You Can Go Home Again

I'm alone at my dad's kitchen table. It's a damn good thing that this table can't talk - although maybe if it could, we could clear up a whole bunch of conjecture and assumptions that have wreaked terrible havoc among the various members of this family.

It's been a crazy week or so, starting with Surgery Eve last Thursday, when we all convened over grub to try and Make Dad Feel Relaxed before his big date with the spine surgeon on Friday. (See previous blog entries for details.) Interesting that there are few things that could make one be more uptight and un-relaxed than a house full of your nearest and dearest in full-bore dysfunction. God love us.

In the last week or so, I've been doing a lot of driving, musing and observing. There are the obvious differences between Knoxville then and Knoxville now - the plethora of new eating and shopping establishments, the many road improvements including roundabouts and the new ordinances in Farragut which requires that street signage remain below eye level so as to emulate Hilton Head. As if.

I love, love, LOVE my hometown - always have, and always will. My heart gets all gassy and full as I traverse the southeastern counties en route, just knowing that I'm getting close. I drive past old stomping grounds of parks, lakes, marinas, bars, schools, restaurants, various personal and family abodes...and the scenes of MANY crimes of passion and mental defect, along with unabashed joy.

Actually, you CAN go home again. It is always there, even if it looks different. The problem is time travel, not geography. I can't go back to the 1970s, 80s and 90s; while that is probably best for my mental health on a number of levels, my past still beckons me to give it a hug.

A gentle, sincere, but BRIEF hug is in order. Then back to Georgia and the life God gave me, in spite of me. But I will be back - spotty and short-ish in duration, but back.