The Place I Called Home

I suppose I should start with the town where I was raised; Dufur, Oregon. Some might question the ability to ease the aching pain of boredom in a town with approximately 600 people. However, I don't think my education, or my life, would have been quite the same had I lived anywhere else. You learn so much from small towns that prepare you for a life quite different from the city.


Dufur is your typical small, country town; everybody knows everybody…and everything. And people are definitely not afraid to talk. I always found the quiet streets comforting. We'd run over to the neighbor's house to shares photos of recent trips or to give fresh vegetables from the garden. Wheat fields turned golden in the fall, making for one beautiful drive to the next town over. We had a few small crimes here and there; nothing to lock our doors over. The annual Threshing Bee in August always brought visitors to crowd the sidewalks and streets.

Whatever it is that draws people in, the town boasted a major increase in population since the days of my youth. Many businesses have come and gone, but the ones that remain are redecorating to keep up with the times. Even the school is beginning to show signs of a modern society. No longer are bricks the choice of building supplies. They have since been replaced with basic wood paneling. Little by little the school is adjusting it's walls to accompany the increase of students. Most of those big windows in the front are now covered over with trophy cases. The cafeteria has been completely redone and I don’t even recognize it as the place where everyone sat amongst each other on red tables, eating lunch from a metal tray.

My favorite place to hang out was always the pizza parlor. I remember playing the arcade games when I was too little to even know what the point of it was. There was always someone to help me understand, especially my big brother. That pizza place went out of business long before I entered Junior High. For a while the tables remained in their places, the salt and pepper growing old in the sunlight. Now it stays empty, waiting for the prospects of a new business. I hope someone drives through town, sees it's charming potential, and gives it the attention it deserves.

Classes were still quite small. I graduated with 18 other students. Those numbers are steadily increasing to 30 or 40 per graduating class. (Believe me, that's rather large for Dufur.) It's strange roaming through the halls now, when no one recognizes me. I stop at my Senior locker and imagine it filled with all my textbooks and pictures taped to the door. The gym brings back memories of volleyball games and drama practice. I peer into each classroom, admiring the students filling their heads with all sorts of information. Graduating photos from each class line the walls. I find my photo and try to imagine if I have changed much. Although I don’t like to admit, I walked away with more education from those teachers than I thought. If you look out the window you can see the tallest hill around, adorned with a capital "D" that shows our town spirit. Memories flood my mind of dreaded track practices up to the top, roaming up to the top with flashlights to look at the stars, and promises of someday camping at the top. (That is until we saw a massive cave close by) I remember spending late afternoons at the top with my first love. He passed away several years ago. I made one last trip to the top in his memory, then they closed it for good to the public.

People still continue to move to the town, perhaps for the cute neighborhood feel or the stunning views of Mt. Hood. I suppose after my mom moves I won’t have a reason to return there anymore. It’s strange walking down the street when everybody thinks you are the stranger. I prefer to remember it as it was. Simple. Quiet. Full of people I used to know.