I’m writing this in Great Bend, Kans., sitting in the only home my parents now own. After more than a year and a half in re-married limbo — and owning up to three homes at once during that time — they’re finally into one home and finished with all the moving and back and forth.
Yesterday my parents closed on the house I grew up in, after almost 25 years. We moved in when I was five weeks old. While West Bloomfield will always be home, you truly can’t go home again.
The family that bought the house had two boys, the oldest named Ricky. It doesn’t get much freakier than that.
I was the last one to leave the house, after I searched the cupboards one last time and swept out the basement and the garage. It was a nonevent. I kept thinking it would be nostalgic, but it just never was. I kept wishing I had a secret place in my bedroom or in the basement somewhere where I had hidden something as a child. You know, a favorite toy hidden in the ductwork, or a piece of paper slipped into the attic access hatch. But alas, I was never that adventurous (or stupid) as a kid.
We rolled out unceremoniously and began the long carivan trip across five states with my parents’ Explorer and a 27-foot moving van packed full with less than half their crap.
My favorite road-side sighting was a billboard touting Tree of Life, “the most beautiful Christian bookstore in Missouri.” Sadly, we didn’t have time to stop.