Who Says You Can't Go Home . . . They're mostly right

I returned to my childhood home today, two of them actually, after 30 years. The first was in Greenfield, Missouri. This home was the one I most remember – where most of my childhood memories were formed. It was these there that Jodi and I saved Nothing’s kittens. There that I first understood what it meant to “rain in sheets.” At the farm, we were chased by goats, terrorized by roosters and geese, and struggled with the concept that just because you can see by my outfit that I am a cowboy, didn’t necessarily make it so. I have written before of the farm, and I knew that going back would be a risk. And true to form, I was prepared to accept the worse but so hoping for the best. And the best isn’t really what I got. The road itself was overgrown, the weeds reaching greedy hands toward each other across the skinny black pavement. And when we turned the last corner, and were perched on top of the hill looking down at what used to be our house, it was one of those climactic moments – whatever outcome would result would be revealed soon. And it was not the hopeful, general preservation of a historical landmark that I was hoping for. My house hadn’t been preserved for posterity – the two huge trees in the front yard were gone, replaced by a vinyl fence that was hidden behind about 3 feet of overgrown brush. The small green house had been upgraded – siding replaced the green wood. The outbuildings / sheds and barn had long since been torn down. The only common factor was that the yard was mowed and there were big dogs in the house. The lot had housed the barn was simply part of the yard and the lower lot with the pond was now a wooded area, the bond nothing more than an indentation in the ground at the bottom that you had to strain to see. It would appear that the magic that had hovered around the farm when we were little – fled when we left. The park where we had my 8th birthday party was much the same. The bathroom that I remember being overrun with crickets was still there – and it was too late in the season for a huge amount of bugs – but I could see why they’d like to hang out in the spot. And I’m pretty sure that the tornado slide was EXACTLY the same as it was when I was little. I’m pretty sure they don’t make layered metal slides like that anymore. While we were there we stopped by the elementary school. I didn’t remember that it was white, but I’m pretty sure that it is because I’m combining it with small school clipart. I think they’ve added to the back. What used to be the baseball field was gone. But what was there – and I had forgotten – was the kindergarten building which was across the street. I remembered that tiny sidewalk up to the door, the playground in the back and the thorn bush that grew near the fence. I remember Mrs. Reeves – who in 1974 was probably one of the few black teachers in white schools anywhere in the south. If the visit taught me nothing else, it taught me that metal playground equipment can and most likely will last forever. The square was familiar, I remembered skating around the square for the Buffalo Days parade, and hurling buffalo chips down the hill. I remembered the house with the mimosa tree on the corner – that bloomed brilliant pink sweetness in the summer. But the town looked old and unkempt. The fields were grown over, the town itself was old. It looked forgotten, like a run down senior citizen community with no money and no prospects. It is however, probably one of the only towns with a city park that posts a notice that says no horses allowed. We also traveled to Marshfield, MO. This is where we lived when my brother Jason was born. This house in my head was always very much like a Brady bunch house. And it looked much the same when we stopped by to visit. I didn’t realize that it mattered that it looked the same until I saw it. The yard that in my childhood stretched for so many miles that I was sure Jodi would never be able to reach the, was just a nice sized yard. But the house was a page from a faded memory book. T he trees where we tied Sawdust was there. The sidewalk where Jason found the pee in a bottle (mountain dew I’m sure) was still there. And John Bruce still lived right down the road, though not quite the mile that I remembered. And when I saw him, I just wanted to burst into tears. His hear was white and fading from the top, but he still had his mountain man beard and ponytail. He was still in his overalls. And his eyes were exactly the same. And I lost it. And even when I wrote this, I am overcome again with weepy, nose running tears. So I gave him a huge hug with tears streaming down and he said, Welcome home. And finally there was that one part that was true and was w hat I remembered and was still perfect. And then it was there – the disappointment and loss from Greenfield that I didn’t think bothered me. No one valued that magic place of my childhood. There would be no pictures to frame prettily – it was gone. But John Bruce, he still had the magic of my childhood. He still has the magic twinkle that Santa has, with this calmness of spirit that is reverberating all around him. And when he said welcome home, my journey back to childhood was complete and culminated not in a place as I had anticipated, but in a hug. And it made all the abject horror if Greenfield apparent, and it scoured away the grown up acceptance of the fact that everything was so different – and laid bare and raw the sadness that a place that was so important to me had fallen to ruin. My own Terabithia destroyed. I was again a little girl lost in the mall trying to find a place to belong. So amid the relief that there were parts of my childhood that lived still unchanged there was, and is, just his overwhelming sadness that the rest is gone – neglected, abandoned and discarded – and in the acknowledgement my hope to let it go. But it is one of those moments when you struggle with regret – and it constantly brings to mind – or rather is the same kind of loss – as when my granddaddy walker didn’t know who I was the first time or the last time that I saw him in the nursing home and he didn’t look like granddaddy at all. I have been spoiled it seems in the relative unchanging nature of several constants in my life – and saying that – I must correct myself – there are aspects of my life that are the same only because I’ve seen them evolve and change – there is contentment and security in that. And the lesson learned from it all? This one is hard – it has taken me so long to figure out why seeing John Bruce made me want to cry – so I’m not sure that I’m ready to create the end of blog summative statement. But I suppose if I must say something, it would be that if you value it – hold on to it somehow – not so tightly that you prevent change – but close enough that you are a part of its evolution. Because there is no going home – only going forward.