Ah, Harvest Homecoming. That magical time of year when our
little town transforms into a bustling maze of booths, crafts, and snacks that
cost more than your first car payment. You’ll find everything from hand-carved
wooden spoons to white-chocolate-dipped Oreos that are either gourmet or just
confused. I haven’t figured it out yet.
But for me, the real tradition—the one I look forward to
every year—is stopping by the local Boy Scouts booth and grabbing a pumpkin
roll. Not just because it supports a good cause, but because it supports my
well-maintained figure. And by “well-maintained,” I mean “held together by
frosting and denial.” But I digress.
No trip to Harvest Homecoming would be complete without a
few buckeyes. Or 326. I lose count somewhere between “this is my last one” and
“do you think they sell these by the bucket?”
This year, though, things felt different.
There was a heaviness in the air—not from the sugar, but
from something deeper. Last year, there was a shooting. A young man lost his
life. I knew about it when it happened, but because of my brain injury, I had
forgotten. That’s the thing about memory loss—it doesn’t just erase facts, it
erases feelings. And when they come back, they hit harder.
He was someone’s son. Someone’s friend. Someone who probably
had his own Harvest Homecoming traditions. Maybe he loved buckeyes too. Maybe
he was just trying to enjoy the day like the rest of us.
And then, in a moment, everything changed.
I often think about the ripple effect of senseless violence.
How one act can fracture dozens of lives. Families, friends, communities—all
left asking the same question: Why?
I wish I had the answer. I wish any of us did.
But here’s what I do know: we can’t control the chaos, but
we can choose how we respond to it. We can show up. We can remember. We can
honor. We can keep traditions alive—not just for ourselves, but for those who
no longer can.
So this year, as I wandered through the booths with pumpkin
roll in hand and buckeye crumbs on my shirt, I carried a little extra weight.
Not just from the snacks, but from the reminder that life is fragile. That joy
and grief often walk hand in hand. And that even in the midst of tragedy,
there’s still room for community, compassion, and a little powdered sugar.
We’re all rewiring. We’re all remembering. We’re all trying
to make sense of the senseless. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what homecoming
is really about.