The convent school across the street has also changed. The high wrought-iron fence has disappeared, as have the somber figures in long black habits who once paced the borders of their cloister clicking off prayers on trailing strings of rosary beads. A handful of women come and go through the main entrance, but nothing identifies them as nuns. But the feeling will not come. In my study 1,500 miles away it came in great nostalgic waves.
People are more prosperous.
There are lots of things to do and see. This is true. I remember a stolid, gray city, muffled by blue laws. Over the weekend there is a good deal of visiting with my family, and I become absorbed in my sister's herb garden, the large work shed my brother is building, my mother's poetry group. I am a tourist in their lives now, admiring the views.