Dear Carthage,

I've never been good at goodbyes, so, that's not what this is. This is most definitely NOT a goodbye. This? This is a thank you.

While living in the same town for 18 years, you tend to acquire memories. I have some very fond memories of Carthage, and some not so fond. Some of those good memories include parades and friends. The bad memories are made up of sadness and loss. As I prepare to leave this small town that no one's ever heard of, I decided to relive some of those memories here so that I may never forget them.

Let's start with parades. As a child, I remember quite fondly sitting on the bumper of the car in the heat of the summer watching the Fourth of July Parade pass by with its bright colors and horses that stopped every five feet to poop in the road. I also remember the end of the year, when the Christmas Parade rolled its way through town. Every child fought sleep to catch candy and see Santa Clause make his debut at the very end of the parade. I remember loving these parades, especially when the High School's Marching Band came through, playing their music and wearing their Santa hats for Christmas and their red, white and blue in July. As a kid, that was pretty awesome. As an adult, it's still pretty awesome to be able to say that I marched in those parades and did what my 6-year-old self had always wanted to. However, not everything was always happy-go-lucky when it came to marching in the parade. My 8th grade year I was marching snare for the Christmas parade with the Middle School band. We had just made it to the roundabout where the courthouse was, and that just happens to be where the most people go to watch the parade. My band teacher gave the signal for the cadence and as I went to count it off, I fell. I still to this day don't know exactly what happened. I think I tripped over the brick median, but I'm not 100% sure. All I know is that I fell, hard. I went to my knee and popped right back up, ready to keep going despite the embarrassment that I had just brought upon myself. Everyone gasped when I went down and cheered when I got back up a mere second later, but all I wanted to do was cry from the pain that was shooting from my knee and from the embarrassment. I went to go jump back into the cadence but looked down only to see that my drum was nowhere to be found. Great. Not only did I just make a complete and utter fool of myself, now I was going to have to march the rest of the parade looking like an idiot without a drum. I looked back to see my drum disappearing into the group of Boy Scouts behind us, any hope of salvation disappearing with it. Much to my surprise, though, one of the 7th grade percussionists saw what was going on and ran out of formation and back into the group of Boy Scouts. He emerged seconds later with my drum and made his way back to me, staying in step the entire time. He started marching backwards in front of me, trying to put my drum back on my harness only to find out that my harness had been broken by the impact of my fall. He handed the drum off to the 7th grader beside me, and I finished the parade marching traditional style, like I was straight out of World War I. I have never lived that down, and to this day my percussion friends still tell me not to trip when we get to the courthouse every year, no matter what parade.

Carthage seems to be one of those "everybody knows everybody" towns. It's good if you ever need anything done, because it's like, "Oh, you need your roof fixed? Well Tim's mama's brother-in-law's son does roofing on the side. Lemme call up Tim and see if he can figure something out." But if you're going to the grocery store with your mom, it turns from a quick five minute trip to get eggs and milk to an hour and a half escapade where she stops every 10 feet to talk to someone she knows. Small town living, y'all -- there's nothing like it. You go out to eat and see 15 people you know at the restaurant, except if it's Casa Garcia on 15-501, then you might see 20. Also, all the elderly people know each other and have their own little clique-type things going on. For example, you could be at breakfast with your Grandma and her knitting circle and another elderly woman walks in and they'll all be like, "Oh, well, there's Ellen, that crazy loon" and "Her poor husband has to deal with that woman, bless his heart." It's crazy how much a bunch of 60- to 70-year-olds can sound just like the mean girls at the high school lunch table. That being said, my grandma's death was one of the hardest things I think I've ever endured in small-town Carthage. It seemed like everywhere I went, there were people telling me how sorry they were for my loss. Don't get me wrong, I appreciated the sympathy, but it was just kinda weird to be out with my friends having a good time and then be reminded of my grandma's recent passing. I loved the support and still do today even though it's still a sensitive subject for me.

Long story short, when you spend 18 years in the same place, things happen to you. You acquire favorite restaurants, you can get to your best friend's house with your eyes shut, and you always know how to get to McDonald's from wherever you are in the town.

Like I said, this is not a goodbye. This is a thank you, so...

Dear Carthage,

Thank you for the memories, but it's time I moved on.