So... Where Ya Really From?

Raised eyebrows and a smirk are what I usually get when I tell someone I'm from Cary, N.C.

"Okay, but where ya really from?" they snort.

In all fairness, I was already one year old when my family moved to Cary during the mid 70's. So, while not actually born there (due to lack of proper facilities- didn't you have to go to the hospital in Raleigh to be born back then anyway?) I'm about as close to a Cary native as you're gonna find. When I took my first shaky steps, the cute little town was about 9,000 strong. Today that number is more than ten times that- natives and transplants. Unbelievable growth is as understated as I can put it. Who'd a thunk it?

During my college years, about a decade ago, every couple of months or so I would head home from school and nearly become lost on the same streets that I'd navigated for years. The roads hadn't changed, but the scenery sure had. A new water tower snuck up on Farmington Woods and took root. A hospital resembling Club Med, Maui sprang up on Kildare Farm Road. Brand-spanking-new-I-bet-the-same-contractor-built-your-house-too neighborhoods lined Cary Parkway. The Pillsbury Dough Boy would envy this classic job of cookie stamping.

They closed Cary Elementary School, rebuilt some it, and renovated the rest for office space. I know they say the changes will ultimately benefit the youngsters more so than the old brick monster where I perfected spitballs, but it is sad to see such a storied landmark altered. But, they tell you things like that have to happen in the good name of progress.

When they decided to extend Hampton Valley Road all the way through from Maynard Road to the Parkway, it had ill effects on my miniature version of NASA. My friends and I used that exact ever muddy area (soon to be a road) to launch and lose many a model rocket. Our flight records are preserved in the open-armed branches of several pine trees however, we were there first. Then progress gently told us to beat it.

If someone asks me if there is actually a downtown area in Cary, I immediately know that this poor soul has never slopped half a chilidog from Ashworth Drugs in his lap. It was quite the epic adventure biking the mile and a half journey to get the two dog lunch special, sitting proudly at the lunch counter with a real honest to goodness fountain poured Cherry Coke, orange-brown stains displayed for all to see. It was quite a status leap to sit at that lunch counter, and as a precocious youngster, you just felt adolescent triumph there, perched on your stool.

(A thank you goes out to Ashworth Drugs for sponsoring my Junior League baseball team- '87 tournament champs! You'd think we could've gotten a free Coke for that!)

Another landmark of "downtown" Cary is the barber shop owned by Austin Rich. You just don't see that swirling candycane sign much these days. A wonderful throwback, a nice memory. I've known Mr. Rich for years, from the gawky early teenage years, to his unwavering support of my High School and American Legion baseball teams. His shop was the first (and probably last!) place I'd ever seen a real straight razor used to trim sideburns and necks. Talk about confidence! And, when you're 12 years old, strapped in that rickety bucket chair with what looks like a huge, glistening machete closing in on you.... talk about scary! Mr. Rich has a very steady hand, I can assure you!

Despite the multitude of changes that have re-shaped Cary over the past twenty-odd years, it is still quite a wonderful place. Sure, it is a bit more crowded, but there's at least one strip mall for every family. There are a few more rules. Some of the homeowners associations (just a wee bit full of themselves, eh?) might let you put up a fence with the proper permits... notarized by the president... of the United States. Twice. And all your signs must be green. Green. All of them. Green. And don't even think about running a red light, the camera adds ten pounds you know.

Having traveled quite a bit throughout the southeast and up the eastern seaboard, I gained a bit of perspective. Whether you grew up in what was once a small town like I did, or are a recent transplant already commenting on how they ought to improve your new home- you should remember that you're lucky to be there. You could do a lot worse. Detroit, anyone?

Now, where's my black and gold BMX dirt bike? I haven't been to Ashworth Drugs in a while, and the thought of an absurd amount of chili dribbling down my chin is making me hungry. See you at the lunch counter!