where are my breadcrumbs?

Hello there!

As new changes keep adding to the life, I feel hard to keep up with the keepsake memories I had to carry along.

Hence, another post about me getting nostalgic. Few days back, I stumbled upon a post that narrates about one woman town Monowi in Nebraska, USA. I am sharing a link for you to read if you are interested. Excerpt from the article

Elsie’s story isn’t about isolation. It’s about a woman’s commitment to caring for her community and the history of her town. I hope her story helps readers understand what is lost when a lack of economic opportunity leads people to leave rural America.

Elsie used to say, “Like Monowi, I’m too tough to die,” but her recent health issues have made locals wonder how much longer the town will be around .to read more..

This post got me thinking or worrying more about my roots. The childhood days in a beautiful village where everyone knew each other, the small school of handful of teachers with a nice playground and swing set, the black and white books that helped me imagine colorful places of the world, the neighbors more like family, playgroups from all walks of life, little temples with regular devotees and the train station with beautiful white benches and trees, everything mentioned and unmentioned draws a vivid picture of my childhood. Why it is an agony then? Because there is a little possibility of seeing the same picture If I go there again. Because it’s a village that’s about to be lost or at the verge of being lost. It was not an ever growing town which I could still visit and see the traces of the past. I am guessing, the street which had my house, my beautiful tiny functional house is haunted now. The temple to which I went daily, where I made all the silly meaningless prayers would have lost its only caretaker. The children I grew up should be now out in some other town trying to figure out a bright future just like me. So where are my breadcrumbs I left behind, which I believed would help me get back to my lovely childhood again? I wish I had more photos of my village and also feel better, that my imagination and memory are more vivid than the pictures could hold. That said, I respect the woman, Elsie Eiler of Monowi for holding onto her roots. She is a sweet medicine for all others who have nostalgic pain just like me.