Going Home

My Blogging for Books Entry.

It’s been two and a half years since we “left home” in order for hubby to go to law school. Leaving Dodge City, this time, was very different from the first time I left it. Then, I was eighteen years old and eager to “get the hell out,” as the saying goes. I remember loading my car (a very practical station wagon --Thank You, Dad) with all of my belongings and driving away. Mom stood in the yard waving. Dad had wandered away somewhere. He was never one for dramatic goodbyes. I remember driving down our dust covered road to the highway. I kept wondering if I was going to cry… or feel any sadness about leaving my home of eighteen years. But all I could see was what was in front of me. An open highway. Endless possibilities. Life on my own.

When I left home the first time, I never considered that I might go back. As far as I was concerned, Dodge City was history, a place to visit for the holidays, a place to attend family and school reunions, but nothing more.

Things changed, however.

At the age of twenty-six, I found myself driving a fully loaded car, complete with baby, behind an enormous moving truck driven by my husband. I had fourteen hours of road time to consider what it meant to be going home again. I imagined a lot, but it took me a few years to understand what going home really meant.

Ever walked in that place where your feet know every curve of the road?

The place where I grew up, in rural western Kansas, has roads as straight as rulers that stretch as far as the eye can see. You can measure your distance by the number of crossroads you meet. I have walked them, covered them on horseback, rode a bike, passed over them by car countless times. I can tell you how the wind feels, constantly moving as if to take you somewhere. I can tell you how the telephone lines chatter on a rare, calm day. I can show you where, if you get up early enough in the morning and walk silently, you can often see coyotes or deer. I can direct you to the old Amish cemetery, as well as the newer Lutheran one where my mom is buried, as is my grandpa and the parents and grandparents of so many friends and neighbors.

Ever walked through a graveyard where you know the story behind every name?

We lived in my grandmother’s house, right next door to my childhood home. My aunt & uncle were neighbors on the other side. Another uncle lived just down the road. Many of the neighbors were the same, but some had changed. Moved away. Gotten homes in town. Every time I left the house, I thought I would run across someone I knew, at least in passing, yet I saw the lines at the grocery store were more often filled with strangers.

Ever expect to be recognized, but then realize that even those who know you don’t really understand who you are?

The second time I left Dodge City, I left promising that I would return. “It’s only a couple of years,” I told my childhood friends. We had done our best over the years, to reunite. “We’ll be back in no time,” I told the ladies from the club my mother had attended, the club I had tried to make my own. “It’s just a temporary move,” I told my aunts and uncles, my brothers and their families.

I drove away this time with two vehicles packed to overflowing, the largest moving truck available, my husband, three kids, and a dog. Perhaps I began to realize that I had lied as soon as I saw that open rode before us. Endless possibilities. Life on our own terms.

Two and a half years have taught me a lot about what it means to go home. I face the lines of strangers at the grocery store now and I love how familiar they’ve all become. I take daily walks, often on new streets my feet have never touched before, and I am giddy with delight at all there is to see. The people who know me here may not remember that I rode a palomino with a silver mane or that I never quite gave up the dream of being a gymnast even after I had grown too long and gangly to do the moves, but they know an amazing amount about who I am now.

I won’t be going home again. At least, not for more than family reunions and the occasional holiday. It’s not that I don’t love Dodge City, a place full of wonderful memories and people that I will always carry close to my heart. I’ve just finally come to realize that isn’t my home any longer.

My home is with me. Right here. Whatever roads I travel with my family – my husband and my kids – this is where I belong. Whatever place we end up next, we’ll be going home. I know that now, and I am content.