Here I am, in the welcoming arms of my parents and my home town for the weekend.
This is the house I grew up in. Our family moved into it in June 1957 when I was four years old. My parents sold it in 1982, moved to northern Michigan, and then moved back in 1997 to another place up the road from here. Now they’re on the verge of moving again, and I’m back home to help with some decisions about what to do with some of the things I grew up with. It is nostalgic, poignant, but also uplifting because it is a looking-forward time and sharing of memories.
By my count, I’ve lived in about twenty different places since I went off to college in 1971, and I wasn’t born here, but Perrysburg, Ohio, will always be my home town. This is the small town of my writings, this is the place where I learned about trust, family, friendships, and the sorrows that come with life. So the technicality that I was born in Dallas and now live in Miami and that other people now live in that big house doesn’t change my answer when people ask me what’s my home town.
This is not goodbye. I will be back in August for the annual Stratford pilgrimage. But I can’t miss one last spring in Perrysburg: they do it like no one else.