Long Time Listener, First Time Caller....

I entered the water in a single motion, slipping in between the algae and small boulders that dotted the steep bank.  The frigid temperature of the small pond took my breath away; daggers of pain shot up my toes and fingertips.  I floated to the surface on my back and flattened out my body, slowly paddling to the center while watching the evening clouds gather.  They had begun to turn from white to dusty gold, like the fields surrounding the forest.

The dark shape of the Old Mill loomed in my peripheral vision.  The river that fed the mill had long since slowed, allowing the slow-moving stream to pool into a greenish brown pond at the base of the mill. Now thick brush grew up around the skeletons of the old workers' lunch pavilions.  The gravel road was now more mud than rock.  When the mill had shut its doors decades ago, the workers either left for the city for factory jobs or returned to their neglected farms.  When a five-year drought hit, the farmers changed the course of part of the river to irrigate their fields.  When the river was diverted, the town had sprung up along its banks, leaving the mill alone in a patch of grey woods.  As the mill began to deteriorate it became less of a community meeting point and more of a teenager hangout.  

I listened to the sound of the water moving around me, remembering the game we played as kids.  We would hold our breath underwater, one of us saying something and the other trying to guess what was said once we had surfaced.  It was funny to us that although the water seemed to amplify the sound of our voices, it also distorted them, making it a difficult game to win.  

I laughed aloud, startling a few ducks at the far end of the pond. It seemed strange to remember that game, considering the circumstances.  I had returned home after college, the first in my family to leave our town.  My family seemed outwardly  proud at my accomplishments, but over time things gradually began to change.  I sometimes caught a flicker of distaste on my mother's face when I spoke about certain things.  World affairs, poetry, philosophy--there was no place for such impracticality at our dinner table.  They had sent me away to better myself, yet were embarrassed of what I had become.  There were lots of eye-rolls and "you know kids" when we were at parties and barbeques.  As the years began to march by, the eye-rolls turned into sighs of exasperation and heated, stubborn arguments that always ended in a stalemate of tears or slammed doors.

But then the Old Mill had been sold.  There were whispers of it around the bank, the drug store, and the town coffee shop.  The Old Mill had been sold to a developer from the city, a half-hour drive away.  He had purchased not only the mill and the surrounding land, but also had taken over half a block on Riverfront Street.  A new specialty store had opened, along with a cafe with outdoor seating, and an antiques shop. A bicycle and kayak rental store was planned for the summer. The dirt paths along the river, made by local fisherman over the years, were paved and lined with new trees and benches.  Now the mill was undergoing renovations to become a Bed and Breakfast and Brewery.  It shocked me, it shocked my parents, and it shocked our community.  The sleepy little town began to witness new construction for the first time in almost half a century.  The older generation was outraged with what they saw as an exploitation of small town values. But soon, my conservative family and their friends began to warm to the idea of tourists and an influx of money.  Town Hall meetings became the place to go on Saturday nights, everyone's eyes bright with the promise of prosperity.  

It was during one of those Saturday night meetings that I first began seriously thinking of my future in my hometown.  The mill and I had burned brightly for a time, but when time passed and we were no longer novel and new, we allowed ourselves to be neglected. Like the mill, I had let myself go, lulled into a sense of peace by the stagnant green pond.  I realized that night in City Hall, in a blur of excitable voices and red, perspiring faces, that if something as small and insignificant as a dilapidated building could be resurrected, so could I.  I may have served my family and my community well for most of my life, but I could not be tethered to the past. I had outgrown both my child's twin bed and my small town roots.  My life was waiting to begin.  

At the approaching darkness I swam in broad strokes to the edge of the pond.  Climbing out, I flicked my suit with a satisfying smack.  My car was waiting in the road, a map opened on the passenger seat.  I glanced once more at the Old Mill, noting with approval the test colors in shades of red painted on its repaired clapboard.  We had a plan, the mill and me.  And the future looked bright.