Can you ever go back home again?

Can you ever go back home? Maybe the old familiar cliché is true, “You can never go back home again.”

The quote really means that once you grow up, leave home, find your own place, etc, you can’t return to the atmosphere of your childhood. Sure, you can technically go back to where you once lived, but you can’t recreate the environment, because it's completely different. Your parent’s and siblings have grown older, moved out, or passed away and all of your old friends and neighbors are gone...

Last year I had the opportunity of going back to the magical atmosphere of my childhood. It’s been over forty years since I last saw my childhood home. It was the day I described in my blog, Girlfriends 2 when I wrote about finding my childhood best friend, Sue.

My heart was filled with anticipation while I drove up one street and then down another until I finally arrived on “my” street. I don’t remember the streets being so narrow and the houses looking so small. I was so lost in envisioning my life in the 50’s and 60’s that I drove right past my house. I drove up a couple more blocks and turned around. All of the homes were vacant, it was surreal to be here when nothing but emptiness occupied the once elm lined street.

I turned into our driveway and before I could open the door the tears began to flow. I was so filled with emotion that I froze. The last time I stood in this very spot was the day I heard the slide of the steel door on the moving truck and a slam, the indication that everything was loaded and they were ready to roll. One of the movers started the engine while the other went inside the house to have my mother sign off on the paperwork and confirm the delivery date and time. I slowly walked past the truck and trailer running my hand down the side leaving a wave of disapproval to the adventure and went into the backyard and stood there recalling all the times I pretended to be the human sundial.

I smiled as I reminisced of my mother’s prize roses and peony bushes. Freshly picked flowers graced the little kitchen table while the soft fragrance of the lily of the valley and sweet peas permeated through the open windows. I looked through the bay window and saw the walls and floors were savagely exposed leaving her for all to see in her nakedness. I imagined my childhood refuge weeping, and feeling unloved because she had no one to protect within her aged walls. She was abandoned, beaten and broke down for the first time in seventy years.

I closed my eyes, and for a moment I imagined all the mothers calling out our names when it was time to come home; the endless summer days playing tag and hide-n-seek and the winter ice-skating parties at Sue’s house and drinking her mom’s special hot cocoa to warm up.
I walked all around the little white house touching her and looking in her windows for the last time with every step a memory and another tear.

The bountiful trees that lined this street were no longer standing to block the setting sun from falling on my shoulders then I remembered my first kiss was under the streetlight just up the street. The longer I sat there I felt the warmth return to my heart and the sweet memories of growing up here made me smile.

I smiled because there was much I learned here on Jackson Street besides taking my first step or riding my first two wheeled bicycle. I learned from my parent’s their most powerful example was a distillation of all the others. Life is doing. Beyond all lessons, beyond the role model they provided, my parent’s gave my siblings and me the ultimate gift. They made us feel loved and good and it all started in this home within her loving walls.