Going Back

This is the house where my mom grew up. It's just outside Norway, in the upper peninsula of Michigan. My grandmother still lives there. She's alone now, but at one time this tiny ranch (maybe 700 square feet?) was home to a family of five.

I just returned from a visit to this house. I packed up my own family into an old station wagon-- husband plus two tiny kids-- and embarked on the eighteen-hour drive. I haven't been back in almost ten years. This year, the goal of the trip was to take notes on the setting (Norway is where my first novel is set) and also to reconnect with family and play in pine forests and lakes.

Here's what I didn't expect: A blast of memories on Day Two of the drive. I was focused on our destination, and I didn't think much about what was in between. But in the nine-hour stretch from middle Iowa to northern Wisconsin, we basically blew past the first twenty-two years of my life.

First there was Madison, Wisconsin, where I got my undergraduate degree and spent many sweet years. And then we hit Green Bay, plus surrounding small towns, where I spent my childhood and adolescence.

As we passed through these towns, I felt myself get really quiet in the car. I turned down the music. I stopped singing along. My husband looked at me but didn't say anything. He could tell something was up.

My mind was racing. It flashed clips from my life. The things that came forward seemed random: riding the Tilt-A-Whirl at Bay Beach amusement park, chasing my Spaniel around the backyard, listening to the song Free Fallin' with a high school boyfriend in his car, riding a bus to the Indy 500 with the high school band, waterskiing at my friend's cabin, making ravioli on a cold winter day, skinny dipping in Lake Mendota during a particularly muggy summer.

I saw faces of people I never think about anymore, at least not consciously. I saw objects: the black leotard I wore as a dancer, a poster of Trey Ames on my bedroom wall, the piano in my parent's living room that I practiced most days, a pan of meatloaf on the kitchen counter, my college bike named Miranda.

There were a few moments where I almost shed tears.

Looking back, I think it might've been nice to stop in these places. I could've used a few moments to  pay homage to my past. To close my eyes and remember. To let the images wash over me. 70 mph was too fast for reflection.

I live in Colorado now, and I love it. It serves my restless spirit better than the midwest. But there is something warm and comfortable about my past. It wasn't all good, but there were lots of good things, and it shaped who I am today. I don't give this enough credit.

I'm wondering if my readers have had similar experiences. When you go back to where you grew up, what images come forward?