My grandfather Calvin moved to Hilliard in 1962, and still lives in the same house that he first moved to 57 years ago. It sits on a small road, off another small road, in the middle of Old Hilliard. I spent my childhood there, sleeping in the same bedroom my mom used to.

In the past 24 years, the time I have been around to notice, the small road has been widened twice. The 4th of July parade got bigger, and the diner moved to a new location. The Franklin County Fair used to be held on the grounds that border Calvin’s backyard, and monster trucks were crushed under purple lights when I was young. Now it’s only used as a practice track for amateur race horses.

Hilliard still feels like a small town, but it’s changing. The values that Calvin grew up with have shifted to mean something new. And in many ways, this slice of Hilliard, this house, feel like the last things connecting me to a time past.