We Can Never Go Home Again!
In reference to Going Home, I speak not of the physical act of going back to revisit a specific place in our life history. Rather, the metaphorical sense of going back in time. As we age, wee all daydream about events and friends that filled our tender years. Back to high school or college; perhaps, to old relationships we once felt were unique to us, alone.
In school, most of us seek to have as many friends as possible. Yet, before long and far too soon, we were thrust into that world called Adult.
With few exceptions, many of those friends rapidly fell by the wayside. We simply grew apart; forced to get on with adult life. I’ve discovered, to my chagrin, that those with whom we once shared so much, now barely remember my name. That which follows has left me quite saddened.
In 1990, I ran into an old coworker who then owned a business in Oakland, CA. I asked if he knew what had become of my old buddy, Loren. He told me that he’d died of alcoholism back in the ‘80s. That was not unexpected, as he and I covered a lot of territory back in the day. Most of the time, his eyes were as glazed-over as mine.
One day, not long ago, I decided to determine how and when he’d died. To my surprise, I found him to be alive and living in my city. I immediately shot off a letter. A week later, I received a phone call; “Bob, this is Loren.” It was a shock! At first, I thought it was someone else with the same name.
Before long, we were talking about old times over coffee, out on my back deck. It had been fifty years since we’d seen each other. For two hours, we caught up on old times. He ended by saying that his son had been killed twenty-five years previous. There were so many memories. As he left he said, “We’ve got to do this again.” That made me happy.
Eighteen months later, he got back to me, stating that he’d like my wife and me to come to dinner at his house. We had a horrible cell phone connection. Half his words had to be repeated. Soon, I heard a beeping on my end. I said, “Loren, I have to go. I think my phone is about to die.” He replied brusquely, “Okay, BOB!!!
I didn’t hear from him about our dinner date, so I wrote another letter. In it, I apologized for our phone problems and indicated that, after our call, I wasn’t sure if he was going to call me or if I was to call him. There’s been no reply to my letter.
How does one become upset over a bad phone connection? Could it be old age, or has he had too many unpleasant experiences that solidified such a high degree of insensitivity? What combination of events causes one to build their emotional house on sand? I can’t answer that, but it provides clear evidence that one can never go home again!
Many years ago, I dated an attractive, intelligent woman. Our relationship lasted three years. We really cared for one another, but her ultra-socialist beliefs seemed to grow more intense by the week. It eventually forced me to throw in the towel. It was time for me to move on. That was in the early 1970s. Though we’d parted ways, we stayed in touch for more than forty years; an email here, a phone call there.
In one of my books, I wrote about my lifetime of learning from all the women I’ve known in my endless quest for love. I sent her a happy birthday message last January, but she did not respond. Was it because I used her middle name, Michelle, in my book? Having used pseudonyms for each woman, no one could know to whom I was referring. But, who knows her thoughts. Still, there’s a emptiness in realizing that it’s impossible to go home again!
The third person is Joyce. In Kindergarten, we collected leaves and colored their outlines. In Fourth grade, we played marbles in the dirt, and Jacks on the teacher’s desk. There were only twelve kids in our class in a small two-room schoolhouse. With two grades on each side of a partition, we all knew each other very well.
Our Sixth-grade class went on a school trip to New York City on 12 May 1950. Upon our return later that evening, I was severely injured by a car, passing our stopped bus. It was dark, and I was walking between two groups of kids. Joyce was one of the kids who later gave an eye-witness description of the scene for investigators.
Faster than the Galloping Ghost’s speed record, we’d worked our way through high school. In my yearbook, Joyce wrote, “Always remember the fun we had in grammar school.” We did have a ton of fun riding the bus to school each day. On what was, then, a small, grassy field, we played dodge ball, baseball and tag. And, who can forget those awesome snowball fights?
Not long ago, I wrote to Joyce, wondering if she had any additional memories of the events surrounding my accident. Though I recall her being on that trip, she couldn’t remember any part of it. And, since she was the only classmate who never moved away, I asked what it was like now. I mentioned that I was planning a short visit.
That letter wasn’t answered for more than three months. After I received her letter, I wrote again, attempting to refresh her memory. I also wrote that it was sad to see how many of our original classmates had died: Pete, Susan, Gail, Barbara, Jenny, Flo, Paula, even my brother, Richie. I stated that there appears to be only three of us left. To date, there has been no response to that letter.
In her first letter, she stated that her husband had died about four years earlier. I never knew him, nor did I ask if she was married or had any kids. It made me wonder if she may be thinking that, after all these years, I had an interest in her. Stupid theory, I know, but it’s less bitter than knowing that we can never go home again!
Is it possible that my old friends have too much on their plates? Are we distracted by the aches and pains of old age? Has familiarity succumbed to distrust? Or, is it just that loss doesn’t affect us the way it once did? Worse, is there a level of dementia melting away all those wonderful memories?
Are people so used to being alone that they have become jaded to the events that made them who they are? My desire to reach out is a blessing, but it’s also a curse.
Surviving includes it’s attendant pain. Whether it’s an old drinking buddy and all-around great pal, an old girlfriend who stayed in touch through good times and bad, or a school mate’s laughter during the best of times, I’ve discovered that we really cannot go home again!