You Can't Go Home Again

Now that everyone has decided to protest my blog by not checking in, it is probably a good time to return. Like Superman from space after five long years of looking for a long dead Krypton. Some of you have moved on with your lives and I can accept that.

As my friends will not be reading this, let me take a moment to welcome you perfect strangers, and thank you for abiding my long absence or showing up just as I was ready to recommence. Whichever the case may be you know who you are and you have my very deep appreciation.

This is also a good time to reappear because I have just returned from a two-week vacation, not the one-week elsewhere reported by YB. I have decided to slowly re-immerse myself so as not to go into WRS (workplace related shock). Sadly, Tom, Patrick and Betsy were all unavailable to go to coffee at 10:00 this morning, so I made the journey alone. Mary was happy to see me. Tom did suggest a mid-afternoon coffee run, and he even paid as a welcome-back-to-work gesture of goodwill. He also suggested that I leave the office early today so as not to “over do it” my first day back. Smart guy, that Tom.

Less than a week ago I drove through the very dead landscape that lies near the sight of those horrific events about which I have previously written. The landscape is dead because copper smelting plants have an unfortunate byproduct – arsenic – that tends to inhibit the local animal and vegetable population. Only the strangest of weed vegetation has grown there since long before Adelle was murdered and I resided a few miles away on a hill overlooking the water. The smelting plant has been gone for decades and now, I am told, they are going to build luxury condominiums overlooking the bay and starting in the low $800s. The local joke is that they won’t need to light the parking lots since they will glow in the dark.

As we cruised along the waterfront, I resisted the urge to make the four block detour up the hill to see the first house I ever owned. In the early 1980s, $90K bought 4 bedrooms, 2 baths, an almost 180 degree view of the water along with a five minute drive to work downtown. It was a time of double digit interest rates; I paid the seller 10% and gave my note for interest only at 13% and I felt fortunate to be in the market.

The house was always “Old Man Black’s Place.” Old man Black was long dead and we bought it from his widow’s estate. There was evidence of the fire that started in the closet where widow Black smoked in secret – the fire department had to go through the roof to extinguish the blaze. The house readily accepted all of my sweat equity and served as my classroom for home repair and remodeling 101.

It was the party house on July 4th with an unobstructed view on the back porch of the Blue Angels and the fireworks. The police closed off the neighborhood at 9:00 a.m. that day, and friends would have to hike in from wherever they could find to park.

There were great neighbors in this hood. Ed and Molly lived next door. An elderly 100% Irish couple, they were friendly, small child-tolerant and kept an eye on the house whenever we were away. Molly eventually took ill with the cancer and Ed had the main floor coat closet converted into a bathroom (an idea he got from our home) and rented a hospital bed, turning the living room into her final bedroom. Ed was lost without Molly. Even after I moved far away to be closer to that candy covered cottage in the deep dark woods, I still picked up Ed every Wednesday and drove him to the Elks club where he would flirt with the waitress in her mid-50s and insist on us each having 2 or 3 Stingers before ordering lunch. Eventually we would both get misty-eyed as he spoke of Molly and I thought of my recently-crumbled family. I miss Ed.

There were many other great neighbors on that block. The 7th Day Adventist family was wonderful, but my son never understood why they didn’t give him any treats on Halloween. The family on the corner was Irish too; he was a psychologist and family therapist and a great guy in spite of that. Their house and ours were considered for interior shots in a Tom Selleck film called Divorce Wars: A Love Story. High-powered divorce lawyer Jack Sturgess discovers that his own marriage is failing and must juggle his own domestic conflicts with his clients' problems. Their house was eventually chosen and the hassle they endured plus the damage left behind made me glad Old Man Black’s Place was not chosen.

We had awesome block parties. On Halloween weekend we would get sitters for the kids, put on costumes and dance until 3:00 a.m. when someone from a different (and petty & jealous) block inevitably called the police.

But then my marriage ended. So did the marriage of the couple on the corner. So did the marriage of my associate at the office – he lived a couple blocks away. Adelle never woke up from that fateful night's sleep. And all the time that hypocrite was abusing the trust of so many people.

I have been tempted to blame the arsenic, but life is never that simple.

The neighborhood holds many memories: some good, some not-so-good. Truthfully, there’s no longer much of an urge to drive those four blocks.

Anyway, it is good to be home.