I am half inclined to think we are all ghosts…it is not only what we
have inherited from our fathers and mothers that exists again in us, but
all sorts of old dead ideas and all kinds of old dead beliefs and
things of that kind. They are not actually alive in us; but there they
are dormant all the same, and we can never be rid of them. Whenever I
take up a newspaper and read it, I fancy I see ghosts creeping between
the lines. There must be ghosts all over the world. They must be as
countless as the grains of the sands, it seems to me. And we are so
miserably afraid of the light, all of us. - Henrik Ibsen
I have this weird thing. I don't have any desire to visit anyplace or home I ever lived in. Once I leave a place, I totally leave it body and soul without any intent on returning. I know that does sound weird that I don't feel any sentimentality about my old stomping grounds but I don't.
My husband is happy to visit the streets he grew up on in Jersey City. We drive down into the city and the entire way he talks to our kids about what he remembers seeing on the drive into the city when he was a kid. He shows them the park where he road his bike, buildings that housed schools he attended and the empty lot that held the house he had lived in as a child. My kids can recite these locations as well. He will also point out a street where he knew almost everyone that lived there and wonders if the families are still around. His sentimentality is admirable. He parents are gone and he is estranged from his siblings and I assume these trips down memory lane help him remember them and their lives together. My Father was the same way. On one of his many visits to Philadelphia, he took pictures of himself in front of the all homes he lived in as a child including the house he was born in (yes, he was born at home). My Father wasn't very sentimental but this was something he enjoyed doing, perhaps for the same reason my husband does. I find no desire for such solace however a recent trip to the past made me realize why I don't visit my past hometowns. Its too painful.
I recently went to St. Petersburg, Florida to visit my Mother. It was the first time I have been back in about 10 years or so and I was surprised by the ghosts. I found every corner I turned there were ghosts. As I pulled up to my Mom's house I saw the neighbor had her porch, lit up with twinkly lights, and in my minds eye I saw myself and my husband with her and her husband. Her husband died last year but I could see us there plain as day - laughing and drinking. Spooky. My Mother's house used to be owned by my husband and its where we spent time when first dating and were engaged. Walking through the door I had that feeling I had never left. It was the same feeling I felt as I rode in from the airport and I found it uneasy. I can't explain why I felt this way. I have wonderful memories of St. Petersburg. Its where I met my husband, had my children, our first home and many friends. But the memories seem to be a cloud in which I have to clear through. This cloud of the past had me so distracted that I hit a curb in my Mom's car and got a flat tire. Luckily, the place we always got our tires from was still in business. Much had changed in the area but there was so much that stayed the same that it was like I time traveled.
I still saw the ghosts. They were at Biff Burger (which held our weekly Bike Night), the ride down 30th Avenue, driving past the Sunset Grill or Siam Garden (where I had my baby shower for my son). It seemed so real. As I zipped over the Howard Franklin (Frankenstein) Bridge with the windows open and the bright sun blaring through the window, I was reminded of when I first moved to Tampa and was single. I decided to drive my Mom around Tampa one day. Past my old apartment, old job, the Air Force base, Davis Island, Downtown and lunch at Kojak's BBQ. There were ghosts. It still strikes me as I think about it. How clearly I saw things as they were. I could see myself with my friend, Mike, walking out of our old job and chatting. I saw myself getting mail at the mail boxes at my old apartments (now condos) and I could see through to the glimmering courtyard pool. I used to sit by it, sunning myself, and wait for my laundry to get done. And I am sad.
This is where we come to real reason I don't go home again. I really can't. I would call it self preservation more than anything else. I am terribly sentimental and it makes me sad to see the places I used to live and the life I used to have. Not that my current life is not great but I long for some places of the past and the ghosts.
I wonder what it must be like to live in the same town for one's entire life or generations of the same family in the same town, street, house...how does that feel? I always thought I wouldn't like that but as I get older the thought of putting roots seems to make sense but then again my children aren't being raised that way. They have moved 6 times in 11 years and that makes for itchy feet for moving on. Still, I wonder what that must be like. What it must be like to have family close by with holidays and Sunday dinners. I know they exist and I wonder if I would even like it. And would there still be ghosts?
I drove through St. Pete and Tampa and talked to my husband on the phone and told him what I was driving by and fun times we had. Funny how sharing these memories with him made the visit more bearable. By the time I left, I longed to return.
I realize I have to make peace with the ghosts and the memories of these past hometowns but that doesn't mean I will visit them again in person but certainly in memories.
