Hometime

Going home

You are aware that I write about my childhood memories and I do try to keep most of them as accurate as possible. Like most everyone, I tend to see those innocent days through rose colored glasses and at times I write what I think my life was instead of what it probably was. However, most of the old-time recollections are true, but at times I take a biblical cue say them in a metaphorical sense. Every once in a while I wish I had a time machine to take me back and have a look at myself in the first half of the 1950s and then bring me back to the present. It is a mental exercise only as it is obvious that backward time travel is very, very improbable. If it were possible, it seems we would be up to our ears in tourists from the future and I’ve never met one of them I knew for sure was time-traveling although I’ve suspicioned a few; maybe inside their own heads some were. Anyway, if I could go back why would I want to return here; I love each and everyone of you but if my memories of a Golden Age of misty spring morns, honey bees and apple blossoms, sunny lilac days, and lingering, honey-suckle evenings are even half-way accurate, I would say a teary adios and—hopefully—never glance back this way unless one of you hits a big lottery. But, as author Thomas Wolfe wrote, “you can’t go home again”. Anyway, I wouldn’t want to live the same life over and I don’t cavort with paradoxes. So be it. If you’ve never read Wolfe’s book, think about putting it on your “to read” list.

Have a great mid-week!