Always Home.

Yesterday I went to see my favorite person on the face of the Earth for Valentine's Day, my Grandma. Unfortunately, she wasn't home so I had some time to kill. Grandma still lives a couple of blocks from where I grew up. I decided to take a walk down and take a look.

I've been there many times since we moved away in 1986 due to my god - forsaken career choice, but it's been a while. It's now vacant and pretty much falling to the ground.

I wanted to go in since the door was kicked open. My parents weren't big picture takers (probably because we were in need of Obama - bucks before Obama - bucks existed) so the memories of the inside reside in my unreliable mind. I thought better of it because I was afraid I'd walk in on some weird hobo sex party . . . some things cannot be unseen.

I decided to just walk around the yard. So many of the great memories of my life took place there because back in the 1970's we actually played outside. There were so many kids to share my childhood with and they were the first thing that came to mind as I looked at their now dilapidated former houses: Jeff, Scott, Angie (my sister), David, Marco, Bumpus, Michelle, Chuck, and Mike. We'd spend from sun up to sun down engaged in tomfoolery (the bottle rocket fights were epic). In my mind it played out like the movie, The Sandlot, but in reality it was more like an episode of Ed, Edd, and Eddie.

Although the area is now run down, I could still look out and see where the magic happened. There was the spot where Jeff blew my thumb apart with a BB gun loaded with rocks. The spot where we hung my sister (she survived). The ditch we used to play in (hey, we were poor). The storm drain we set a fire in to see if the fire department would show (they did). The spot where Scott began to cuss, speak in tongues, and eventually cry when my Mom told him she was going to tell his Dad during the Ash Bomb Incident of 1982 (she did). The field where kids from other neighborhoods would come to challenge us at football (we never lost). I could go on longer than your attention span (I'm sure you get the idea).

As I'm approaching 40, I find myself looking back much more than I use to. That's a good thing. I've recalled things that were long forgotten and I'm appreciative for these kind of moments where I can reflect. It's given me a greater perspective of who I am, how I got here, and the reasons for many of the quirks in my personality.

As I stood there, ready to leave because I was about to get all emotional (not a good thing for a dainty cracker to do in the hood), it struck me how small everything was. Growing up, the yards of the 2200 block of Cherry and Logan were the whole universe. The ditch we could never seem to jump I was able to clear (without a running start) in my advanced elderly state. I guess memories are like the mirrors in a car. We zip by so fast that we don't appreciate the importance of where we are until it's in the rear view mirror, slowly fading away. However, just like it says on the mirror 'objects are closer than they appear', as long as one isn't too jaded to find value in the memories.

Some places made us happy. Some places . . . not so much. Those places made us who we are. This one place will always be simply . . . home.