Whenever I see it, I know I’m home.
Castle Mound isn’t a very noteworthy hill. It’s a long, narrow ridge, a few hundred yards long and no more than 200 feet high. It gets its name from the turret-like rock formations that stick out about the trees at its east end. Many travelers don’t even notice it as they speed by on the freeway below. But it speaks volumes to me about coming home.
Last Thursday afternoon, taking advantage of an extra day off, I drove up to Black River Falls to see my mother. I was also able to see my two brothers and their wives—Dick and Roberta for supper on Thursday, Don and Judy for breakfast and lunch on Friday.
I’ve climbed Castle Mound many times, beginning with my childhood. We would often picnic in the park at the foot of the hill, then hike up to the observation tower. When I became an adventurous youth, I hiked all the way to the rock turrets at the east end—a more challenging task. Then, triumphant, we’d sit out on the rocks, looking at the cars zipping along below and gazing out across the flat, former lake bed, punctuated with similar hills and ridges all the way to the horizon.
My hikes have grown less frequent, now that my mother, nearly 92 years old, isn’t able to manage it any more. Although Castle Mound isn’t part of her repertoire any longer, that doesn’t mean she sits around at home all day. She’s still a whirlwind of energy, attending her bird club, Homemakers’ Club, Tuesday Club (which, naturally, meets on Wednesday), camping club, card club, church choir, and more. I frequently don’t find her at home when I call. Still, we all know that my mother has more years behind her than ahead of her. That makes the time we have more precious and the need to make the trip more urgent.
I haven’t lived in Black River Falls since I finished college, 35 years ago, so that town I remember doesn't exist any longer. Wal-Mart moved in a while back and killed the downtown--one more reason to have hard feelings toward the big, bad retail giant. But in my mind, it’s still the same place: Ozzie Moe selling shoes, Harmie Galston selling furniture (and running a funeral home on the side), Verna Keefe directing the church choir, my Grandma Anna fussing in her kitchen. And I think of all the generous people that have supported and enriched life there, from the major philanthropists like the Gebhardts and the Lundas to the ones whose contributions have been smaller but no less meaningful. Lincoln once appealed to this country’s “mystic chords of memory.” I hear that music strumming in my head whenever I walk its streets.
I recognize that my view of Black River Falls can be a bit rose-colored. I guess that’s inevitable. We all tend to remember the good things and ignore the not-so-good. I’m certainly aware of the pettiness and parochialism that sometimes reared its head, making it a less welcoming, caring, and forward-thinking place than it might have been. Still, for all its faults—if faults they be—it’s still home, and I am who I am in part because of that place and its people. They’ll always be precious to me.
