What If, When You Go Home Again, It Isn't Home?

When "Home" isn't "home"

Greetings from Flyover Country, my ancestral homeland. Rural Minnesota is the sort of place that most Americans never think about. There’s no reason to. It’s quiet, bucolic, generally uncontroversial, and in many respects wholly unremarkable. There are no mountains, no sweeping vistas, and no majestic valleys. It’s quintessentially middle American- not about to call attention to itself and perfectly OK with that.

Erin and I have been here for the last week (Zumbrota, MN- pop. 3252) visiting family. We took a couple of days and visited a friend who has a lake cabin in northern Minnesota during that time. It was the first time since I was 15 that I’ve enjoyed a Minnesota lake summer. We took a boat to dinner and to breakfast the next morning, which took me back to my childhood. Being out on a lake was what we did when my friends and I wanted to ditch our parents. We’d find a sand bar where you could sit in about 18 inches of water. If you were perfectly still, a school of sunfish would slowly swim to you and begin gently nibbling on your fingers and toes. If you moved ever so slightly, they’d disappear in a flash…only to slowly reapproach a few seconds later.

The smells of the waves and the wetlands, the feel of the boat bouncing forcefully on the waves, the sunburn from being out on the water too long…it was all there. It felt even better than I remembered, and it was the most relaxed I can remember feeling in quite some time.

I also took a few hours and drove the 40 miles to Walker, the small town where I grew up. When I say “small town,” I’m not exaggerating. When I left Walker in 1975, the population was 971. Today it’s 944…but it’s not the same place. It’s exactly the same and yet completely different. I could see the broad outlines of the town I grew up in, but much has changed in 46 years, which one shouldn’t claim to be surprised by.

The town that had no street addresses when I lived there not only has them now, it also has a street light on Main Street. When I was a kid, the nearest stoplight was 35 miles away in Bemidji, which, at about 11,000 people, was the nearest “big city.” There was no mail delivery; everyone collected their mail at the post office downtown. I still remember our address- P.O. Box 563.

Growing up in Walker was representative of another, simpler and less paranoid era. We seldom ever locked up the house. Whenever the family car was in the driveway, Dad left the keys in the ignition. That way, he always knew where they were. Then one day, when I was 11, someone stole the car late one night. I may not be able to remember what my wife told me 20 minutes ago, but I can still remember our station wagon’s license plate number (I was the only one in the family who could): MDO 405. I don’t know why that was so important to me, but it was then, and it remains so today.

When I say Walker is exactly the same and yet completely different, I can still lay my childhood memory over Walker as it is now. Even so, everyone locks their door and takes their car keys with them. The realities of the modern world long ago made their way to Walker, even if it is small enough for most townspeople to know everyone.

I found some lunch, did some shopping, and then drove around Walker, which given its size, took about 20 minutes. During that time, I found myself considering the town I left, the one that existed in my memory for all of these years, and the Walker that exists in the real world. Not surprisingly, there are some similarities but far more discrepancies. Memories have a way of changing and degrading over time, and what one thinks they remember often turns out to be nowhere near the truth. Unfortunately, it’s just what time does, and it happens to all of us.

I stopped at the house my family lived in during our years in Walker, which looks nothing like I remembered. Of course, it didn’t help that the house had been empty for at least the past decade. A small shed/office had been added onto the front of the house as a retail space. It had once been a bicycle shop and, in its most recent iteration, a golf shop (the weather-beaten sign still stands in front of the house). It looks as if it’s had a rough go over the past few years…and its future doesn’t look very promising, either.

The blue and white siding had been removed and replaced by a brown and tan paint job, faded to a sad shade, and chipped in many places. I looked through a window at the back of the house and saw a kitchen that looked vaguely as I remembered it, but I didn’t want to take a chance on trying to get in to see the rest of the house. Breaking in seemed a bad idea, but, more importantly, I didn’t want to be disappointed by what I might find in a house that had been allowed to deteriorate to such a degree.

It was the house where I’d been raised, but it wasn’t my old home. I looked at it and felt nothing. The reasons why are far more complicated than the house itself, but seeing it in such a state of disrepair was almost a relief. There was nothing for me to hang on to, and so I could walk away from it with no regrets.

What my time in Walker confirmed is something I’ve known for some time. Walker, MN, will always be Home, but it will never be home. It will always be the place that made me who I am. It will always be the place that, for good or ill, shaped me and taught me most of the lessons I’d need later in life. I love Walker for what it did for me, but I feel nothing for it when I’m standing on Main Street.

It took me a long time to be proud of where I’m from, but I am proud, enough so that I recently had Walker’s area and zip codes tattooed on my left arm. I am who I am because I spent my formative years in Walker, but that was a long time ago. A lot of water has passed under the bridge.

Walker has changed. I’ve changed. The town has evolved and grown…and so have I. Who knows if I’ll ever have another opportunity to return? If I don’t, I’ll be OK with that. I’ve made my peace with where I was raised; I’ve seen what I needed to see and felt what I needed to feel. I can go back- or not- without feeling as if there’s unfinished business for me.

I love Walker for making me who I am, just as I love Minnesota for the same reason. This will always be where I’m from, the place I call Home, but it can’t be home for me. I live in Portland, OR, and I’ve never been happier; it’s where I belong. It’s home, it’s where I feel at peace, and I suspect it will be for some time to come…but there’s a part of me that will forever be here in Flyover Country.

I’m OK with that.