Going Home

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I spent the weekend in my hometown. We took a little jaunt to Charlottesville, Virginia, the place I consider home and the home of my alma mater. We tailgated with some old friends, watched Virginia beat Duke, ate at some Charlottesville institutions, toured the town, learned a bit about Thomas Jefferson, meandered on the Lawn, bought the requisite Cavalier gear, and drove around town on a brief “This was my life” tour. 

My family hasn’t lived in Charlottesville for many, many years. I’ve been away longer than I lived there, yet I still consider it home. I suppose my formative years were spent there, and the addition of going to college at UVa. cements Charlottesville as an even more special place for me. I hadn’t been back for many years, so you can imagine how a town changes in 20-some years. When I lived there there was no such thing as GPS, and my memory left me lost.

I was a stranger in my home town.

It’s discomfiting to be lost in a place that used to make you feel at home.

Bittersweet at best, depressing at worst.

I envy Mac Daddy for having a home to go home to. It’s what I want for my family. I want Bird and Deal to know that they always have a place that will wrap them in the love and warmth and comfort that only home can do. Sure, home is where the heart is. At least that makes for a nice adage to cross stitch onto a throw pillow. Home is where the hearts of those you love you reside. It’s the place where your heart is comforted. Home is actually a complicated thing. My home is here with Mac Daddy, our sons, and our barky beagle. It’s the only home I have, which makes me equal parts proud and sad.

Bird and Deal often ask us to tell them stories of our childhood. They refer to such tales as “hometown stories.” They have seen all the places Mac Daddy talks about in his stories. They have even played with the toys Mac Daddy played with as a youngster. They have walked on the same paths, played ball on the same fields, frolicked on the same lawn. Bird and Deal know their daddy a bit better by seeing, and living, a piece of his life. They have a sense their history and posterity, at least on their dad’s side. My side of the story is an empty page.

This weekend the boys glimpsed a bit of my life. They might know me a little bit better. But in reality, our weekend in my hometown read more like a tourism guide than a tale of going home. I suppose we’re writing our own chapter now, in a home that is uniquely ours.