There is a town in the middle of nowhere. We make use of this term because we do not want to scare people by the first sentence who are used to the mid-twentieth-century breakaway language which most people call English, some blame on America, but we will simply call it english henceforth (or millenial-boomer english in full).
Towns usually are found amongst farmlands, and if they don't have certain facilities the English word hamlet is most appropriate (our sense of decency would insist we compensate the farmers for calling their homes nowhere).
There is a hamlet I visited on one of my journeys which I made on the spur of the moment, in mid-winter as I recall, which was the last journey I was able to visit all my grandparents. I was still maintaining a moustache as people were still trying to get me to update my principles (regardless of whether I was doing a good job or a bad job of adhering to them at the time).
Letting a motor do its thing under you while all you have to focus on is maintaining a good grip, not letting people who are trying to get you to notice them bother you in the least (which doesn't take any effort if you have the right motor), and accepting dull but manageable pain that comes from the seat of one's person without squirming, I consider one of the best ways to keep from from hoping for things which one's principles put out of reach.
The place--the hamlet--was where I have my first continuous recollections.
I use past tense because in South Africa a place can stay exactly the same for four generations and every generation will talk about how that place used to be; on the other hand, places may indeed change for a new culture which supplants an old one, and it may be that precious few people can recognize the difference between the two cultures. When I visited the place I had spent no less than eight years thinking about the place; which contemplation simply started off as an exercise for my powers of recollection. But these had received a shock, which mental adjustment I'll just have to make up a term for, because, whether the collapse resulted from a hereditary condition or something else, I've lived with it for twenty years (not without some visible signs of struggle), and it happened to me when I was taking a walk with two friends.
My uncle knows the place as where nutjob kids go to annoy the farmers who live round about. The occurrence I had brought on myself--I had been receptive. But I thought someone would at least have the decency to allow a bloke to make a move so that there'd at least be visible signs to his friends that taking things one step at a time was out of the question.
I toyed with the idea of calling it a git-merge, but it seems that while influence is a two-way street, recovery might just put one party as a self-declared winner; and they would do well to confer as to how this would make the other feel.
So the recollection, and the recollection of a recollection, together bring back fond memories of a different town. The recollection of a recollection clarified why I was thinking about town number one. I had had fond memories about it, but the truth is that the struggle, which I am yet in, and which is why I am alone today, started there where Mom chid me for dragging my feet.
Children shouldn't have to struggle: this is the core tenet of culture.
An inquisitive boy just needs to be given a bible and given a name: that is all the religious instruction he needs. Unless we start looking at a perfect world scenario, we would think that he just needs a loving relative to caution him against the things that girls might try to get him to do.
But now I'm back on my two feet, and wondering about a few friends who are divided by the ocean.
But first I must think about the homeward-bound journey.
And zeroeth I must remind myself that the fond memories of the town is just fond memories of friends who all left it.