Going Home On Nostalgia Road

(830 words)

Drawing of my parents’ retirement house, now in my garage workshop.

The day after my Dad’s memorial service, my older sister who had stored remaining items from my Dad’s senior apartment handed me a rolled-up piece of sketch pad paper bound up by a rubber band. I took the rubber band off and rolled out the paper and to my surprise, there was a drawing done in colored pencil of my parents’ first retirement house. Apparently I had drawn this for my mom and dad thirty years before my Dad’s passing. I had completely forgotten I had done that!

The image was a view from the street looking into their garage which showed: my Dad’s woodworking shop with tools hanging on the wall; a golf cart with clubs, parked to one side; my Mom peeking through the door from the kitchen into the garage most likely saying “Lunch!”; and the front porch, a favorite spot for morning coffee. I brought the drawing home, had it framed, and it hangs in my garage above my work bench next to my tools hanging on the wall, and every time I look at it “I go home” in my mind’s eye and heart.

But before this first retirement house there were many other houses. During my growing up years, my parents moved about every 3-5 five years, so there was no long-term homestead for me and my three siblings. Home was wherever my parents were living at the time.

In the middle-third of my career, I traveled extensively across the United States enough that I was periodically going back to my two childhood cities. I would snag some free time at the end of my workday to hop in my rental car and drive to the old houses. I would park a block away and then walk up and down the street checking out the old neighborhood, trying not to look too suspicious. I would stop and stand in front of my old house(s) and the memories would wash over me. This experience evoked the most powerful sense of nostalgia I have ever felt.

My memories of being a free-range kid were so strong, I could recall them as if yesterday. We kids on the block lived each day to come home from school and then meet up at a local park, or a railroad bridge, or climbing all over a new construction project, or riding our bikes to the airport to watch airplanes land, or climbing tall trees in a secret (we thought) forest we named Boys Paradise. I was “free as a bird!”

I must have felt nostalgia before I even knew what it was. If you look up nostalgia in the dictionary, you’ll find: “Nostalgia is a feeling of wistful affection or longing for a past time or place often triggered by smells, sounds, or tastes that remind us of happy memories.” That definition rings true for me because the nostalgia I experienced “going home” awakened in me a mixture of longing, happiness, some sadness, but a feeling of wanting to go back in time to reconnect with those younger, earlier happy times. I’m not ashamed to say, I would get a little verklempt.

Later in life as I became a husband, father and grandfather, “going home“ meant taking my family to see my parents. For me, it was such a relaxed feeling. If only for a few days, I was the kid and they were the parents. I got to enjoy their parental love in person which felt like a big hug, transporting me back to being the care-free kid while my parents were in charge and made our visit fun and secure for all of us.

I’m one of the lucky winners of the world birthplace zip code lottery. I do not take this privilege for granted. I keep it in perspective and I know that “going home“ is not a positive experience for everyone for many reasons. Also, there are approximately 120 million people displaced worldwide (IRC) who may have had a home at one time, but those homes have been obliterated due to war, natural disasters, and climate extremes. The displaced are left to suffer within a humanitarian water, food and disease crisis. Some family and friends have died as a result, so the only memory of these loved ones resides in the hearts’ of the survivors. This is an ongoing horrific tragedy and sadness. We must do everything we can to protect “home” for all of us, not just the lucky ones.

“The world is out of balance…” (International Rescue Committee)

Going home is a very personal and emotional act that will be different for everybody, but we all experience that deep feeling in our hearts whenever we glance at a certain picture on the mantle; or, relax in a chair handed down; or, enjoy a piece of pie served on one of grandma’s plates; or, wear a special necklace that mom wanted you to have. We all walk down that road every day …

… that Road To Nostalgia.