Admittedly, I've never read Thomas Wolfe, but as I spent a few days back in my hometown of Salina, Kansas, he kept nudging himself into my thoughts. A title of his claims that we "can't go home again". When I returned to Salina to attend a friend's wedding and celebrate Christmas with my family, I was able to reconnect with many people I seldom see or that I haven't seen at all for several years.
Initially, I thought, we can certainly go home, Wolfe. Look at all the people that are here! Two of my closest friends, high-school sweethearts, homecoming Queen and King for christsakes, were getting married. Nearly all the raucous crew was back for this spectacle.
Everyone was made aware in the reception slideshow that one night six of us, drunkenly and unabashed, peed racing stripes down the side of our friend Broc's Acura Legend. I about spit out my free drink. I turned to our victim, put my arm around him, and grinned wider than that white Acura. He laughed and kinda shook his head. Then Broc put his hand on my head and tousled my hair in a playful way. "You guys are bastards", he admitted, "but I love ya."
The feeling is certainly mutual, I decided, as we continued to reminisce and celebrate with friends, parents, and teachers from our past. Later in the night I'm sure I sat in my chair, with the spirits taking effect, staring into the back of my own mind with an oversize goofy grin on my face. I think mostly I wanted to hear a better song than the 3rd Tim McGraw country love ballad I had heard that evening, but more than that I thought this all felt like home.
The next morning brought in reality with the new sun, and a painful reminder of the amount of whiskey I had drank the night before. I thought back on the flashes of smiles and hugs that had abounded the last night, where fantastic memories from our past were able to dance above us like sugarplums in the winter air. It was time to go back. There were things to do in Kansas City. I knew that I would return for the Christmas holiday in a few days, but it would be more subdued and restricted to close, family gatherings. I was, once again, leaving this
home and returning to another.
Did the fact of returning to the "real world" make my return trip home less real? It certainly was fleeting. Later, I exchanged a few text messages, well-wishes from friends I had seen, but these too are ghosts, I realize. We may see each other on certain occasions. Certainly some friends more than others. But what if the constraints of proximity, careers, relationships, and time were taken out of the equation? Would our covey of friends flourish together again, or has time moved us all on to other interests and endeavors? Could we re-capture that magic we had possessed for so many years?
Upon reflection, I am not able to reach a definitive conclusion. I cannot take a firm stand and give a confident analysis like I plead with my students to incorporate into their own writing. Maybe the idea of home is intangible. It jumps around like a bullfrog to its lily pad. One idea of home I have is the hay loft at our old farm. Another piece is the basketball hoop and adjacent court at my parents' house where my younger brother and I would rip at each other with viciousness in the name of competition. There is a bit of home in my mother's hugs and my grandma's cookies. There is more than a little in my friend Broc's good nature and fun-loving spirit. I can return to these places, if only for a brief moment. Then it's off to the next lily pad in the pond.
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