You Can't Go Home Again- We Are Where We Are Because That's Where We Are

A few days in Minnesota and a healthy dose of family and perspective

Split Rock Lighthouse in Minnesota, along the North Shore of Lake Superior

Perhaps home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition.

• James Baldwin

On Saturday evening, Erin and I returned from spending nine days in Minnesota- or the “Motherland,” as I often call it. I lived in Walker, in the northern part of the state, until I was 15. I spent three years in St. Cloud, in central Minnesota, where I graduated from high school. Then I went to college in St. Paul. After finishing college and by then being thoroughly sick of the harsh winters, I moved to Portland, OR.

Now I endeavor to return to Minnesota 2-3 times a year to visit family. Since Erin grew up in Washington State, it’s an opportunity for her to learn more about where I come from because Minnesota’s a different world.

Of course, the biggest reason for the trip was to see my immediate family, or at least as many as possible. I have a brother who lives in New Mexico and more or less exists in his own world. I wasn’t expecting to see him, and he didn’t disappoint. But two of my brothers were there, making our three days together memorable.

The Aerial Lift Bridge over the Duluth Ship Canal

Day Two was turned into a work party. After Dad died three years ago, Mom brought a house in Zumbrota, MN, four doors down a hill from my youngest brother and his wife. They do an impressive job of looking after her, but they can only do so much. They have their own lives- jobs, grandkids, children, etc.

Mom doesn’t move well these days. For some reason, she bought a house at least three times bigger than she needed. Her home has a basement, which she absolutely doesn’t need. This means there are a lot of little maintenance-type jobs that never get done. And so that became our Day Two mission, one we took on happily and completed successfully.

Outside of our work, I had a lot of time to talk to my brother, Mark, who’s a year younger than me. I’m the oldest of four boys, and Mark and I were always the closest. Growing up, we were very different- I was the athlete, he was (and still is) the gearhead- but now that I’m 63 and he’s 62, that year’s difference doesn’t matter much. I can talk to him like a contemporary, and the reverse is true. Physically, we’re very similar, and I see a lot of myself in him.

We’re both very reticent, though I’m perhaps a bit more communicative. Still, I can talk to him easily, even if we haven’t seen each other in a year or more.

I’ve learned more from Mark about my childhood over the past seven or eight years than I gleaned from the previous 50. What he’s shared has helped me put many things into perspective, especially considering my role as the oldest child and my parents’ relative youth. Dad was 22 when I was born, and Mom was 19, meaning they literally went to school on me, something I always resented. I was always the “guinea pig,” the trailblazer. Someone had to do it; I always resented that it was me. But, with my role as the oldest child being inalterable, that path was carved out for me.

I’ve learned a lot about that from Mark, and it’s helped me gain a perspective I lacked previously. I’ve struggled with many things from my childhood, and I hated a lot of it, but it was difficult for me to understand just how unprepared my parents were to have a child when they were so young. No one handed them a how-to book or a mentor. They learned on the fly, and even as I got older, everything they faced with me they were dealing with for the very first time. Once they got to Mark a year later, they’d been through it and had a better idea of what to do.

I hated always being the “lab rat,” but that was my role and curse. Somebody had to do it, and it was always me. At least I didn’t have to deal with hand-me-down clothes.

In the three years since Dad died, I’ve learned more about Mom and her life and childhood than I did in my previous 60. Until Dad passed, Mom was seldom willing to talk about herself, and when she was, it was in passing and only for a short period. There seemed to be something harsh and painful hidden behind that wall, something she wasn’t ready or willing to discuss.

After Dad’s funeral, I spent three weeks with Mom. It was just the two of us at her old house outside Sparta, WI. We had nothing but time together, and so we talked- a lot. We talked like we never had before…and Mom is quite a chatterbox when she puts her mind to it.

Sometimes I would ask her questions to see where she’d go and how much she’d reveal. To my surprise, she went places she’d never gone before, and I learned things about her and her family I’d never been privy to.

I’d always suspected some type of abuse had been present in her past. Her father was one of the more miserable and unpleasant people I’ve known. Grandpa Stewart died of lung cancer when I was about nine, but I can still remember the short fuse and lack of patience he often directed at his grandkids.

One of my enduring memories of Grandpa Stewart is when he’d take us fishing and show us how to bait a hook. When I didn’t do it fast enough for him, he’d scream at me…and there’s no more effective way to get a child to complete a task than to get in his face and bellow at him, right??

Yeah, that was why I didn’t fish much as a kid. The memory of Grandpa Stewart screeching at me sucked all the enjoyment out of the activity. That, and I could never understand the appeal of sitting in a boat in the middle of a lake for hours on end. BOOOOOOORING….

My brother, Mark, my mother, and me in her house in Zumbrota, MN

Listening to Mom talk about when she met Dad, getting married, starting a family, and then raising that family has been fascinating. I’ve heard parts of my family’s history I’ve never been told before. There have been stories about relatives, some of whom I’d never caught wind of or hadn’t heard about since I was a wee lad.

Mom turned 82 not long ago. She doesn’t move well or quickly, but she still has her wits about her. She may not remember some things or in quite the way she’d like to (something most of us of a certain age can relate to), but she’s still quite sharp. The physical aspect is sliding- she falls more often and sometimes can’t get up; Zumbrota’s Fire Department is becoming familiar with her.

She’s beginning to recognize that her window of independence is closing. There’s a growing understanding that the definition of “independence” may differ in the not-so-distant future from what it means now. It’s unfortunate and perhaps a little sad, but she still has her mind, which doesn’t appear to be going anywhere.

Still, that she’s living in her own home at 82 is impressive. Sure, there’s no doubt that she needs a lot of help. She can only leave her house when the weather is good and seldom during the winter. She can’t drive or do simple things like grocery shopping. She lives “independently” while also being dependent on assistance from her youngest son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren. It’s difficult to say how long that situation can continue unchanged. It may only be sustainable for a matter of months or a couple of years at best. We’ll have to adapt to her circumstances and ability to care for herself when necessary.

I can’t do much from two time zones away, but I’ll continue to try to go back at least 2-3 times a year and do what I can. With one brother four doors away and another four-plus hours away, there’s at least someone nearby. If need be, I can be there in short order. I wish I weren’t so far away, but my life is in Portland, and I have no desire or ambition to live in Minnesota, much as I enjoy visiting.

So, after many long years of aggravation, anger, and heartache, it’s all come around to a place that shows us we are where we are because that’s where we are. It’s that’s simple. No one gets out of here alive, but we can and should hang on to the ones who got us to where we are. Family is complicated. Sometimes it can make you want to slam your forehead into a wall. In the end, though, Biology is destiny.

I think I saw that on a bumper sticker once…but it’s true. Family is what I fought to get away from…and also what brings me back to whom I am.

For now, all of us will continue to enjoy the status quo as long as we can. Erin and I are returning to our lives here in Portland. That’s as it should be, but I feel like I left a part of myself back in Minnesota…and perhaps that won’t ever change.

I am who I am because of my family and Minnesota; those are good things to remember as we prepare to face whatever awaits us.