He tells himself he remembers when the big maples that line Main Street were saplings, but he's not really sure it's true. He's been here almost thirty years; reasons that they must have been just saplings when he arrived, but can't remember any trees of any size on Main Street thirty years ago, can't remember when they might have come along and planted them.
He knows there used to be a gas station on the corner before they took the land and tore it down, built the massive brick and glass State Office Building; remembers that there was something beside it, but he can't remember what it was. It might have been a laundromat, he thinks, or a small block of apartments, but all he can recall is how much people howled about how they were going to have to drive out of town to fill up.
That was long before anyone had any idea about what the movers and shakers had in mind for dragging Main Street into the Twentieth Century, just as the rest of the world was getting ready for the Twenty-First.