I have two duties today. One that is gonna cost me. One that is gonna take me back almost 60 years. The first one begins in Molena, Georgia.

The first time I ever saw Molena I was 11 years old. I was seated on the old Troop 60 Scout bus headed to Camp Thunder on the Flint River. It was a hot summer day. All the bus windows were down. I waved at a man in a straw hat who was standing next to his truck at the gas station. He raised his hat and waved back.

I have been riding through Molena most of my life for one reason or another, even more so since I moved to Pine Mountain 32 years ago. This little town is “on my way” to Hampton. It’s on my way to a lot of my destinations but has never been a destination itself. I’ve never stopped in Molena for anything.

Until today.

Last month I got a traffic ticket. Officer Willis of the Molena PD tagged me at 57mph right where the speed limit changes from 55 to 40. I know better. I know that every little town in the state takes their speed limits seriously. And I always slow down. But Marion and I were talking up a storm, and I wasn’t paying attention. He got me. No argument.

But that’s not why I got a ticket. I guess he let me pass on that because of my stellar record, my innocent smile, and my sincere apology. He gave me a ticket for illegally blocking my license plate.

We were on our way home from our fishing trip. To give us more room in the bed of the truck, we use a rack on the back of the truck that slides into the receiver hitch. We strap down two coolers on that rack, and, yes, it does hide the plate. It wasn’t like I had taped a piece of cardboard over the plate. I wasn’t trying to evade the law. But that’s what got me in trouble.

Today, I’m on my way to Hampton and I’m stopping at the Molena City Hall to pay my fine. I’m not going to municipal court over this one.

I pull up to the curb in front of a row of 100 year old brick buildings. I walk down to City Hall on the corner. The large wood and glass door creaks as it closes behind me. I don’t see anyone, but I hear voices. In a few seconds a cheerful, dark haired lady comes around the corner.

“Good morning,” she says. “I’m Olga. How can I help you?”

Her accent is thick and definitely not southern. We exchange the usual chit chat and then she invites me to take a chair in the front office.

“Tell me about your accent.” I am either curious or nosey by nature. “I’m not sure where you’re from but I’m pretty sure it’s not Molena.”

Thankfully, she is eager to tell her story. She’s from Ukraine. Her husband and two kids have been in Molena for ten years. Her husband is from Milledgeville, Georgia. They met when he was in Ukraine on business. Got married. Moved to Pennsylvania for 15 years, then here.

“How in the world does a girl from Ukraine end up in Molena?”

She told me how her husband’s job gave him the opportunity to live anywhere he wanted as long as he was willing to travel wherever they needed him. Being from Georgia, he couldn’t get out of Pennsylvania fast enough. They didn’t want the city, but they knew they needed to be no more than an hour from the airport. They looked at the map and put a pin on Molena.

“A small southern town had to be hard for you.”

“Oh no,” she says. “I love it here.”

Imagine her thick eastern European words as she tells me about how hard life was back home. She described life there mostly as sad. Pennsylvania was beautiful, but not very friendly. She had a neighbor from New York who never waved or spoke to her for 15 years.

“Here,” she says. “I have been welcomed by everyone from the day we arrived. I talk to strangers and they talk back. I am so happy in America. I love this town and so do my boys.”

She never stopped smiling.

I paid my fine. $116. It hurt. But I left there thinking how this world needs more of what Olga has. An unflinching enthusiasm for life. A spirit for finding and making a life wherever the journey might lead. The ability to adapt. A built-in smile with an infectious joy. Meeting her made me forget meeting Officer Willis.

The other task today is to meet up with my childhood buddy, Peter Laughren. I met Pete when his family moved to Hampton from Canada around 1969. He and I were in Scouts together. We played baseball on the same team. As teenagers, we were in the same youth group at church. Though our paths have taken us in so many different directions, we’ve always managed to keep up with one another.

He’s been after me for a while to go visit my homeplace. He hasn’t set foot on the farm since we were kids. His request was simple.

“I just want to walk around it with you one more time while I still can.”

After a quick burger and fries in town, Pete parked his truck at Berea and road out to the farm with me. I knew it would be a day full of nostalgia. I also knew it would be a little painful for me because the place has changed so much. Still, I was more than glad to share some old memories with an old friend.

We pull up and park in the lane beside the back yard. As we’re walking around, I find myself pointing out things that are missing.

“There used to be a woodshed right here. Over there, next to the smokehouse, was where the dog pen used to be. Right where I’m standing there used to be a massive pecan tree.”

On our way down to the lake, “That’s where the barn used to be.”

Somewhere, riding across the dam of the lake and over the hill through the back pastures, I realized something important. I have avoided coming here since I sold the place six years ago. I’ve only been here twice before today. I have friends who tell me how “vacant” it looks these days, and I prefer to avoid seeing it that way.

But today, standing here with Pete, sharing all the stories about our growing up years, our parents, the terrific life we had, I saw my home exactly how it used to be. Whatever was broken, overgrown, or abandoned did not stand up against my memory of it. Though my eyes could not see it, my mind filled in the missing pieces perfectly.

It was a relief to know that my memories are not shaken.

Thanks to Olga for easing my pain.

Thanks to Pete for helping me see things a little more clearly.