old stories in an old town

I wanted to take a picture of the photobooth.

You know, for the novelty of seeing one for the first time in forever. I walked around the front, trying to angle it in my slanted lens. Click.

What," a voice asked from behind us. " No photo booths in America?"

(The best part of wearing shirts and jackets that say USA all over them is that it translates to "we have no idea what we're doing.")

The man's a gardener, doing yard word for a big house down the street. He asks if we're tourists and if we know the history of this town. Yes, No.

"You know," the man continues, "there have been tragedy inside these walls. Horror. Sorrow."

We stare at him. "What?"

He told us of world war 2, of how this town, like so many others, were struck hard. Of how all the able bodied men from this tiny town were sent to the town hall and worked to death. Of how all the survivors were taken onto a ship and killed two days after the peace treaty was signed.

Once, Clayton and I went camping on the 4th of july. Our tent was in the valley, wedged deep between two appalachian peaks, hidden and camoflauged by the overgrown greenery. Fireworks exploded above us. Beyond the tree line, we couldn't see the brilliance, just the noise and burst of light. I said, "let's pretend we're in a war zone. That this is a battle."

But now, I see, I am stupid. I can't imagine what it must've been like.

But even more remarkably, he told us a story of heroism. Of two girls about our age- 20 and 23, that saved the down from from a complete masacare. A machine gun was hidden in the attic of the hotel in town- the same hotel we're staying at now. When none of the towns people were wiling to remove the gun, the two girls snuck into the attic and grabbed the gun. They wrapped it in cloth, walked back the guarding officers, and threw it into the woods.

We didn't know what to think. It's strange to see all the beauty in this world before hearing about it's death. It's strange to see a story unravel, to see what this town was meant to be, but then to hear what created it. It's strange to see the flowers growing through the concrete.

There's no wind in this town. Here, within these twisty old streets and arching buildings, I can't feel the breeze. Maybe it's too far from the sea, I'm not sure. But walking around these old streets, we found a seashell.

I think it's good to wonder.