You Can’t Go Home Again

The above is a reference to the title of a book by Thomas Wolfe published in 1940, two years after his death – you can’t truly go back to a place where you once lived because it has changed.  Inevitably, you will have changed as well.

The phrase came to mind last week after Daveen and I looked at a house for sale in Sherman Oaks near the 405 Interstate.  After our tour we drove past two nearby houses that I lived in almost fifty years ago.

I have fond memories of both homes, though I hadn’t really thought about them for a while. Seeing both again was surprising and disappointing.

I lived in the first house until 1971.  It has a brick facade.  The brick was painted stark white then, with mounds of Korean grass in front.  Now the brick has been restored to its natural red color, and the yard itself has entirely different landscaping – tall trees, shrubs, and no grass at all.  I was startled.  Actually, I was shocked.

As we sat in the car I said to Daveen, “This house used to have a lot of curb appeal.  It was new and fresh.  Now I wouldn’t even want to go inside.”

“And,” I added,” I used to love this neighborhood.  Now I don’t.  Most of the houses seem old and tired.”

I only recognized the second house, a few blocks away, because it has a stucco wall in front and many stairs leading up to the front door.  “Ugh,” I thought, “who would want to climb thirty steps just to reach their front door?  Not me.”

Of course, forty-five years ago I didn’t give those stairs a second thought.  Today I prefer a single story house.

Old times were the best, weren’t they?  High School graduation was exciting.  Having young children was exhausting but fun.  Our trip to Antarctica was perfect.  I first visited Machu Picchu in 1972 when it was relatively unknown.  On a return visit several years ago I had to make my reservation a month in advance, pay for my ticket, and walk only on the marked path.

I conclude that it’s best to live in the present. Enjoy whatever you can right now, and allow fond memories to rest in peace.

My father loved deep sea fishing, and took me with him from the time I was eight years old.  I still remember our final fishing trip, when we each caught the limit of ten yellowtail.

“This is it,” my dad said as we loaded the fish into the trunk of his car.  “I’m never going deep sea fishing again.”

“Why not, Dad?”

“It couldn’t possibly be better.  I want to keep today fresh in my memory.”

Dad, you were right.  You can’t go home again.

Alan