Novelist, Thomas Wolfe wrote that you can never go home again. He might have a point.

It has been close to 20 years since I have returned to my hometown; it has been almost 30 years since my sister and I have been here together – and that visit was on the passing of our father, four years following the death of our mother.

At that moment, home, as we knew it, changed, and we became transplants on the east coast. “Y’all” was replaced with “you guys.” “Drink” became “soda.” “Purse” was now “pocketbook.” I stopped saying “warsh” and learned to drop the “r” and flatten the “a” and properly say “wash my clothes.”

The shift was imperceptible from the outside, but on the inside we had made the leap and hopscotched into new territory. We had walked away from home as we knew it. And let me be clear, there was no regret or sadness in this leaving; we were eager for new ground in which to root. Like the pioneers, we felt the pull of a fresh place; the draw of a different environment and the call of new vistas. The world was our oyster. We were young, ready to put a close on some difficult years and begin anew.

And so, we are here. Home again, home again, jiggedy jig. This is the long-awaited, greatly anticipated and much discussed sisters’ reunion tour. We are no longer young women in our 20’s; we have both crossed the 50’s threshold. We are here because the moment presented itself. And given I do not believe in coincidences, I know that this visit is perfectly timed. I feel the hands of the Gods at work here.

I was expecting – and I know better: expectations are killers – to inhale the air I knew as home when I walked out of the airport. Not so, I didn’t recognize the scent of this air. It did not transport me back to prior years; it was not the primal scent that was identified in my brain as home.

I was expecting that our last childhood home look like it did over 40 years ago. Not so, it was tired, run down and dreary. It is so funny how I can accept the passage of time – or, at least think I do –and still be surprised that my memory is outdated and obsolete, like a frayed photograph, yellowed and curling at the edges.

I was expecting that I could find certain landmarks, and, again, not so. In fact, we got hilariously lost and turned around. “Where are we?” we wondered, and this was all with the benefit of a fistful of maps.

And this is my hometown; it has outgrown me. This city had expanded out like a drop of ink sprawling on porous paper; it has spread in every direction. In fact, my hometown is now called a metroplex.

There are strip malls after strip malls; there are more highways. And, needless to say, there is more traffic. There are, also, friendly, helpful people who go out of their way to make sure you do have a nice day. There is an abundance of huge, massive churches, upscale shops and multinational restaurants. There are Christian book stores, gun shops, Mexican grocery taquerasand, even, one full-sized place with an inordinately large sign advertising “Condoms to go.”

What I didn’t expect was the greenery. All those saplings from decades ago have matured; that coupled with recent heavy rains has made for a one lush, leafy place. Who would have thunk that Dallas, Texas would be so verdant? The locals remind me to wait until August when everything will be brown again.

And there is humidity. At the risk of sounding like the older curmudgeon that I am, I want to say, “In my day, there was no humidity. It was dry heat.” And, really what difference does it make? Clearly, times change and weather patterns shift. Life does life; tempus fugit.

Yet, a hometown is sacred space to the psyche. This is the place where you first experienced the world. This is the space where your childhood memories were created. Good, bad or indifferent, this is the place you called home.

A hometown, and we all have one, shapes our perceptions of the world. You might say a hometown is one of our first viewfinders; it serves as a backdrop and helps us define our reality. It is literally and figuratively the ground upon which we stand.

I have decided that a hometown is like a favorite robe. It embraces you whether you are your freshly showered self or your bummed-out, smelly self. It is familiar and intimate; it holds memories of times, moments and connections. And, sometimes, you can’t wait to replace that robe that has become tired and tattered with constant use and stained with your middle-of-the-night foray into salsa.

But lest you think I have tossed my bespeckled robe onto the garbage heap and turned my back on my hometown, rest assured, I still appreciate this birthplace of mine.

Like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, over the years since I left my hometown, I have met the good witch, the bad witch and those devilish flying monkeys. I have traveled the Yellow Brick Road. Even better, I have found those ruby slippers, and they look marvelous on my feet.

I agree with Dorothy, “There is no place like home.” It is my one, unique, idiosyncratic home town, the cradle of early-year memories and first-time experiences. I am grateful for all that I had while I was here. It helped make me who I am.

And having matured into a person who can appreciate the “and and” context of life and hold the tension of opposites, I also agree with another wise one, “It’s a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live here…anymore.”

— — —
Dr. Adele Ryan McDowell, Ph.D., is a psychologist, empath, and shaman who likes looking at life with the big viewfinder. Her e-mail address is ARMCDOWELL@aol.com. © copyright 2008 by Adele Ryan McDowell