On a recent visit to my hometown, my sister and I took advantage of the early springlike weather and walked the familiar pathways of the small Ohio town where we grew up. We meandered for miles past favorite haunts, pausing to recall long-forgotten memories.

Our first stop was the Catholic grade school we attended, where the narrow brown-tiled hallways seemed less formidable than I remembered. Where colorful plastic climbing apparatuses replaced metal monkey bars and swings sets. And where I, my bum pressed against the black rubber seat of a swing and my legs pumping furiously to achieve greater heights, imagined a world in which anything was possible.

We stopped at the church next door, Holy Angels, where we once attended daily Mass and sang in the choir. It was here my sister and I were married and from where our parents were laid to rest.

Following our stop at the church, we headed uptown to the public library, where we spent most Saturday mornings picking out our weekly supply of books. The library seemed undisturbed by time, the layout hauntingly familiar except for the row of computers against the back wall and the friendly young librarian at the circulation desk. Her greeting as we paused to look around was a stark contrast to the stern, heavy-set woman of our youth, whose perpetual scowl ensured that we never spoke above a whisper.

At the old People's Bank building, which now bears a more global-sounding financial name, the giant circular vault stood wide open as it did so many years ago when we stopped to deposit our hard-earned baby-sitting and paper route money.

Walking along the familiar pathways of my youth, especially after so many years, I felt that little had changed, that in some way time had stood still.

But all things bear the mark of time, and this small town is no exception. The giant sycamore trees that once graced the perimeter of the courthouse, a stately domed building at the center of town, had been replaced by maple saplings. Even the buildings surrounding the courthouse had undergone facelifts, restored to their late 19th century charm but housing newfangled businesses, like a computer repair shop.

To my sister and me, though, the sight that best reflects the changing times was Grandma's, a small, white-framed house built near what had once been the edge of town.

When I was a child, I often spent Friday evenings at Grandma's, helping her fix supper, watching TV, for she had this modern wonder before we did, and listening to stories about her childhood, one marked by hard work and limited resources.

Also part of this house — at least in my mind's eye — was the old black Ford that Grandpa drove. Today a sporty red Honda motorcycle sits in the driveway, a vehicle that certainly would have made Grandpa shake his head in wonder.

Walking the pathways of our childhood was a wonderful opportunity for my sister and I to reconnect with long-forgotten memories. It created in me a longing for simpler, easier days, when we walked everywhere we wanted to go and had time to enjoy the scenery.

Linda K. Schmitmeyer is a freelance writer living in Middlesex Township. Her e-mail address is lks260@zoominternet.net.