You can’t go home again. Not an original statement, but it wasn’t original when Thomas Wolfe used it for his novel. According to the Yale Book of Quotations, it is attributed to author Ella Winter who once made that remark to Wolfe. Wolfe responded by asking if he could use it for the title of his novel. Obviously, she said “yes.”
Regardless of who said it first, its truth has been played out for generations. Including mine…including me.
Everyone has their vice. Some have several. The only one I’ll confess to here is real estate voyeurism. I love to surf real estate listings. It is a legal way to peek into the homes of other people, often neighbors, just to see what they’re like. Don’t tell me you haven’t done it.
Not having found our “forever” home is my excuse. My addiction began when we spent three years trying to sell our previous home and search for its replacement. Our realtor told us we’d have to kiss a lot of frogs before we found a prince. Boy, did we ever. With our house under contract and the closing in just a few short weeks, we were still surrounded by frogs. So instead of Mr. Right, we went with Mr. Right Now. He’s not such a bad fellow, but I know that somewhere out there is that house that will be ideal for the golden years. Although, without much gold, those years will likely be few. (Hmmm…maybe I should put a “donate” button at the bottom of these meanderings.)
On one surfing safari since then, I discovered that the home we lived in during my high school years was on the market. My interest was more than piqued. It sits on a hill with what I consider to be one of the best views of Lake Lanier you can find.
It was the supposed to be my parents “forever” home. We moved there after dad retired from chasing bootleggers. He was ready to pick up where he’d left off six years earlier when he was transferred to Raleigh, N.C. and we moved from the lake home I was born into. He was ready to fish and garden. And he did plenty of both.
He grew tomatoes, squash, cucumbers and beans during the summer. Fall saw potatoes. Lots of potatoes. Next to the garden at the edge of the woods, was a blackberry bramble. Dad hacked narrow pathways through it. They wound around and around. It was rather hot in there, even when picking early in the morning. For a twelve-year-old, it was a tortuous maze. It takes a lot of berries to fill even a small bucket. Dad was a picking machine. He’d go at it for hours until his bucket was full. Mine would be about a third full if I were lucky. I always felt like I was part of the Donner party lost in that hot maze of thorns with no hope of ever seeing home again.
What I lacked in berries, I made up for in chiggers. For those who haven’t been inhabited by a chigger, it’s not a pleasant experience. The little critters aren’t like fleas or mosquitos who just bite you, have a drink of your life-giving nectar and then just flit away. Chiggers is like adopting a pet only you don’t do the adopting. They adopt you and then move in. They live under your skin and drive you crazy. Sort of like teenagers.
You can use all the lotions you want to sooth the itching, but you must kill them to conquer it. The best way I found to kill the little buggers is to paint their temporary home with clear nail polish. It smothers them, or so I was told. Speaking from experience, it worked. Mostly they attacked my arms, but occasionally they would venture up a pant leg. About that, let me just say there are certain areas you really don’t want to paint with clear nail polish.
Just up from the garden and the bramble were large oaks that provided shade for the picnic table dad built. We ate a goodly number of meals there during the warm months featuring produce from our garden. On special days, we’d churn ice cream.
There was a dock for swimming and fishing. The pontoon boat saw plenty of action as well with fishing trips and picnics on the water.
For a wonderful while, we lived in paradise. But the cost of upkeep and property tax weren’t so easy to deal with on a government pension. We broke camp two months before I graduated high school. Not enough gold for the golden years.
The last time I was in the house was after the move. My job was to make sure the place was clean for the new owners. After vacuuming that horrible orange shag carpet in the family room that we always talked about replacing but never did, I took one last long look out the wall of picture windows at the lake. Then I turned off the lights, locked the door and never looked back.
That is until I found the listing online. I should have left well enough alone.
The only two things about the place I recognized were the address and the view. Beyond that everything was different. Both the inside and outside were remodeled. Not surprising. It needed some updating even when we lived there.
Gone were the baseboard heaters that were only good for melting anything that touched them. I have an afghan with serious scorch marks as proof. Gone was the orange shag carpet, thankfully! But I can’t say that I agree with all the changes. Some of the picture windows were replaced with wall space. Why the heck would you do that? The flooring and new walls were all very dark. Gone was the feeling of light and life. But that’s not what really shook me. Everyone has different tastes. I’m not like some of those folks on the real estate T.V. shows that find the home of their dreams, but don’t want to buy it because the walls are the wrong color. Hey folks, that’s why they make paint. Buy some you like.
It was the field trip that I shouldn’t have taken that hit me hard. The house was empty as the owners had already moved. So, one Sunday afternoon my wife and I cruised to the old ‘hood. Much had changed there too. Gone was the wooded lane that lead to our cul-de-sac. Houses were crammed onto lots deemed unbuildable in the ‘70s. Score one for modern technology and creative surveys.
I pulled up in front of the old homestead and got out. Alone. My wife doesn’t like it when I poke around properties. In my book, if there’s a for sale sign out front, it’s shopping not trespassing.
I strolled down the driveway past the house I no longer recognized to the backyard. I discovered the house wasn’t the only thing that changed.
Gone was the blackberry bramble. It had been mowed down and turned under. Only an archeologist could have determined where the garden had once been. The grass was replaced by moss and some of those large oaks were showing signs of decay. The only thing that any of would truly recognize was the view. Beautiful as ever.
That’s when the truth of Winter’s statement and Wolfe’s novel hit me. You can’t go home again. You can’t step back to that growing up place and expect to step back into your youth as though you are visiting an amusement park. “Welcome to Youth World. You must be under four feet high and emotionally below the age of 16 to enter.”
The realization that it has changed…that I have changed…was difficult to swallow. So was the lump in my throat as I choked back tears.
A foolish reaction? Perhaps, but that does not make it less real.
As I have run this through my emotional grist mill, I’ve found a peace. Yes, the place that was home to endless summer days, autumns of blazing color, winters watching for signs of spring and springs of dogwood blossoms and counting the days until school was out has changed. But the memories have not. I still have them. The times of laughter, tears and celebration still exist as long as I exist. Better yet, in a way they live on in our children.
The past is not a destination. It is a guide for living in the moment while navigating the future. And thanks to our parents for building those memories in both of us. We’ve used them as a guide to build the same for our family.
I can only hope it worked.
