hollywood. In an early episode of the television series Sex and the City, Carrie refers to New York as her “big ol’ boyfriend,” and while I can see the attraction, he’s not the one for me. As Scarlett O’Hara talks about going “home to Tara,” I know exactly what she’s feeling. And when Dorothy Gale clicks the heels of her ruby slippers together I’m all about it ( even if my footwear is an unspectacular pair of weathered brown riding boots instead of ruby slippers): There’s no place like home.
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