There’s no place like home.

But sometimes it requires leaving to learn it.

The plane touched down at BHM at roughly 12:34 p.m., the day before Mom’s birthday. I didn’t check a bag–I had all I needed in my basketball-skinned roll aboard, though I’ve never been a big fan of round ball. Like most little oddities in my life, it fit the bill and it came for cheap. Sold.

I made my way to the car rental counter and spent no less than 15 minutes chatting with the CSR about the heat, the humidity, and the fact that fall hadn’t dropped in Alabama just yet. Passed her my license and she just happened to be from the same small town in North Carolina where I now reside–a charming burg just north of Charlotte called Concord (as in the jet, not the jelly)–and that she’d just recently moved back to the ‘Ham. I told her I was surprising Mom for her birthday and it was like we’d been next-door neighbors for years. That’s one of many things I love about the South–you make a connection and you’re not just friends. You’re family.

Getting back to before

It takes 42 minutes to drive from Shuttlesworth to the Bullardarosa, fondly named for the old TV show Bonanza and the fact that no matter how well we try to plan, it’s always like herdin’ wild animals around there to get things done in a timely fashion. And somebody is ALWAYS gettin’ hollered at.

While I cruise that familiar stretch of road, I pass at least four new Dollar General stores that weren’t there last time I came through. I’m also hit with a million memories from days gone by.

Milestones and memory lanes

My heart grows heavy as I pass the bend near the Dallas-Selfville Fire Department where the man who sat next to me at CHS graduation passed in a car accident–hit by a drunk driver. Mere days after you walked in cap and gown, thrilling at the potential of the future laid out before you, he was gone. Attending the funeral of a classmate, especially so soon after graduation? Not an experience I’d wish on the worst among us.

As I near Locust Fork, I’m starting to get excited because I know Tonka is just a few more miles ahead. That place holds a warm spot in my heart for many reasons: Dr. Pepper and mozzarella sticks before after-school practice; THE best chocolate oatmeal no-bake cookies that didn’t come from somebody’s momma’s kitchen; and the door that still sticks in cold weather.

During homecoming of my senior year, the brakes went out on my 1980 Corvette after driving the grand marshal around our hometown’s “parade route.” I ramped that sucker off a concrete parking pylon right into the store’s brick wall, scaring the BAJEEZUS outta all the clerks inside. I called Dad from the payphone outside (yes, kids–payphone. Google it) to tell him what I’d done. He thought I was pulling his leg. Shirley, proprietress and classmate of my father’s, gets on the phone to confirm, “Yayus, Ayud! He deeyud!”

For all you yankees out there, lemme translate: “Yes, Ed! He did!”

Once the familiar clank of the bell on the door tolls my exit, cookies in the passenger seat, I’m en route to the Swann Covered Bridge, the last milestone before reaching the homestead. Blount County, Alabama was famous for ’em back in the day, but not many of ’em stood the test of time. The beams creak and pop as I navigate my way through the narrowness, a couple of short horn blasts announce my arrival on the other side. That’s a trick sweet Mom taught me. Folks usually come down that river hill at breakneck speeds. Let ’em know there’s something coming outta the bridge to avoid an accident.

Were these trees always this tall? Aw, the old cafe closed down. I wonder what happened to the video store at Toad Frog Alley… OH! IT’S STILL OPEN! Who on God’s green is still renting videos in 2019…?! Oh. And tanning. Got it.

The good, the bad, and the different

It’s all part of the gig. Some things change, many things stay the same, and the sepia-toned memory is often battered by the 8K-resolution reality of the present. Some say you can never go home again. Malarky. You can always go home. But don’t expect it to be the place you left however long ago.

I pull into the drive, concrete crumbling; the old mailbox I remember was beaten ’til crooked, dangling from drive-by home run hitters on their way across the bridge. The new bronze replacement is in its stead, a little flashy, but better than the caved-in post receptacle from years gone by. The kennels are full of yelps and cries from the Brittany Spaniels, Mom and Dad’s preferred breed of critter, and the prodigal son returns.

Happy homecoming

I stand on the porch and drop the brass knocker on the plate, inciting the pups inside to slobbering, snarling madness. I hear her sweet voice calling them down as she makes her way to the living room curtains to see what manner of intruder awaits on the front porch.

“OH, MY GOD!” The curtains swish together and I can hear the sound of hound round-up taking place. They love visitors, but she wants me to herself for a moment before letting them loose to lick me to death, claw me to ribbons with those razor-sharp toenails.

The hug so tight the hearts nearly touch. The prayer whispered, gulped at between laughing sobs. The abrupt release to ask if I’d eaten. It’s a song I know as well as “Amazing Grace,” and just as holy.

Never lose your roots

When I was a kid in school, I couldn’t WAIT to get out into the big, wide world to see what there was to see, meet all the cool people, eat all the “weird” food. But what I hadn’t planned on was the appreciation that grew in me for what was waiting when I got back. Tradition. Nostalgia. Family.

What was once rote became something I missed, something I looked forward to returning to find nearly exactly the way I left it. There’s always a little melancholy for seeing another grey hair on a friend, a new wrinkle in the mirror. But after seeing and doing so much away from the warm embrace of what was once home, the reunion is all the sweeter.

But don’t clip your wings

Though the harbor is warm and safe, the ship will sail again. I’ve replenished my stores, and let myself be comforted by a visit where everyone knows my name and my people. But we all know it’s hard to keep ’em down on the farm after they’ve seen Paree. Or Rome. Or Kathmandu, Sydney, Kigali, Honolulu, Buenos Aires.

The faces you love, some of the ones you hold dearest, will look different when you make your way back. The change is what keeps it thrilling and reminds you to keep making the trip back to where it began. Is there anything better than sleeping in your own bed when you get back from an adventure? Same concept, just that in this case, the bed is the folks who knew you when you were in short britches, when you were all knees and elbows, pimples and braces. Epic tales often have humble beginnings. Be sure to make the time to appreciate yours from time to time. Between adventures, that is.

Love y’all.