Loretto Memories Essay
Memory is such an interesting thing. The world looks different through the lenses of nostalgia, but many of my earliest memories of home and belonging were of Loretto. A handful of miles between Lawrenceburg and Florence, this was the town that felt so much like where I belonged.
I was born the son of a Methodist minister, Ron Abbott. Ron preached for Loretto for a few years back in the 1970s, giving me a few years of childhood in a town that was comfortable, safe, and fun. I even met my best friend for life there, John Brewer. John and I spent so much of our time together, talking about Star Wars and playing with Legos, that people who knew us probably thought we were somehow related.
Across the street from the parsonage was Russell’s family. His older brother rode his skateboard on his hands. Next door was Amanda’s house. I mowed their yard a few times, spent some time playing with her. There were a small patch of woods behind the house that was amazing fun for a small explorer like me. There was the church across the street.
There was my handicapped brother, David. David changed our family, and I know he changed some of your lives as well if you remember us. David had cerebral palsy, a condition that required us to do therapy for several hours a day. We did it, and so many of you volunteered and helped and put in so much time. Our family could not have done what we needed to do to take care of my little brother without you. David passed away two Decembers ago, but he lived a full and wonderful life that some of you were an important part of.
For me, though, I remember pestering my father every couple of days for some change so I could walk around the corner with John (using the root steps if we cut through that plot of land on the corner) and half a block down to the drug store. They had a comic book rack and a small counter for ordering food or drinks. We would buy a comic book and sit there, drinking a real cherry Coke (cherry added on the spot, long before Coca-Cola ever marketed the idea). That was a typical day, one of many that made up a feeling of being where I was meant to be. Losing kites, imagining UFOs, wrecking my bike and losing my front tooth.
It was also a feeling that I never would fully have again. Loretto and I related to each other. I remember all the little details of a town that has grown. John’s parents worked at the hospital; how has it changed? I know Killen’s store is long gone, but it’s a memory. I miss the pizza place with the miniature golf course in the basement. But so many things haven’t changed, I’m sure of it. The geography’s the same; it’s just punctuated by a few more traffic lights and maybe even a restaurant or two.
If I had a message for you all, it would be one of thanks. I was an awkward kid for most of my life, but I always felt there was one thing that made Loretto different, and it was the feeling it left me with, a feeling of being home.
I was born the son of a Methodist minister, Ron Abbott. Ron preached for Loretto for a few years back in the 1970s, giving me a few years of childhood in a town that was comfortable, safe, and fun. I even met my best friend for life there, John Brewer. John and I spent so much of our time together, talking about Star Wars and playing with Legos, that people who knew us probably thought we were somehow related.
Across the street from the parsonage was Russell’s family. His older brother rode his skateboard on his hands. Next door was Amanda’s house. I mowed their yard a few times, spent some time playing with her. There were a small patch of woods behind the house that was amazing fun for a small explorer like me. There was the church across the street.
There was my handicapped brother, David. David changed our family, and I know he changed some of your lives as well if you remember us. David had cerebral palsy, a condition that required us to do therapy for several hours a day. We did it, and so many of you volunteered and helped and put in so much time. Our family could not have done what we needed to do to take care of my little brother without you. David passed away two Decembers ago, but he lived a full and wonderful life that some of you were an important part of.
For me, though, I remember pestering my father every couple of days for some change so I could walk around the corner with John (using the root steps if we cut through that plot of land on the corner) and half a block down to the drug store. They had a comic book rack and a small counter for ordering food or drinks. We would buy a comic book and sit there, drinking a real cherry Coke (cherry added on the spot, long before Coca-Cola ever marketed the idea). That was a typical day, one of many that made up a feeling of being where I was meant to be. Losing kites, imagining UFOs, wrecking my bike and losing my front tooth.
It was also a feeling that I never would fully have again. Loretto and I related to each other. I remember all the little details of a town that has grown. John’s parents worked at the hospital; how has it changed? I know Killen’s store is long gone, but it’s a memory. I miss the pizza place with the miniature golf course in the basement. But so many things haven’t changed, I’m sure of it. The geography’s the same; it’s just punctuated by a few more traffic lights and maybe even a restaurant or two.
If I had a message for you all, it would be one of thanks. I was an awkward kid for most of my life, but I always felt there was one thing that made Loretto different, and it was the feeling it left me with, a feeling of being home.