Everyone hates a tourist

The small Upstate community I was abruptly thrust into forty years ago as a teen hasn't changed all that much. Part of the New Military Tract it was originally settled by former soldiers who had served in the Revolutionary War. A few are still there and can be found clutching their muskets, ready in a moments notice to defend their property and their families against tyranny. They generally gather each Saturday at the God and Run Club to drill, eat barbecue, and drink vast quantities of American lager. Its comforting to know that I am safe with these Patriots, ever vigilant, on duty. Flags are flown, period pieces of artillery boom loudly, the acrid odor of Cordite excites the crowds. The words "freedom" and "liberty" are overheard frequently. A sense of unity exists among the proud white faces in the crowd. They are all Americans and no one will tread on them.
Driving towards "town" my companion and I were met by a roadblock at the village limits coordinated by Homeland Security. Passports at the ready we had become used to such inconveniences. The price of freedom is eternal vigilance and the young man and woman manning the barricade were friendly and courteous. They rolled back the razor wire and we drove through knowing that these young people would keep anyone not American out. Suspicious of all outsiders, towns folk willingly allow the next generation pay for their protection. The village itself is clean and well kept. Streets are lined with new trees, the ancient elms and maples gone now from disease. Homes with well kept front gardens vary in architectural style from Greek Revival to Federal to Victorian.
I hadn't been back in quite awhile. Yet, comfortingly enough nothing had changed. Our first stop would be the local pub, or tavern, as its known. I parked and we crossed the main street to the pub. It took a moment for our eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior. Drinking alcohol in the dark is a uniquely American practice. No one who is depressed needs to be reminded that there may be a glimmer of hope for them. In the dark they can sip their pints and bemoan their miseries safe in the knowledge that among the shadows lurks Death and they are ready at a moments notice for it. Stepping up to the mahogany bar I ordered a diet cola for myself and a club soda for my companion. I looked around and I recognised several of the faces at the bar. They had been there the last time I had visited. I recalled that they, with few exceptions, were seated at the same bar stools. A familiar face approached us. He extended his hand and asked if I was who I am. I shook his hand and introduced my companion. He said he was disappointed in himself for not contacting me, "When you lost your mother". I looked at him and replied, "Why thank you but mum is not lost. She's in an urn in da's closet where he can keep an eye on her." The old friend shrugged. We chatted about this and that and after several awkward pauses brought about because we no longer have anything in common I mentioned we must be getting back on the road. We said our goodbyes and lied to one another about keeping in touch. My companion and I walked out into the brilliant sunlight.
Motoring back out of the village we stopped again at the road block. They chequed the boot to make sure we weren't smuggling out any citizens and sent us on our way. Thomas Wolfe was right, you can't go home again.