You CAN'T always go home again

I was in the city earlier today and decided to drive past the house where I spent most of my life. I think the desire to revisit the past came from reading an article a few days ago about how a man was shot and killed on the same block where I grew up.

I don’t remember the neighborhood ever truly being considered “safe”, but I also don’t remember there being anything as in-your-face as a shooting. Since we lived a block north from St. Louis University Hospital and two blocks north from Cardinal Glennon Children’s Medical Center, there had always been security patrolling the area as well as shuttles to transport the employees from the parking areas to the hospitals during normal business hours. I had never felt in any danger even when I would walk to the gas station on the corner at 2am.

If memory serves, Grandma moved there with her three youngest children (the two oldest lived in California with their dad) in the late 50’s/early 60’s. Mom told me many times how she’d rush home from school (sometimes even skipping class) to watch “Dark Shadows” and some of the other stunts she pulled while growing up such as the story she concocted about how she broke three fingers (she told my grandparents she slipped on a piece of paper when, in reality, it happened while playing touch football with the neighborhood kids).

Every year, we would have a family Christmas at Grandma and Grandpa’s usually before (some years it would be after) we would celebrate with Grandpa’s family in Reyno, Arkansas. Actually, I was his traveling buddy . . . well, me and the two dogs, Rags and Snoopy. He’d pick me up from school and we’d drive down . . . just because. When I was living there, Grandpa would also wake me for school after he’d make my breakfast (chocolate chip pancakes with peanut butter spread on top) and in the winter, he’d have my clothes and shoes warming in front of the space heater in the kitchen. He was my main caregiver up until being diagnosed with terminal cancer in 1986.

In 2004, it was with a heavy heart I drove Grandma to her new home 22 miles away. Her health was on the decline and the condo was mere minutes from my uncle. For months, two to three days each week, I drove 70 miles round trip to take her shopping, to doctors’ appointments and/or keep her company (this only lasted while I was on her “good” side, but that’s a story for another day). A couple of times I even drove her past the house on Hickory only to discover the new tenets (the hospital had bought most of the houses on the block) had put aliens in each of the windows, both front and back (it looked almost like a Roswell wannabe).

This house wasn’t the largest or the most finely furnished, but it had always been home. It was where I was taken when I was brought back from Blackwell, Oklahoma and where I lived when I wasn’t able to stay with Mom. It was where I married my first husband and where I lived while I was pregnant with each of my three oldest children . . . it was also their first home.

This was where so much of my life occurred, the epicenter of my existence, if you will, and I wasn’t prepared for the sight that greeted me as I pulled in front of the house this morning: chain-link fencing on the north side of the street, stretching from the house on the corner all the way down to the one next to the warehouse on the other corner; windows and doors boarded up; individual house numbers spray painted in orange on each building . . . at least the grass had been mowed.

I’m not sure what I expected to see: a rainbow of stuffed aliens perhaps? Maybe Christmas lights still up? How about something completely normal and nondescript? I’m not sure, but I know it wasn’t fencing and boards. The entire experience has left me in a rather melancholy mood; so many memories . . . some good and others can be described only as nightmares.

 

Another chapter appears to have ended and, as with everything else, life goes on. It’s time to put those ghosts to rest.

Reviews

[Neva Flores Smith - Cha..]

This story made me think off the time years ago when I decided to take a look at the place where I grew up in SE Atlanta. I had such good memories of our little home and in my mind it was perfect, white picket fence and all. I was shattered when I drove by and saw where I really grew up. Amazing the wonder a child sees and the reality that a child doesn't. I want those eyes back. One think that stood out to me in your story was what you said about when you were "on her good side" Perhaps another story brewing?

[Lily Mae]

I thought I was the only one that ever watched Dark Shadows lol... Great write.. I enjoyed reading it..x