Simpler Times

A Simpler Time

When I was nine, I had the opportunity to spend the summer two hundred miles to the north of Detroit, my home. During that time, I stayed on the country farm where my father grew up, Curtisville.

That summer in Curtisville always felt like stepping into another world—a world far from the noise and chaos of the city, where things moved slower and conversations were light, uncomplicated. I look back on those days and realize how different they were from the overthinking that seems to fill my mind now. Back then, everything felt so simple, so immediate.

I can still see it clearly: walking the country block with my sister, Margaret, and our cousins, Mark and Amy. That block was about three miles around, with nothing but wide open fields and a few scattered houses. We’d start off with easy conversation—how far we could throw a stone or whether we’d get to go swimming later. There was no hesitation in our words, no overanalyzing or worrying about what someone might think. It was just the four of us, chatting about whatever crossed our minds.

Halfway around the block was the Curtisville Market, the only store in town. It was a small, unassuming place—a gas station with a little store attached. But to us, it was like stepping into treasure. My parents would give us pennies and nickels to spend, and as we got closer to the market, the conversation would shift. Suddenly, we were strategizing how to make the most of our money. My goal was always the same: get the largest number of candies possible. I wanted quantity—anything to stretch those few coins. My cousins, on the other hand, were more interested in the biggest candies they could afford, while my sister landed somewhere in between. 

Once we made our purchases, the walk back was always filled with bargaining and bartering. We’d try to convince each other to share a piece or trade something. And even then, it was simple. No hidden motives, no weighing the consequences of what we said. Just the joy of being together, sharing candy, and living in the moment.

I think about those days often now, especially when I catch myself overanalyzing everything in social situations. It’s hard not to, isn’t it? We’ve all lived so much, gathered so many experiences with friends, relatives, neighbors. And all that information sits there, influencing the way we speak, how we listen, the pauses between words. It’s not that it’s a bad thing—I know those layers of experience add depth to our conversations, but I miss the simpler days.

I also miss the simple conversations I had with my father. Dad used to tell us all kinds of stories during those summers, his voice filled with nostalgia as he talked about growing up in that little town. Curtisville brought back memories for him that I’m sure were exaggerated, but I didn’t mind. He’d talk about the fish he caught in the river, or how he worked in the fields with his father. He’d always say he wished that time had lasted longer. He was the youngest of eight, and by the time he was old enough to help, his father had taken ill from years of hard work. That chapter of his life was cut short, and I think he missed it. Those stories, though were another simple joy of those summers. I was more of a listener than a talker back then, and I loved hearing my dad share those pieces of his past.

There’s a longing I can’t shake to return to those kinds of conversations, the ones we had on that country block. Conversations that weren’t clouded by years of experiences and overthinking. As adults, every word feels like it carries weight, like it has to pass through a hundred filters before it comes out. We consider consequences, read between lines, and sometimes, it just feels like too much. I miss those days when we didn’t need to do all that. When we could just talk.

I guess John Mellencamp said it best in that song: *“That’s when a smoke was a smoke, and groovin’ was groovin’.”* It’s that feeling of something being exactly what it is. Nothing more, nothing less. Just living in the moment, without the burden of thinking too much. That’s what I want again—the simplicity of a walk around the block with a few pennies in my pocket and nothing on my mind but which candy to buy.