Thomas Wolfe once said, in his novel of the same name, “You can’t go home again.” But that’s not true. You can always go home. To paraphrase a Robert Frost poem, “Home is where they take you in.”
That was grandly illustrated a few weeks ago on our trip back to my dad’s home town in Germany. It’s a tiny village, less that 1000 folks, and, for me, doesn’t hold but the son of one cousin, the last of the line. He owns the house built by two sisters five or six generations back, but he works in a town an hour away. So, he only gets back to the family homestead on weekends. But he met us in the next town over, where all nine of us were staying, embracing me, my husband, and our daughter, all of whom met him on earlier trips. That left six other folks, including the grandkids, so far removed in the genealogical line so as to know only my generation, and no farther back, or forward either. It was fulfilling to see that the man who greeted us was delighted to see the connection across The Pond maintained. Hugs all around.
You see, home is all about the people. And the people in Germany are family, and that’s home. I was lucky enough that I was able to strengthen the very tenuous thread that exists between relatives that are both old and physically remote. My cousin Gerhard and I used to wander the hills above the town when I was nine and he was–What? Eleven?. Now, I’m 78 and he is 80. And we haven’t seen each other for 69 years. That doesn’t seem possible. And yet, I can look back at those photos from 1956 and be transported to that ruined tower on the top of the hill that looks like a beer stein. Or see the string of relatives frozen in time, hiking along a forest edge, heading for some kind of treat–was it strawberries and cream?–at the restaurant in the hills. On this trip, our daughter took a picture of Gerhard and me strolling in front of her, sharing an umbrella, in perfect step with each other, looking just like that famous Hummel of two children under a huge Regenschirm. For us, we were still the two children who roamed the hills all those years ago. A truly magical moment.
This was all made possible by a bevy of people: our two children and our two bonus children (read: in-laws) deciding it was time to visit the past before it was too late. (read: before we got too old to walk, or, heaven forbid, dead!) A scant handful of Christmas letters was enough to establish contact with Gerhard’s son, Oliver, who plunged wholeheartedly into helping with arrangements to get us all together again. What a delight! With a generous heart (and I’m sure a good deal of curiosity), Oliver brought his father to us so we could have a full day together. Gerhard and I could reminisce, gathering in the rest of the family to our embrace. Time seemed to stand still.
So, see? You can go home again.
What you can’t do is “go house” again. Even on our trip to Germany, the old family house was no longer the same. My cousin’s son works very hard to clean up the extensive area he has no time to garden. I look back over the many, many years I have connected with that building, and know, it will never be the same as it was before. In 1956, the house had a small attached barn with two cows, a pig, and a flock of chickens in the loft above, and a vibrant extended family living there. In 1971, the animals were gone, that annex converted to a garage, and the hayloft turned into a bedroom. Changes continued through the years as each generation passed away, making room for the younger. It is a house. Simply a house.
Several years ago, when I returned to my hometown, I drove around, revisiting old haunts. The last house I lived in there was still in lovely shape, having been sold to another Mary Ann. But the parents that made it home were no longer alive, so it was simply a house. I was quite satisfied with that. Then I drove a few blocks to see my maternal grandparents’ house. The house was the only connection I had with them, as they were both deceased long before I was born. To my acute dismay, nothing remained of the house. It had burned to the ground since my last trip. Even the nursing home housing my mother in her last year or two had been razed, leaving a stretch of only well-tended grass. Nothing left. Though a shock, what really brought me consolation was the realization that a building is not a home. It’s only a house. Very different from a home.
Home is all about the people. The distant cousins. The grandchildren. The parents, even if they’re no longer physically there. The cherished neighbors and friends from our pasts. Home is in the heart, not on a static street with a house. Home travels with us. There, we can always go.
A house changes, perhaps deteriorated, perhaps renovated, perhaps even disappearing entirely. A home, however, is always with us, perhaps flickering, perhaps glowing, but always a place where you are taken in, even if just in your mind and memories..