Wednesday, September 17, 2008

You Can't Go Home Again

With every trip to visit my parents, this has become more and more edvident. I'm reminded why it was so easy to move away and stay away. And I'm reminded why I don't make a huge effort to visit.

I grew up (for the most part) in a small town where everyone "knows" everyone's business. Even sadder, if no one is sharing the most intimate details of your life, they will make it up for you.

My mother thrives in that society. I find it all revolting and annoying.

I don't really have a "home" to visit either. We rented pretty much my entire childhood (I think they tried to buy a house for 2 or 3 years). I can point and say, we lived in that house, and that one, and that one, and, oh!, there's the trailer we rented, and we lived in 3 different houses on that same street. The houses (and trailer) were filled with worn out hand-me-down furniture. Often, the couch was covered in Mom's stuff, and there for, no one could sit on it anyway. My mom hates to clean. She has those craft show signs declaring such all over her house. Sayings like, you can touch my dust but please don't write in it, my house was clean yesterday-sorry you missed, ect.

I have a fondness for a 77 T-Bird. Dad bought it when I was 5 or 6, and I drove it while I served in the Air Force 15 years later. But, that car was wrecked by my brother, and I have no clue where it is now.

I guess my point is, I feel rootless when I'm there. There is no where that I feel warm and fuzzy. I just feel like I'm existing in that town.

I hope J. & I are creating a home our children will want to visit. We do things a lot different than my parents. We do things different than his parents. And I wouldn't change a thing.

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