You Can't Go Home...At All

So I get a voice-mail from my mother the other day with those dreaded words, “Call me back, it’s important.” The usual bullet-like thoughts run through the head like, “Who died?” or “Who’s in the hospital?” or even worse, “Why don’t you come over for dinner, I’m cooking my tuna-fish casserole.” I love my mom, but I’d rather spend a day listening to Barbra Streisand discuss politics than eat tuna-fish casserole.

Anyway, I call back and my mother proceeds to inform me that she and my stepfather had just passed by the home I spent some years in as a kid. That’s not really noteworthy except for the fact that the home had been sold and she described it as being in a state of much disrepair. I can hear you saying, “Well, so what? Happens all the time.” That’s fair. And it wouldn’t be worth a post in a blog with millions of readers like this one (Peter, there are maybe three readers of this crap, and you’re one of them), except for the backstory, which is kind of cool.

The short version of the back-story goes something like this: The home was a parsonage right next to the church; my parents and my little brother and I lived in that parsonage and my dad was the pastor at the church from 1966-1970 (that’s right, I was a preacher’s kid); and during that time my father committed adultery, lost his pastor’s license, and we moved from that home to Boston in 1970. Not long after that my parents separate, divorce, my mom remarries, and the rest is, sort of…history. Granted, those of you who know me, know that there’s a much cooler, Philip Roth-like long version to that story. But for the purposes of this little post, that’s all you need to know for now.

So let’s get back to the conversation with my mom. It seems that she’s rather melancholy, sorrowful or what you will about the physical state of affairs of the old home and the church. It seems that the denomination sold the property, church and all, and another religious organization has bought it and taken it over. And as I’m talking to her on the phone, I realize she’s really upset about this. I suppose I get that up to a point. A lot of people over the years invested a lot of time, money, love, faith, what have you, into that church (and that parsonage) and now it’s all gone. That’s fair. But what I’m most surprised at, to be honest, is my mother’s reaction. Like I told her, this was the beginning of the end of her first marriage. And it wasn’t pretty. I would have thought she’d be happy to see the place razed to the ground with a wrecking ball. I thought wrong.

Which brings us, of course, to me! I decided to take a ride down to the old home and see what images or feelings I could conjure up. It’s only a half-hour from where I live now and I had not been down that way in years. I suppose it was intellectual curiosity at first. And I admit to wondering if I might have some of the same feelings that my mom had. And you know, I did my best. I walked all around the house and the church (which reminded me again how smaller everything looks as you get older) – I even walked up and down the old neighborhood looking for signs of old friends. No such luck. They’re all gone. I do know some friends are dead, and the rest have obviously moved on to other locations and lives, hopefully better than the location and life they left.

And my old home and the church? Mom was right. They both look like shit. The old garage is boarded up and the grounds around both structures are overgrown with weeds, bushes and what have you. The backyard where I used to play as a kid has a monster tree right in the middle of it and crap everywhere. And while all of that is sad I suppose, I couldn’t conjure up any wistfulness or melancholy or genuine sadness like my mother did. I felt a little guilty.

I’ve got friends and family who talk about previous homes with a twinkle in their eye and a joy that escapes me. My wife can’t start a sentence about her childhood home without saying “The BEAUTIFUL old house…” Close friends that I grew up with still have their parents living in the same home that they grew up in. Maybe it’s because I moved around a lot. Preachers’ families do that. Maybe I never got attached enough. But even if I did, I’m not sure I’d understand or get it. It’s just a structure. Could it be it’s the memories instead of the structure? I’ll grant you that the memories I have of that home are not good. In fact, they’re awful. Can we go home again? I don’t know. I’m a move on kind of guy. And I certainly can’t go home to the old parsonage now. And maybe that is what’s a little annoying. I think I would have liked to have walked in the front door one more time and tell the ghosts of that house, “I won.”