完美故乡巴克汉诺.docVIP

完美故乡巴克汉诺 　　For me， “hometown” refers to a small town， home to generations of family， a place whose history is interspersed with family stories and myths. Buckhannon was a town of 6，500 or so then， nestled in the foothills of the Allegheny Mountains of north-central West Virginia. 　　I left for college， but went “home” for years to see my divorced parents， and then to visit their graves in the rolling cemetery that splays its green acreage on either side of the winding road where my father taught me to drive. I know now that I loved Buckhannon， that its long history and layers of stories made it the perfect birthplace for a writer. My mother had grown up there， as had most of her friends， and their mothers before them. People stayed in Buckhannon all their lives. Despite the sometimes doubtful economy， no one wanted to leave， or so it seemed to me as a child. 　　Buckhannon was beautiful. Main Street was thriving. Local people owned the stores and restaurants. We lived out on a rural road in a ranch-style brick house my father had built. My father went to town early on Sundays to buy the 2）Charleston Gazette at the Acme Bookstore on Main Street. The Acme smelled of 3）sawdust， where I’d replenish armloads of borrowed books under my mother’s watchful eye. She’d finished college， studying at night while her children slept， and taught first grade in the same school her children attended. 　　I looked out the windows of Academy Primary School and saw， across South Kanawha Street， the large house in which my mother had lived until she married my father. My mother had graduated from high school in 1943， and my father， nearly a generation earlier， in 1928， but he wasn’t a true native. Born in neighboring Randolph County， he was raised by three 4）doting 5）paternal aunts. Each took him into their families for a few years， and he’d moved to Buckhannon for high school， winning the 6）elocution contest and giving a speech at graduation. This fact always amazed me. My father， 7）masc