You Can Go Home Again

You arrive full of expectations and preconceived notions of what people will say. “He has gained weight”, “God, is he going bald?”, “He’s just like I remember him.” The span of 7 years hasn’t been long enough to erase some of the unease you harbor of your time here; or, moreover, the heartache accrued since you left. Nor does it give justice to the flood of good memories that make you realize that you miss your home more than you care to admit. The drive in is uneventful; the star on the mountain still shines, the train yard downtown is still an eyesore, but the college has a new parking garage. The river still runs along the freeway separating the 3^rd world from your world; looking like a scar on a child’s knee. You wonder how different things will look in the light of day, but now, shortly after nightfall, you realize that things are the same as they’ve always been. You enter the house; the house that you grew up in, and are instantly stunned by how small it seems; the sink closer than you remember, the den not as big as on your 10^th Christmas. You look at the bookcase and remember where certain book titles are stored; placed there when they were bought decades ago, having moved not an inch since. You go out with friends and relive some old memories, then relate the new ones that you’ve collected. When you return home you enter quietly so as not to wake the woman who raised you all those years; the woman you know is awake in her bed, doing her best to be just as quiet as you are. You enter the bathroom to brush your teeth and remember that the top drawer sticks a little, that the floor was replaced in 1988 and that you feel right at home. You return to the bedroom that you occupied as a teenager, taking in the decorations while at the same time you’re picturing where your stereo sat, where your bulletin board was, what was on it and wonder where those long lost pictures are today. You see a baptismal certificate for your great-great grandmother hanging where you once hung a poster and ponder the dichotomy. You reach for your glasses and realize that one arm has come off; the screw still in the case. You wonder why after 4 years your glasses would choose this moment to fall apart, and then your question is answered when you find yourself in your fathers workshop; knowing the exact location of the screwdriver that you need. You look in the spot that you’ve seen it a million times before and gain a sense of accomplishment for having known where it would be. You grasp it and hold it in your hand; remembering whose hands held it so many times before you. The hands belonging to the man that showed you how that screwdriver, and all of the other tools in that shop worked, and you’re thankful for having been blessed with such a knowledgeable teacher. You wonder if you’re reciprocating with your own children and think that maybe you could do a better job. You fix the glasses and return to your childhood bedroom intent on sleep, but know that the power of these memories must be documented now; they’ll be lost if you wait until tomorrow. You grab your new laptop and jot down your memories before the battery dies. When you are done, you close the lid content in the fact that despite what the naysayers espouse; you can go home again.

Launch It:

People in the Sun

The first time I got back I was relieved to see the framed arty photo of the babe above my mirror was gone. She was all in black and white, apart from the underwear on her elevated butt, which were in color.

I wonder what my parents did with that. Maybe one day my dad will give it to my son. Maybe as a bar-mitzvah present?

(NukeDad) That would make a good present; he’d certainly remember it for the rest of his life. Just make sure your rabbi doesn’t see it. If he does, just tell him it’s one of those optical illusion posters of a basketball game.

People in the Sun´s last blog ..This post should have been about my torture device

Jul 03, 2009 @ 8:49 pm

SurprisedMom

I’m so glad you could go home again! It sounds like you’ve gained quite an appreciation of where you grew up and who you grew up with. I was touched when I read this. It brought back so many memories. I’m a little sad because I can’t go back to the house I grew up in. But, I do have my memories. They sustain me.

(NukeDad) It’s good to pull those memories out occasionally and dust them off. I’ve been dusting since I got here; should bring home plenty of blog fodder.

SurprisedMom´s last blog ..Living above Grandma

Jul 03, 2009 @ 11:45 pm

WeaselMomma

That was quite a Bon Jovi moment. I hope you have a wonderful visit. Please give my best regards to Leta.

(NukeDad) That’s actually one of the few songs of his that I like; I was never a huge fan of the mullet man. I will pass along your regards to Leta. She’s having more fun on my laptop than me. I may have to hide it from her.

Jul 04, 2009 @ 6:31 am

seashore

Wonderful post. Hope you enjoy your visit. (Sounds like you already are!)

(NukeDad) Thanks, Seashore! It has been a great visit so far; the wedding is tonight. I guess I better get going and go help out! Happy 4th of July!

seashore´s last blog ..Imperatives and Blessing

Jul 04, 2009 @ 8:09 am

tom

My mom sold our ancestral home in 1995, but I did have a chance to visit one last time that year, and my oldest daughter got a chance to sleep in the room that I used to call mine, cuddled up in a blanket that used to be mine, which my mom had stored away in a closet.

I know exactly what you mean about the house being small. It’s weird; you feel like a giant, like your head is going to brush the ceiling, and that those previously cavernous rooms are suddenly cramped and crowded.

Nice to know, though, that it’s all still the same. There’s nothing like that sense of permanence, that sense of place and rightness.

(NukeDad) So true, Tom. I wish the kids could be here too to see it all. Next year we’ll be bringing them back. The sense of smallness is the most overwhelming right now.

tom´s last blog ..Touchy

Jul 05, 2009 @ 7:22 pm

Mocha Dad

It’s always great when you can go home and relive old memories.

(NukeDad) It’s been a ton of fun, and a little bittersweet. I wish NukeMom and the NukeKids could have come also. We’re working on a plan to get everyone down here next summer.

Mocha Dad´s last blog ..Car Conversations

Jul 05, 2009 @ 8:07 pm